Work Text:
Agostini is hard to miss. Ago, like he wants Marc to call him, is able to stand out in a crowd like no one else. Marc smiles into his drink when he spots him, engrossed in a conversation with a guy Marc has never seen, casually leaning against the bar, drinking something dark and menacing from a round glass he keeps swirling – the dance of his hands is cool, calculated and hypnotic.
Marc wonders if it’s old fashioned. It would be in character, even if Agostini looks at least fifteen years younger tonight, with his perfectly cut suit, the shirt open at the collar to reveal the glint of a fine golden necklace.
He realizes he’s been staring only when he registers that someone has been talking to him - for a while, it seems - and he hasn’t heard a single word.
“Sorry man, we’ll catch up,” he replies, patting him on the shoulder with enough camaraderie to allow him to walk out gracefully, without making himself look like an entitled bastard. People don’t like entitled bastards. They want your attention, a sliver of your time. But Marc’s got better things to do than socializing for the sake of it. Catching up with an old friend, for example, which seems the most compelling thing to do at such a boring event. Truth to be told, Agostini too is trying to look like he wants to be here, but he’s failing spectacularly at it – he’s a man with a few filters, so it’s rather easy to tell what he’s thinking just by looking at his microexpressions, at the way his mouth is curled in a somewhat displeased frown as he keeps twirling the whiskey in his glass now that the guy he was talking to is gone.
Still, Marc can’t help but smirk when Agostini meets his gaze, visibly softening as Marc waves, crossing the room in long strides, downing the watery remnants of his drink and leaving it on a cluttered table.
“Giacomo,” he greets, respectfully. Agostini huffs, his big hand already clasping Marc’s in a hold tight enough to bruise. He’s wearing a heavy bracelet, Marc notices. For some reason, the thought makes him shudder slightly – he’s always had a thing for hands, after all.
“I already told you. It’s either Mino or Ago. What’s with this useless formality?”
Marc cocks his head, flashing him a tiny smile, effortlessly sweet. He doesn’t really need to wear his pre-approved PR persona around Agostini: the old man’s company is more than just nice, and he’s happy to cut himself some slack once in a while.
“Alright, alright. I see that you’re having fun, tonight…” he quips, a chuckle dancing on the brink of his smile. Agostini shakes his head, the look on his face eloquent enough.
“I’m trying to avoid some people like the plague,” he admits, unabashedly honest. He takes a sip of his drink - Marc still can’t decide whether it’s old fashioned or plain whiskey on the rocks - and looks around, shaking his head with disproving resignation. “Most of the work I do nowadays is spending time around people I can’t bring myself to like.”
“Good thing I came to rescue you, then.”
Agostini rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond, indulgent.
“What about you? It looks like you’re not having any more fun than me either.”
“Something like that,” Marc offers.
Ever the most charming in the room, Agostini calls for the bartender, orders Marc a gin and tonic. Long before Marc can ask him how he knows he actually drinks gin and tonic, Agostini is smiling at him, that kind of half conspiratorial smile that never fails to make Marc’s breath hitch, and says “I remember correctly, yes? We talked about this…when you were still racing for Gresini, I think?”
Marc doesn’t want to tell him he hardly remembers what he’s eaten for breakfast, all of his brain power devoted to racing, so he nods away, trying to lean onto the counter the same way the old man does, with such panache it makes everyone forget he’s pushing eighty-four, but he comes off grotesquely clumsy and gives up as soon as a tall glass gets pushed in front of him, sweaty and sporting a complicated curl of lemon zest on top of perfectly cubed ice. He discards the mandatory rosemary sprig right away. Agostini chuckles at his indignant scowl.
“Why do they put rosemary everywhere, nowadays?”
Agostini shrugs.
“Trends come and go, am I right? Cheers for the upcoming season, Marc. How are you feeling?”
