With Words
Dec. 14th, 2011 03:29 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hoopyfroodTitle: With Words
Pairing: François Cevert/Jackie Stewart
Rating: R
Word count: 1,250
Disclaimer: Never happened, don’t own
Summary: François is bored. How can Jackie resist?
It’s not often François finds himself wandering aimlessly around during the hours before a race. There’s always something new to learn – whether it be familiarising himself with new components on the car or perfecting his steering and lap times; he’s never done. Fortunately, he enjoys it. The thrill of finally understanding a problem is like an addiction, and being able to always do one better than before is what he strives for.
This weekend in particular, however, proves an anomaly.
The car itself feels wonderful and, after taking it out for a brief spin of the circuit, François found himself more than happy with the new safety improvements that had been made to the track over the past year. But therein lies the problem; there’s nothing for him to do.
Even attempting to spend a bit of down time with his fellow drivers had proved fruitless. He’d quickly felt like a third wheel upon joining Mario and Ronnie; the two of them having set up a semi-circle of chairs in front of the garages. The casual glances they kept throwing each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking were hilariously sweet, but utterly frustrating to watch. He’d made a mental note to suggest an intervention to Jackie later and promptly excused himself, unwilling to meddle without his partner in crime.
François absentmindedly slips a cigarette into his mouth, an annoying itch buzzing away just under his skin.
Now what?
Luckily, he’s spared any further indecision when an arm brandishing a lighter appears out of nowhere.
“He’s looking ridiculously lonely without you,” Graham says, that utterly disarming smile firmly in place as he steps in close to light François up, “Or maybe that should be just ridiculous?”
François blinks widely and breaks into a grin; he’s always enjoyed Graham’s company. His dry wit coupled with what many of the other drivers have jokingly dubbed as almost-omnipresence, makes for an interesting combination. One that constantly leaves François impressed.
“Are you saying I should go bother him?” François asks round the cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.
“I’m saying I don’t know why you haven’t already,” Graham points out, cocking an eyebrow.
He can't argue with that.
**
François sees Jackie sitting on the metal pit fence, legs dangling like a child, and can’t help the sudden rush of fondness that washes over him. Nor the fiendish plan that starts to form.
He hops up next to his team-mate and drapes an arm over his shoulders, gently pulling him into his side.
The waft of cologne that snakes around Jackie is all too familiar and he immediately settles himself comfortably in François' loose embrace. "Alright, lad?" He says, patting him on the chest.
"Bored," François replies through a small puff of smoke. "Entertain me?"
"I spy..." Jackie begins teasingly, trailing off as he waits for Francois' reaction. He knows what the Frenchman is after; the subtle suggestive lilt to his not-so-innocent request is impossible to mistake.
François laughs, a rumbling warmth, and tightens his grip. "Not what I had in mind," he admits easily, lips just grazing the tip of Jackie's ear.
"Oh?" Jackie smiles, eyes focused on the mechanics tinkering around with their cars.
François hums low in his throat. "I'd much rather hear what you plan on doing to me after the race," he replies nonchalantly and takes a drag of his cigarette.
Jackie crosses his arms, unable to stop the shiver that claws its way up his spine. "Patience is a virtue, Francois."
"This I know," François chuckles as he stubs his cigarette out on the sole of his boot, thinking of all the times he’s had the pleasure of seeing Jackie’s Tyrrell disappear into the distance, "But still, indulge me," he dares, eyes shining with mischief.
It's risky, there are people everywhere, yet he still slips his hand into François' hair and tugs him down; unable to resist. It's unlikely they'll be interrupted anyway, Jackie reasons. They're just two team-mates seemingly lost in simple camaraderie before a race, there’s no need to pay them any attention.
François, delighted, watches as Jackie pushes his sunglasses up onto his head with his free hand. "I'm going to make you scream."
"How are you going to make me scream, Jackie?" François says, angling his head to look Jackie directly in the eyes. They share an easy smile, a hint of ‘go on, I dare you’ just licking at the edges. This is familiar territory for them.
"I'm going to peel you out of your race suit. It'll be wet, soaked with champagne. So will your hair," Jackie pauses to twist his finger round one of François’ curls, "and it'll already have started to flick up at the sides."
François quirks his lips, endeared by the banality.
