Franco Morbidelli - Blog Posts

Enjoy chapter two everyone 😉

CHAPTER TWO: The Line You Don’t Cross

The grid was a battlefield dressed in ceremony.

Mechanics in tight formation. Team principals hiding nerves behind sunglasses. Heat rippled off the tarmac like a warning. As the riders mounted their machines, Mugello held its breath — the kind of silence only nature can offer before a storm breaks loose.

Marc Márquez exhaled inside his helmet.

Focus. Forget the noise. Ride the damn bike.

But he could feel it — the weight of Pecco, just ahead. P1. Confident. Unbothered. The favorite son of Italy, of Rossi, of the VR46 legacy.

Marc’s bike growled beneath him, restless, aggressive. Unlike Alex’s Repsol rocket — elegant and smooth — the VR46 Ducati felt like a beast that wanted to bite. Marc liked that. Maybe too much.

Through the din, he could barely make out Rossi near the pit wall. Stone-faced. Watching both his riders like a man who knew what was coming — but not from whom.

The lights went out.

GO.

Marc launched perfectly. Tucked tight into Pecco’s slipstream by Turn 2. He could’ve waited. Should’ve waited.

But he didn’t.

At Turn 3, Marc lunged — hard.

The Ducati dove down the inside, front tire nearly brushing Pecco’s swingarm. The move was clinical, millimeters from disaster.

Pecco sat up. Forced wide.

A puff of dirt. A fraction of hesitation.

Marc slipped through.

He was ahead.

The crowd erupted — confusion, fury, and awe, all at once.

By Turn 6, Pecco was back on his rear tire. The chase began.

Pecco struck back.

he flew past Marc with a daring outside line. The two bikes touched — barely — but enough to make the crowd gasp. Marc shook his head, laughed bitterly inside his helmet.So that’s how it was going to be.

Lap 9. Turn 15.

Marc dived again.

But this time, Pecco closed the door.

Contact.

Marc’s front wing snapped off. Pecco ran wide, nearly into the gravel. A chorus of boos erupted from the grandstands. Yellow VR46 flags waved in fury.

Race Direction flashed:

“INCIDENT UNDER INVESTIGATION – RIDERS #93 & #63.”

Marc knew what that meant.

Déjà vu.

Only this wasn’t Sepang 2015. This wasn’t Rossi and Márquez.

This was his turn to be the villain.

Back in the pit wall, Rossi ripped off his headset. Face pale. Silence heavier than thunder.

“He’s forcing it,” muttered Uccio.

Rossi didn’t answer. His eyes locked on the monitor, where his legacy was unraveling.

Was this karma? Was this the moment he had created?

Marc and Pecco were at war — and this time, he couldn’t protect either.

Final lap.

Marc led. Barely. His damaged aero made the front end twitchy, unpredictable — just like him.

Pecco stalked him, every inch the assassin. The grandstands trembled with anticipation, fans on their feet, flags whipping like war banners. Yellow for Rossi. Red for Ducati. A few orange — for Márquez. For this Márquez.

Turn 12.

Marc braked late, too late.

Pecco dove inside.

Contact.

Marc didn’t yield.

Elbows out. Bikes tangled like wild animals. Gravel sprayed.

Pecco lost the rear — violently.

His bike spiraled. Down.

Marc stayed up.

He crossed the finish line first.

———————————

The crowd exploded.

Not all boos.

Cheers. Screams. Fists in the air.

It wasn’t love — it was awe. The kind of reaction a gladiator earns in the Colosseum.

He had beaten their golden boy. He had survived.

————

In parc fermé, Marc ripped off his helmet, sweat clinging to every part of him, jaw clenched, heart drumming louder than any engine. He raised his arms.

The cameras flashed — not out of joy, but hunger.

The crowd behind the barriers surged forward, yelling his name.

“MÁRQUEZ! MÁRQUEZ!”

Some roared in approval. Others jeered.

It didn’t matter.

For the first time in years, they were yelling his name.

Not Alex’s. Not Rossi’s.

His.

⸻

Then came the questions.

Journalists swarmed like hornets.

“Do you regret the move?”

“Did you take Bagnaia out on purpose?”

“Will VR46 suspend you?”

Marc smirked into the mic, blood still rushing in his ears. “I came to race. I don’t apologize for winning.”

⸻

Back at the VR46 motorhome, Rossi stood alone in his office, lights low, screens still replaying the crash in a silent loop.

Pecco was okay — bruised, angry, humiliated. But it wasn’t just the result that haunted Valentino.

It was the way Marc rode.

No fear. No caution. No mercy.

Just like him.

Uccio entered quietly. “The press is going to crucify him.”

Rossi’s jaw tightened. “They should.”

“But he won.”

“I know.”

Valentino turned to the monitor — the shot frozen on Marc raising a single fist, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something Rossi knew too well.

Not celebration. Not joy.

Vengeance.

“He’s not just like me,” Rossi said under his breath.

“He’s worse.”

⸻

Across the paddock, Alex Márquez watched the replay on a monitor, arms crossed, unreadable.

A reporter approached him.

“Alex, any comment on your brother’s win?”

He paused. The crowd still echoed in the distance, half love, half war

Finally, he said quietly, “He wanted to matter. Today… he does.”

⸻

Back on the podium, the Italian anthem was replaced by stunned silence.

Marc stood tall, trophy in hand, fireworks behind him.

No teammates beside him.

No Rossi.

No Pecco.

Just himself.

The shadow had finally stepped into the light — and it burned like hell.

CHAPTER ONE: The Shadow Rider

The engines screamed through the Tuscan hills like thunder in a bottle. Mugello. June 2025. A circuit steeped in glory, blood, and memory.

