sabaism (t)
ch 1/? | 1k
| rosquez on/off, rookie marc, winner's room, long fic, 2013 onwards, more info to come with updates
chapter 2 chapter 3
updates whenever i can get them out!
quick warning: it is a winner's room so it will get explicit, but that will take a few chapters, and also, there won’t be much of it because i hate writing it. hate hate. if someone wants to assist me PLEASE BE MY GUEST.
also, this is very experimental. this idea was given to me by the wonderful myanmardoesnotexist and i’m just trying it on for size!
As always with rpf rules, please do not repost or save anywhere, and these are not the true actions or characterization of these people. I have a great respect for them and am basically just using store bought characters for my silly little stories.
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The first time Marc Marquez was introduced to the concept of a 'winners room' wasn't during his inauguration, a speech from his manager, or in any official approved way.
It included beer and chicken kebabs and absolutely no legal jargon.
"We'll miss our Casey though, little devil." Someone, Jose or Joe or Jamie was laughing wildly, before turning to Marc.
"None of that with you, hey?"
Marc snapped out of whatever thought he was buried in. He'd been desperately trying to seem polite, but not excited, the whole time, and had just given up eventually and zoned out. It was only the first set of testing, he wanted to make a good impression.
"None of what?"
"Being a little deviant," Someone else butted in, on his way to the barbeque. Now, this guy's name definitely began with an L.
"Casey wasn't a dirty rider." Marc cocked his head, wide eyes narrowing under furrowed brows. "Well, not that bad."
There was just more laughter. "Nah, he was great. Off the track though, mouth like a sailor."
"Oh my god, not to mention all the room calls." Jose, Marc had decided, snickered.
"Don't get me started!" A voice called.
"Room calls?" Marc once again, found himself confused by whatever slang teams used now.
"Winner's room." Jose waved away. "He was always in, Jorge is not a kind guy. Reckon Casey enjoyed it though." He practically giggled.
"What's the winner's room?" He watched Jose's face drop, a tiny string of chicken dangling from his lip, before his mouth twisted up into a wide grin. "Luis, Marc doesn't know what the winner's room is!" He yelled.
"What?!" Luis bent double, dying at the grill.
Marc looked around for someone to help him, but he just found faces scrunched into laughter.
"Like the cooldown room?" He asked.
"Oh sweet child," Jose cackled. "No, no." He calmed himself, practically crying. "Did nobody tell you?"
"No. Should someone?" He was getting a little worried. What the hell was a winner's room, why had no one told him, and why was it so funny?
"I'd fucking hope so!"
"What is it?"
"Jose, cut the kid some slack," Now this guy he recognised. David. He was the only one with gray touching the tips of his auburn hair. He smacked Jose on the arm and turned to face Marc fully. "The winner's room is basically.. eh, how should I say it, where the winner can pick a rider from a losing team and eh.. well, do anything."
"Why don't they just do that in their own time?"
"Well," David scrunched up his eyes and braced himself. "If you're called in, you're obliged to go. The original purpose of it was for, well, sex."
Marc's mouth formed an O. The table was now painfully quiet, laughter gone.
David rushed to speak again. "But- it's less used for that now, maybe sometimes, but usually an excuse to waste time in work hours. Don't- worry about it, you'll be fine. I mean, do you know anyone in the paddock well?"
Marc shut his mouth as his brain fumbled for an answer. "Uhm, I- Espargaro? Both of them, but they're like brothers more than-" his stomach turned at the thought. "-that."
"Ah, you'll be fine then." He smiled as warmly as he could manage. "Just go careful how close you get, yeah?"
Marc nodded and stared down at the table, suddenly finding the browness of it incredibly interesting.
What kind of person even does that? Why had no one told him?
The conversation around the table was barely a whisper, until someone ripped open a new case of beer. Everyone was pretty happy to chat again after.
It was a little further into the evening before Santi joined them. Fashionably late to the party, as usual.
David leaned back and whispered something in his ear the second he sat down.
"No one told Marc about the winner's room. He's a little..." Santi's eyes flicked over to Marc, eyes wide and spaced out. His hands were clasped together and his tooth was snagged on his lip, biting.
"Right." He breathed, trying to figure out how the hell to cope with an 18 year old who, understandably, isn't particularly thrilled about the concept of having to fuck an old guy whom he'd probably looked up to. Lorenzo, while not sadistic, would probably try his luck. Pedrosa was too kind, he'd never even tried with anyone there, let alone a rookie. Everyone else..? Well, he hoped Marc had time to form a shield before he was taken advantage of.
Marc looked up and caught Santi's gaze, smiling unsurely.
He didn't know much about the kid, but you could figure him out with one look. He had these big, wide doe eyes. And a face that showed every emotion before it even formed in his brain.
Marc picked at the skin loose on his thumb, scratching away as the world moved around him.
When the evening ended and engineers began to shake back to bed, Santi stood and rested his hand on Marc's shoulder.
"I'll walk you back to the trailers," he smiled. He stood, nodding.
They walked, shoulders flush, while Santi searched for the right words. "Do you- are you worried?"
"A bit, I- no one told me, and it's a lot, even if, it's not likely." he mumbled.
"It's okay to be worried. All the rookies I've had were scared too. In the end, no one can do anything to you without your permission, okay?"
He nodded again, watching his feet as they walked.
"And hey, Marc, you can always come to me if you're worried about someone, or anything at all, come to me okay?" He shook his shoulder gently, to force a look out of him.
Marc stared up at him, and barely a whisper. "Thank you." Before he knew fully what he was doing, he'd pressed into Santi with a hug.
He returned it gently, and pretended not to hear Marc clearing his throat.
He pulled back and stared at his feet. "Bye Santi. Thank you."
"You're welcome." He smiled as Marc walked the steps up to his motorhome and disappeared inside, head hung low.
Oh god. This could go very badly.