Horny, basically, but it’s got little to do with the upcoming season, honestly. It’s just that disembodied feeling he gets whenever Agostini is around, even though the man is fifty-ish years his senior and could have possibly reached the Nirvana of carnal pleasures long ago. Marc doubts it, though. He looks too lively for that – fuck, Marc would pay mountains of cash to age this gracefully.
“Better than I was feeling when I first got here, to be honest,” he chuckles. His gin and tonic smells like gasoline, but it burns nicely down his throat, slightly scalding.
“Then we should drink to that, don’t you think so?”
Marc flushes slightly. If anyone asks, it’s merely a side effect of the gin, nothing more. He relaxes a fraction, close enough to Agostini that he can smell his cologne, slightly powdery, clean but in a manly, traditional way. Somehow, his scent is way more inebriating than Marc’s G&T.
Convincing Agostini to follow him over to his room is surprisingly easy, despite the challenges Marc was ready to face. For one, Agostini is, there’s no other way to put it, old. Everyone’s got a certain idea of old-timey riders, those macho men who challenged death every time they deliberately chose to show up for a race, and most people think that racing in such tough conditions - no inflatable airbags, no run-off areas, no gravel to slow your inevitable collision with a wall and, most importantly, no fucking barriers - isn’t compatible with enjoying being occasionally dicked down by your mates, but the truth is way different – Marc knows how Agostini looks at him sometimes, and that’s hardly equivocal. So, after two drinks, Marc thinks he’s gotten enough liquid courage in himself to risk it all, consequences be almost damned.
He’s not drunk, just pleasantly tipsy and loose lipped. Given his many years of experience, though, Agostini could drink him under the table any day, but that’s not exactly a deterrent.
“What if we move the conversation to my room?” He says at some point, faking confidence as his palms sweat and his dick waits impatiently in his briefs, not really hard yet but not really soft either. There’s a moment in which Agostini frowns, looks at him like he’s on the verge of asking what do you mean, kid?, but it only lasts a moment, immediately replaced with a surprised, yet very much knowing, look.
A beat, then two. Marc swirls the ice on the bottom of his tall glass and waits for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.
“Marc,” Agostini says, impossibly soft. “Are you sure? I’m probably as old as your grandfather…”
Marc carefully avoids informing him that both his maternal and paternal grandfather have passed away already, and his dick finally stirs, like a lazy housecat ready for action after having spent the whole day lazing around.
The thing is, he was ready to cut his losses. It could have been a spectacular fiasco, given the premises. And yet, Giacomo Agostini asked him if he was sure. The champion of champions, the man who actively holds the record of championship victories in the history of their sport. Marc can’t even fathom not being sure, and wonders who in their right mind could ever say no to Giacomo Agostini.
“Allow me to insist.”
There’s a subtle change in Agostini’s demeanor at that, in the way he leans closer, almost conspiratorially, and brushes his strong, calloused fingers over the small of his back, letting them linger just a moment, enough for Marc to shiver with barely contained anticipation. Deal’s done. He’s getting to pound town with grandpa and nobody is going to take this chance from him.
“Alright. But I have to warn you, I'm a bit…out of practice, with men. Even more so with young men,” Agostini half chuckles, making sure to properly stress the word young, eyes glued to Marc’s like it’s a staring contest.
And yeah, the old man’s winning, but that’s nothing new.
Marc’s a bit clumsy, having chugged down three drinks in a row on a nearly empty stomach, and the arm Agostini loops around him when they’re alone feels grounding, solid, sending a shock of pleasure right to his groin. He sucks in a shaky breath – inside the elevator, Agostini is - like someone his age would say - respectful. Still, his smile has something menacing in it, a slight predatory edge, and Marc feels some sort of giddy anticipation, an electric tingle in his nerves, not unlike the barely contained adrenaline of trying a new spec for the first time.