“You’ll spread yourself out on the bed, immediately letting your legs fall apart,” Jackie lets his hand drift to François’ hip and thumbs at the fabric of his race suit.
François jerks his head in a nod and shuffles closer, uninterested in their possible audience; the sounds of clanking car parts and chatter around them now nothing more than white noise.
“You’re already so hard, François,” Jackie groans under his breath, losing himself in the images flashing through his mind; those long limbs stretched out before him, toes clenched tightly in the bed sheets and miles of unblemished skin pulled taut over firm muscle. François never looks more perfect than when he’s gazing up at Jackie through his dark lashes, drowsy and pliant with want.
“For you,” François insists, imagining the soft yet confident trail of Jackie’s hands running up the insides of his thighs, going higher and higher. “How many fingers, Jackie?” He urges, accent thickened, as he turns towards Jackie to touch their knees together.
“One to begin with,” he taps a finger against François’ arm in thought, light and rhythmic, before pressing it down into his bicep, “but I’ll quickly add the second, because you’re begging, and you know what that does to me.”
François bites the inside of his cheek. “I know.”
“Then, just as you start to push yourself down on them as far as you can go,” Jackie wets his lips, “I’m going to fuck you.”
François’ breath hitches. He can feel Jackie in him, deep and hot, just as clearly as he can taste the sweat on the other man’s skin and hear the sound of strangled gasps echoing in his ears – with his ankles hooked round Jackie’s back, heels digging in and spurring him forward.
“I’m going to fuck you until you’re shaking.”
François sways in close, eyes darting to Jackie’s lips.
Jackie clears his throat and shakes his head, a smile curling his mouth upwards. “Save it for later.”
François huffs in amusement and leans back on his hands; that itch finally having dissolved into contentedness, “As if I needed any more motivation to drive well today.”
He aches, but pleasantly so – skin prickling with heat.
“What you call motivation, I call distraction,” Jackie says, dropping his sunglasses back onto the bridge on his nose.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s a shame,” Jackie shrugs and jumps down from his perch, throwing François a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “Because I’m so distracted right now, I don’t think I can get into my extra layer of thermals by myself.”
François eagerly follows.
Pairing: François Cevert/Jackie Stewart
Rating: R
Word count: 1,250
Disclaimer: Never happened, don’t own
Summary: François is bored. How can Jackie resist?
It’s not often François finds himself wandering aimlessly around during the hours before a race. There’s always something new to learn – whether it be familiarising himself with new components on the car or perfecting his steering and lap times; he’s never done. Fortunately, he enjoys it. The thrill of finally understanding a problem is like an addiction, and being able to always do one better than before is what he strives for.
This weekend in particular, however, proves an anomaly.
The car itself feels wonderful and, after taking it out for a brief spin of the circuit, François found himself more than happy with the new safety improvements that had been made to the track over the past year. But therein lies the problem; there’s nothing for him to do.
Even attempting to spend a bit of down time with his fellow drivers had proved fruitless. He’d quickly felt like a third wheel upon joining Mario and Ronnie; the two of them having set up a semi-circle of chairs in front of the garages. The casual glances they kept throwing each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking were hilariously sweet, but utterly frustrating to watch. He’d made a mental note to suggest an intervention to Jackie later and promptly excused himself, unwilling to meddle without his partner in crime.
François absentmindedly slips a cigarette into his mouth, an annoying itch buzzing away just under his skin.
Now what?
Luckily, he’s spared any further indecision when an arm brandishing a lighter appears out of nowhere.
“He’s looking ridiculously lonely without you,” Graham says, that utterly disarming smile firmly in place as he steps in close to light François up, “Or maybe that should be just ridiculous?”
François blinks widely and breaks into a grin; he’s always enjoyed Graham’s company. His dry wit coupled with what many of the other drivers have jokingly dubbed as almost-omnipresence, makes for an interesting combination. One that constantly leaves François impressed.
“Are you saying I should go bother him?” François asks round the cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.
“I’m saying I don’t know why you haven’t already,” Graham points out, cocking an eyebrow.
He can't argue with that.
**
François sees Jackie sitting on the metal pit fence, legs dangling like a child, and can’t help the sudden rush of fondness that washes over him. Nor the fiendish plan that starts to form.