Marc Márquez sat alone at the back of the VR46 garage, helmet cradled in his hands like a confession. Outside, Pecco Bagnaia’s Ducati purred with the sound of dominance — pole position again. The applause of the tifosi rolled in like a wave. For Marc, it was thunder without rain. Cheers he used to imagine for himself.

He tightened his grip on the helmet.

“You’ve got the talent, but not the discipline.”

Valentino’s voice echoed in his mind , not cruel, just true. Like always.

There was a time Marc dreamed of being under the Honda awning, riding the same bike his older brother Alex had turned into a scalpel. Six-time world champion. Mr. Perfect. The King of Precision. The Márquez name was Alex’s crown, not his.

Marc had taken the other path. VR46 Academy. Not out of love but defiance.

But now, at 28, it felt like his story was still being written in someone else’s font.

“Two minutes,” a mechanic called out. Marc didn’t look up.

Across the paddock, in the golden hue of the Repsol tent, Alex Márquez was already suited, standing tall, serene. Eyes forward. Champion’s focus. The camera crew hovered nearby, drinking in the legend.

Alex didn’t flinch.

Marc watched him from the shadows — the younger brother, the unruly storm to Alex’s pristine sky.

Then, a familiar voice behind him. Low. Graveled.

“Stop watching him. Your race is here.”

Marc turned. Valentino. He hadn’t aged much, but his eyes held weight now. Manager. Mentor. Father figure. Ghost of Sepang past — a past that never fractured them.

Marc bit back a smile. “Can’t help it. The cameras love perfection.”

Rossi cocked his head. “They love a story more. You just haven’t given them the right one yet.”The words stung, but they weren’t wrong.Marc stood. Fastened his helmet. The VR46 leathers creaked as he moved. Bagnaia passed by, already visor-down, a silent nod exchanged. Civil. Cold. Like teammates who used to like each other.

Something had cracked during that race in Le Mans. Pecco pushed wide. Marc dove in. Rubber touched rubber. Marc came out ahead. The Italian press crucified him.

“The brat Márquez strikes again.”

“Rossi’s mistake?”

Pecco never said a word — that was worse than shouting.

Now, here at Mugello, something electric hung in the air. The paddock could feel it. Two riders. One team. No love left. And the ghost of a different Sepang loomed, not between Rossi and Marc, but Pecco and Marc. One spark away from combustion.As Marc walked toward the grid, the sun hit his visor just right. In the reflection, he caught a glimpse of his brother mounting the Repsol Honda across the pit lane.

Their eyes didn’t meet. But maybe they didn’t have to. Maybe the next story wouldn’t belong to either of them — but to the moment that would finally break the silence.

“Shadow of the Champion”

Imagine a world where the winds of fate blew differently—where it was Alex Márquez, not Marc, who rose first, who burned brightest, who became the unstoppable force in MotoGP history. The elder Márquez, stoic and relentless, carved his dynasty with cold precision, claiming title after title while his younger brother, Marc, chased shadows and expectations he could never quite eclipse.

In this alternate timeline, the infamous Sepang Clash of 2015 never happened. Valentino Rossi never accused Marc of sabotage. There was no war, no fractured paddock, no great divide—only uneasy peace and mutual curiosity between the Doctor and the overshadowed younger Márquez.

But everything changes in 2025.

As Marc grows disillusioned riding in his brother’s colossal shadow, he shocks the racing world by signing with VR46, Rossi’s team, searching for a new identity away from the Márquez legacy. Valentino, takes Marc under his wing—not as a rival, but as a prodigy too long eclipsed. Whispers swirl in the paddock: is Rossi building the champion he never had? A younger reflection of himself, full of fire and scars?

But in this twisted mirror world, history has a cruel way of repeating itself.

When the VR46 team rises to dominance, Pecco Bagnaia, the golden boy of the factory Ducati team and Rossi’s original heir, sees Marc’s arrival as a threat—not just to his career, but to everything he thought Rossi stood for. Tensions brew. The championship closes in. Elbows sharpen. And in a dramatic twist of fate, Sepang becomes a battlefield again—this time, not between Marc and Rossi, but Marc and Pecco.

A shove. A stare. A controversy that will define a generation.

First time writing something like this , hope u all gonna like it ;)

Referring to the post I made earlier this morning, do u all think vale played a roll in the way pecco , Marco , Franky or other riders from the academy view Marc ? Especially that now Marc and Pecco are teammates and seem to get along most of the time + plus Marco at silveratone and some small interactions with Franky

this is so cute!!!

Here we goooo!!!!! Our FP1 top 3!!!!!!

I should have draw Fabio in yamaha shirt but he ate that look so i needed to draw him in tank top 😉

say my name and i’ll say yours

rosquez & álex/franky — 8,149 words

☆ ───── ☆ ───── ☆ ───── ☆ ───── ☆

Marc opens his eyes, dazed and full of pain, but at least they’re open. Something catches in Álex’s throat again.

“Hey,” Álex says, voice breaking, giving him a watery smile.

Marc’s eyes flutter back close. Álex isn’t sure if he’s heard or really even seen him, but he doesn’t truly mind as long as Marc is okay.

His lips move ever so slightly, so Álex bends down to try and catch what he’s said.

Marc’s voice is quiet, confused. He sounds smaller than he has in years.

“Valentino?” he mumbles.

—

Or, Marc crashes, and he says Valentino’s name while half-conscious—on live television, no less.

☆ ───── ☆ ───── ☆ ───── ☆ ───── ☆

please I am begging how do you guys watch MotoGP?? VideoPass is way too expensive for me, and I can’t imagine that everyone pays for it if it’s that expensive

Please help 🙏😭