Used guaranteed, a voice in the back of his mind supplies. He can’t suppress the stupid giggle it elicits, but Agostini - as experienced and poised as he is - seems nonplussed by it, at least until the doors slide open with a bling! and they’re in the empty corridor, Agostini’s hand now back on his waist, where Marc can feel it burn under the waistband of his unnecessarily elegant trousers.
“I’ll warn you again,” Agostini says, in that cocky way that makes Marc’s knees turn into jelly. “I’m severely out of practice with men, are you going to be patient with me?”
Oh, Marc thinks, I’m going to be much more than just patient. He thinks he’s in for a surprise, though. After all, Agostini has always had several aces up his sleeve, back in his heroic times. He highly doubts a man like him has forgotten how to pleasure another man – or a woman, for what it’s worth.
Behind the closed door of his suite, Marc finds out Agostini is a great kisser, but he sort of expected that already. He’s never thought about kissing an octogenarian with this intent before, but Agostini is unlike any other man he’s ever met, so it’s only natural that he’s a great kisser other than well versed in the art of opening someone’s shirt singlehandedly, while the other is firmly kept on Marc’s waist, now squeezing a little.
Marc isn’t afraid of moaning right away – isn’t afraid of rutting into Agostini’s thigh as soon as he’s got the chance either. Agostini chuckles, only half exasperated, and says something about the impatience of youth to which Marc replies, unsurprisingly, with another shameless mewl. Getting slowly unwrapped like a Christmas present is, for Marc, the fucking peak of eroticism; one item at a time, discarded with such panache Marc would take notes if he wasn’t too busy trying not to come in his pants while Giacomo Agostini, the most successful rider in history, strips him down almost lazily, placidly, and looks at him like he could eat him whole.
Marc is hard, really fucking hard. Agostini takes his sweet time admiring his dick, nodding impressedly at the size, and then he’s thumbing his wet slit, making Marc jolt with a sudden wave of pleasure.
But he’s looking back, respectfully, taking in the beauty of a body softened by age but kept sharp and working with dedication. Square shoulders over a back that hasn’t hunched. Shrunken, maybe, but that’s just what happens once you turn forty…or something like that.
Marc licks his lips while Agostini studies him some more; he’s not surprised to find them prickling, eager for whatever this walking, breathing legend will decide to give him.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer someone…closer to your age, tonight?”
Again, that cocky tone, Agostini’s mouth curled in a lopsided smile. Marc shakes his head vehemently - how could he even think Marc would choose someone else over him? - and cups his face with both hands before pulling him into a kiss that’s all hunger and tongue.
Agostini’s skin isn’t leathery, it doesn’t feel old under his digits. It’s soft and a little roughed up at the edges, as expected from someone who’s already in his eighties, and yet it’s well cared for considering he’s a man who comes from a time in which skincare was considered a thing for fags and pussies. Marc wants to hold his face forever, he wants to worship him and be worshipped in return. When Agostini’s palms are finally on his ass, his touch is tender and full of adoration. He’s still wearing his suit – Marc hopes he won’t stain it, but it’s a distant afterthought, nothing of real importance now that he’s slowly being dragged towards the empty armchair in the corner of the bedroom, where Agostini takes a seat like he’s in a throne, gesturing for Marc to get on his knees.
Marc can picture him several decades younger, hauled up in a tiny hotel room, having a rookie pay proper respect to a veteran in this exact same position, with the exact same flair. Confident to the point of presumptuousness, playing a game he perfectly knows he’s good at. No, not good: the best. Saliva pools in Marc’s mouth as he reaches for the fly of his elegant slacks, carefully looking at him from behind his eyelashes, blinking slowly, just as he’s learned from the few porn movies he’s watched before finding out that the real deal was definitely more entertaining than watching two people fucking on his laptop.
“Is this what you used to do to celebrate a win?” He hears himself asking, his breath hitching slightly when Agostini’s hand wraps around his nape, toying with the overgrown curls there.
“Sometimes,” he hums. “What are we celebrating tonight?”