He hops up next to his team-mate and drapes an arm over his shoulders, gently pulling him into his side.
The waft of cologne that snakes around Jackie is all too familiar and he immediately settles himself comfortably in François' loose embrace. "Alright, lad?" He says, patting him on the chest.
"Bored," François replies through a small puff of smoke. "Entertain me?"
"I spy..." Jackie begins teasingly, trailing off as he waits for Francois' reaction. He knows what the Frenchman is after; the subtle suggestive lilt to his not-so-innocent request is impossible to mistake.
François laughs, a rumbling warmth, and tightens his grip. "Not what I had in mind," he admits easily, lips just grazing the tip of Jackie's ear.
"Oh?" Jackie smiles, eyes focused on the mechanics tinkering around with their cars.
François hums low in his throat. "I'd much rather hear what you plan on doing to me after the race," he replies nonchalantly and takes a drag of his cigarette.
Jackie crosses his arms, unable to stop the shiver that claws its way up his spine. "Patience is a virtue, Francois."
"This I know," François chuckles as he stubs his cigarette out on the sole of his boot, thinking of all the times he’s had the pleasure of seeing Jackie’s Tyrrell disappear into the distance, "But still, indulge me," he dares, eyes shining with mischief.
It's risky, there are people everywhere, yet he still slips his hand into François' hair and tugs him down; unable to resist. It's unlikely they'll be interrupted anyway, Jackie reasons. They're just two team-mates seemingly lost in simple camaraderie before a race, there’s no need to pay them any attention.
François, delighted, watches as Jackie pushes his sunglasses up onto his head with his free hand. "I'm going to make you scream."
"How are you going to make me scream, Jackie?" François says, angling his head to look Jackie directly in the eyes. They share an easy smile, a hint of ‘go on, I dare you’ just licking at the edges. This is familiar territory for them.
"I'm going to peel you out of your race suit. It'll be wet, soaked with champagne. So will your hair," Jackie pauses to twist his finger round one of François’ curls, "and it'll already have started to flick up at the sides."
François quirks his lips, endeared by the banality.
“You’ll spread yourself out on the bed, immediately letting your legs fall apart,” Jackie lets his hand drift to François’ hip and thumbs at the fabric of his race suit.
François jerks his head in a nod and shuffles closer, uninterested in their possible audience; the sounds of clanking car parts and chatter around them now nothing more than white noise.
“You’re already so hard, François,” Jackie groans under his breath, losing himself in the images flashing through his mind; those long limbs stretched out before him, toes clenched tightly in the bed sheets and miles of unblemished skin pulled taut over firm muscle. François never looks more perfect than when he’s gazing up at Jackie through his dark lashes, drowsy and pliant with want.
“For you,” François insists, imagining the soft yet confident trail of Jackie’s hands running up the insides of his thighs, going higher and higher. “How many fingers, Jackie?” He urges, accent thickened, as he turns towards Jackie to touch their knees together.
“One to begin with,” he taps a finger against François’ arm in thought, light and rhythmic, before pressing it down into his bicep, “but I’ll quickly add the second, because you’re begging, and you know what that does to me.”
François bites the inside of his cheek. “I know.”
“Then, just as you start to push yourself down on them as far as you can go,” Jackie wets his lips, “I’m going to fuck you.”
François’ breath hitches. He can feel Jackie in him, deep and hot, just as clearly as he can taste the sweat on the other man’s skin and hear the sound of strangled gasps echoing in his ears – with his ankles hooked round Jackie’s back, heels digging in and spurring him forward.
“I’m going to fuck you until you’re shaking.”
François sways in close, eyes darting to Jackie’s lips.
Jackie clears his throat and shakes his head, a smile curling his mouth upwards. “Save it for later.”
François huffs in amusement and leans back on his hands; that itch finally having dissolved into contentedness, “As if I needed any more motivation to drive well today.”
He aches, but pleasantly so – skin prickling with heat.
“What you call motivation, I call distraction,” Jackie says, dropping his sunglasses back onto the bridge on his nose.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s a shame,” Jackie shrugs and jumps down from his perch, throwing François a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “Because I’m so distracted right now, I don’t think I can get into my extra layer of thermals by myself.”
François eagerly follows.
