#gmff

The first time it happens is just after Marc’s 10th birthday. He’s about to complain to his parents about how Álex always finishes the milk and then puts it back into the fridge, when the faces of his parents’ blur in front of him. Marc closes his eyes, trying to make it better and grabs onto the edge of the table. He can hear his mama ask him if he’s okay, before everything stops. or Rosquez Time Travel Au, where Marc randomly gets teleported through time, always ending up somewhere around Vale

Time-travelling Marc and always-around Valentino from All I Wanted by @agnst-crrnt.

“In my defense, he is, ah, very good,” Vale cracks dryly, before a look from Lin shuts him down.  “He’s 14 years younger than you— you accused him of ruining your championship bid last year. We backed you when you said he ruined your championship bid last year. “He did,” Vale says emphatically, baring his teeth. “This is a separate issue.”

“What two things?” “That you are impressive,” David’s head is a mess, feels like he’s been submerged underwater, and so he has no choice but to default to honesty, “and that I only ever came here with the purpose of getting something from you.” Vale grins, lips pulling back to expose teeth, “and did you think I wasn’t aware of that? Did you really think this was a chess game?” and before David can even attempt to formulate a response, Vale kisses him. 

Intern David, Househusband Valentino and (future) Senate candidate Marc from the Bicameral series of @tartquez.

There are eleven saved voicemails on Casey’s phone.

Valentino and Casey (and his voicemail box), from wither the mask by @caperedolives.

“The bike will not be good this weekend — we will struggle. You will have to fuck the frustration from me.” His face must do something it shouldn’t, because Enea’s brow twists with concern. He pulls himself up, till they’re both sitting. Still holding hands. “Only if you want to, Pecco,” he murmurs, “I am just — making a joke.”

But Valentino just sprawls himself on Marc’s couch, an easy stretch of limbs. “And how is your shoulder?” Marc stares at him for a second, breathing through the pain. He thinks about his last race, the first after his concussion. P6 at COTA, a total clusterfuck. He thinks about the upcoming race weekend, the pit of dread that sits in his stomach. About how bad his arm will be in the curves, the bike always reluctant to move the way he needs it to. He thinks about the doctor from the Mayo Clinic that he called last weekend. The scans of his bones that sit in his email, twisted out of shape and healed sloppily. His relationship to Valentino, the same. He doesn't want to talk about his arm.

Marc crosses his arms, there’s a chill tonight and goosebumps ripple up his forearms, “are you scared of me, Dovi?” Dovi’s eyes are sympathetic that Marc is certain of his answer even before he says, “no, never,” without hesitation. Marc’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, this time it’s Dovi’s eyes lazily tracking the movement. Everything still hurts but Marc’s mouth is dry all of a sudden, he feels scraped raw. The pain is intensified but so too is the desire. “I’m sorry for interrupting your night.” “Are you really sorry?” Dovi smiles, tired but fond.  “No,” Marc says honestly, “are you going to invite me in anyway?” Dovi considers it for a few seconds, “yes, if you like.” He turns to head back inside but leaves the door open behind him. Marc follows him, toeing off his shoes in the doorway and shrugging out of his jacket, Dovi’s feet pad silently down the hallway back towards his bedroom. Marc follows.

"With or without your permission."