Marc opens his mouth to say something, but the only thing that comes out is a tiny whimper. He gets now why they say horny stupid; his mind is blank, swimming in a thick fog of pure, unbridled desire. With a soft sigh that sounds like a hiccup, he finally pulls Agostini’s slacks down to his ankles, and then his white cotton briefs. His dick isn’t hard, but it twitches pleasantly when Marc leans into his groin, gasping into the crease of his thigh as he inhales him, tastes his scent on the tip of his tongue; masculine, undoubtedly, but clean, faintly like fabric softener or laundry detergent – Marc licks a thin strip of skin, and almost comes when Agostini groans in response, tugging at his curls in a reflex spasm.
Blood is pounding in his ears. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything more than he wants this, and he hopes Agostini knows. He hopes Agostini sees the deference, the devotion with which he’s gone down on his knees, as if that’s what he usually does to pay homage to his idols.
Which is true, to some extent, but it’s not only that.
He lets out a tremulous exhale before burying his face into the gray curls in which Agostini’s dick is nestled, and another as he takes it in his mouth, lips moist, wet with spit, slack and welcoming. For a long moment, he just keeps it in his mouth, warming it up and drooling around it, and he forgets how to breathe. Then he starts sucking it, sloppily and lazily, and takes stock of every microexpression on the old man’s face – how it opens up for him, how the pleasure makes his eyes narrow until they’re just two dark slits trained on Marc’s face, on the thick rivulets of saliva trickling down his chin, such a fucking debauched mess.
And oh, Agostini’s smiling, sharklike, petting him idly, like he would with a faithful dog.
“It’s a shame my cock can’t get any harder, but you’re so good at this, so, so good,” he whispers on a breath. “Do you know you always were my favorite?”
With his not-really-soft, not-really-hard dick in his mouth , Marc can only whimper. Agostini’s well manicured nails scratch gently at his scalp, tug his hair a little – it’s the only form of torture Marc would gladly subject himself to everyday. Unlike Agostini’s, his own dick is fully erect, poking at his stomach as he aches for the tiniest bit of friction and doesn’t find it. Around him, only thin, superheated air and the constant woosh woosh of his own blood in his ears. And then Agostini is praising him again, praising his youth, his well-defined form, waxing poetics on how handsome he is, and Marc can’t hold himself back anymore. He wraps a hand around his own dick - it’s so stiff the slightest pressure hurts - and starts stroking – ungraceful, furiously. Too quick for it to feel good, but he has no other way, he’d probably die otherwise. Yet he doesn’t protest when Agostini leans on him, grabs a hold of his wrist and yanks his sticky hand away. He’s got tears in the corners of his eyes, and Agostini tenderly wipes them away, smiling seraphically at the disastrous state Marc is in.
“Shall we move to the bed?”
Distantly, Marc thinks of how many times Agostini must have said those exact words when he was still in his prime. When he could have a different lover in his bed every Sunday. Still victorious, still high on adrenaline, still a god of flesh and sinew and sweat. Marc nods, but he keeps his dick in his mouth until it’s Agostini who, impatiently, shakes him off. A wet pop, his mouth swollen, red, and a long ribbon of translucent saliva that gets sucked into a kiss that leaves Marc stunned, shaky on his feet.
His whole body is quivering, vibrating. On the mattress, he’s weightless and languid – nothing else exists other than Agostini’s hand closing around his dick, weighing it up as the old man’s eyes glitter with hunger.
All of his muscles loosen at once with relief at the first, firm upstroke. Agostini chuckles at Marc’s helpless, throaty moan. He’s sensitive everywhere, as if he’s never been touched before, and the old man seems to know it, toying with him, gloating as Marc relinquishes all of his control, most of his nonexistent inhibitions, and becomes clay in his hands.
Quite fucking literally.
And what hands he’s got! Calloused and undoubtedly used, but not ruined or ugly, big, warm and a bit on the heavier side, but it’s clear that Agostini knows how to use them. Once again, Marc curses himself for having been born too late, for not being able to benefit from this when Agostini was younger and his dick was working – he would have pounded him into the mattress, rearranged his guts in a way Marc wouldn’t have been able to tell his stomach from his lower intestine.
Pleasure washes over him like an inescapable tidal wave, his cock all but drooling all over Agostini’s hand, and he’s close, so fucking close.
That’s when the hand abruptly stops working up and down his shaft, the pressure relenting at once. Marc wants to scream, but instead he stifles his frustration into his balled fist, biting down until he can see white spots on the edge of his vision and his heart falls back into a somewhat organized rhythm.
“Mino,” he wails. His whole face burns, like he’s caught on fire. Agostini hums, stroking his cheek as if he isn’t obviously trying to kill him.
“Will you be good and suck my fingers?”
At first, Marc cocks his head, a little lost. Agostini too is kind of disheveled now, he notices. He’s taken his slacks off when Marc was too busy mourning the weight of his unusable dick in his mouth, and his shirt is half undone. His jacket is nowhere to be seen, but it’s not something Marc is going to concern himself with anytime soon.
“I…your fingers?” He stutters. Only when he’s obediently taking two in his slack mouth he realizes – and almost topples over the edge of the bed, squirming delightedly.
He coats Agostini’s fingers with as much saliva he can force his mouth to produce; it’s a lot, it’s wet, and it smells a little like gin and tonic. Soon enough, those very fingers are teasing his entrance, Marc positioned in a way that will make his knees and bad shoulder ache, but it will be worth it.
Agostini’s pointer finger slides in, the push calculated, well aimed. Marc finds himself gasping like a stranded fish, unable to let out anything coherent, just broken moans and badly timed intentions of calling his name – calling anyone’s name, honestly, or just repeating God, God, God in all the languages he more or less speaks, as his much older partner tries to ease him, pushes his ass down while Marc’s trying to thrust his hips into the empty air, overwhelmed and far too eager.
He wasn’t really expecting Agostini to be into orgasm delay, but the old man seems to be genuinely smug about the whole ordeal, about the way he’s making Marc arch his back, so suddenly and violently he’s sure his spine will snap in half if this crazy, crazy back and forth will last any longer.
And it does, of course. He doesn’t break any bones, but it’s only a matter of fortuitous chances.
Agostini keeps brushing his fingers against his prostate until he’s practically weeping. He’s good at this, and Marc suspects that his 50+ years of experience have given him quite of a head start on every other guy he has ever hooked up with, and he just wants –
Marc wants. And that’s everything he knows. So he just subjects himself to the torture willingly, thinking I’m going to fucking die at every flick of Agostini’s fingers inside him.
A part of him idly wonders what Agostini might think of him right now – am I still your favorite?
God, he wants so bad to be his favorite even now that his dick is leaking rivers all over the bedclothes, his balls squeezing as the inevitable orgasm mounts in his lower belly, turning him into a writhing, moaning mess that almost dies on the spot when it hits, harder than any impact he’s ever experienced. 300 kph, gravel, barriers, darkness.
Marc is sure that the brief, pinching pain in his chest is some sort of a minor heart attack, and he blacks out for a second, too stunned to actually do anything. Agostini, on the other hand, knocks his head back against the headboard with a satisfied exhale – it feels like Marc’s the older one now, not the other way around.
His pulse doesn’t really settle for a long while, and his limbs feel heavy and sluggish as he lays sprawled next to him. He’s sure, in a distant, faint way, that he must look like a wreck as he tries to ease the stutter in his lungs.
Agostini laughs, pleased with himself.
“Not too bad for an old man, isn’t it?”
Marc can only shoot him an eloquent look before closing his eyes again, focusing on keeping his labored breath in check.
Jesus Christ. Not too bad indeed.