fiction: A Lie Told Often (F1 RPS, Ralf/Juan, NC17)
Title: A Lie Told Often
Author: ihatefastcars (girlcalledjane @ yahoo.com)
Fandom: Formula One RPS
Character/Pairing: Ralf Schumacher/Juan Pablo Montoya
Rating: NC17
Summary: He doesn't understand Juan at all. 1358 words. (6/15/04)
Disclaimer: I do not know them, I have nothing to do with them. This never really happened. It is all a lie. There is no fucking spoon.
Feedback: Feedback (general or con-crit) is always welcome.
Spoilers: Nope, but they are both still driving for Williams in this so, um, yeah.
Warnings: REAL PEOPLE. MALE/MALE. GRAPHIC SEX IN A PUBLIC TOILET. DENIAL. GRRARGH.
Author's Note: For the beautiful sminky so she might love me again.
- - - -
A lie told often enough becomes the truth.
-- Vladimir Lenin
- - - -
They'd been glaring at each other from across the small dining room for fifteen minutes when he'd finally thrown down his napkin and stalked to the men's room. He's been waiting for nearly that when the door finally swings open and Juan saunters in. He stares at their reflections in the mirror while Juan locks the door.
All he'd wanted was to eat his food in peace, he doesn't understand why Juan couldn't have just gone to another restaurant when he saw Ralf. He doesn't understand why Juan couldn’t have requested a different table when he saw how close to Ralf's they’d seated him. He doesn't understand Juan at all.
Juan smirks at him in the mirror and he grinds his teeth and thinks that he hates him. Hates him more than he's ever hated anyone. Hates the way that he thinks he knows everything and acts like he's so much better than everyone else. Hates the looks and the smirks and the snide comments. And more than any of that Ralf hates the way that just being in the same room with Juan makes him hard.
He lets go of the sink as soon as he's sure the door is locked, the scuffle of their feet echo off the tiles and he's got Juan pressed against the wall harder than he needs to. He stares at Juan, at his unblinking, brown eyes and his smirking mouth, and he wants to say 'what's your fucking problem?' or 'I hate you' or something like that but kisses him instead. Kisses him like he wants to hit him, hard and fast and rough. Kisses him until his lungs are burning and there's the coppery taste of blood from someone's lip -- he doesn't know whose, he doesn't even care -- in his mouth.
Juan's fingers are digging into his hips and they're rubbing against each other like teenagers -- friction like lightning down his spine -- but it's not enough. And his own voice sounds wrong to his ears when he pulls back and tells Juan to turn around. It’s too rough and too low and he wonders when he turned into someone else.
His hands are shaking with want and need and anger and it's almost impossible to undo his belt and jeans and he growls out a curse and yanks until they come loose. And Juan's got his down to his knees and, when he looks over his shoulder and tells Ralf to hurry up and fuck him, a bolt of lust shoots through him and he thinks he's going to come on himself before he can get the chance.
He presses his chest to Juan's back and grinds against his ass and he can't stop himself from grinning at the way Juan shudders and pushes back for more. He brushes his fingers against Juan's lips, bites back a groan and wishes he had more time when Juan sucks them into his mouth. Because Juan knows what he likes and he'd be a much happier man if all Juan ever did with that big fucking mouth of his was suck him off.
He pulls his fingers out of Juan's mouth with a loud pop and a smirk and he doesn't fight the vicious grin that comes when he pushes his fingers in hard and Juan's smirk is replaced by an open-mouthed gasp. He watches Juan's face with a strange sort of awe as he twists and pushes and slides his fingers in and out until Juan is pushing back on his fingers and mumbling in broken up Spanish-English. He watches until Juan wants it bad enough to beg for it and then he slides his fingers out slowly.
He knows there are some of those little complementary lotions by the sinks, knows that it would go easier if he got some but spits in his palm instead because he has a feeling that if he were to try to move, even with the intention of doing something to make it easier for Juan, that Juan would probably kill him. So he slides his spit-slick hand over his cock and thinks that this is dangerous and wrong and that they could get caught at any second because they're fucking in the goddamn toilet of a restaurant.
He considers all the ways they could both lose everything if they get caught as he positions and starts that achingly slow first push inside. Considers the looks and the whispers and the humiliation. And then he considers his mental health when he finds that he doesn't care very much at the moment. Because Juan is panting with his forehead pressed against the dirty wall and then relaxing and pushing back. And he's saying something that sounds like yes but could be anything for all Ralf can hear past the pounding in his own ears.
It's like time stops for half a second and then slams back into him like water floods through a broken dam and he's pounding into Juan like they're both going to die if he doesn't. And maybe they will, maybe that's the whole hidden reason behind this. Maybe they fuck in empty restaurant toilets because they'd die if they didn't. He doesn't know. He doesn't know much at the moment though so that probably shouldn't count.
Juan is gasping and cursing and urging him on and he tries to shake the sweat out of his eyes. He feels like he's on fire, like his whole body is going to melt at any second and his hips are thrusting of their own accord now so all he can do is hold on. Biting and licking wildly at Juan's neck, one hand leaving finger-shaped marks on Juan’s hip and the other roughly stroking his cock and Ralf knows he's going to come before he's ready.
He makes something like a growl and leans into Juan with every thrust, pushes harder and strokes faster and tells himself that he will not be the one to win this race and almost laughs at the thought. But then laughing is the farthest thing from his mind because his efforts paid off and Juan is making that half-sob noise he makes, tensing and gasping, and Ralf thinks that the hot wetness is like the best trophy ever. And then he doesn't think anything at all because he's too busy muffling his moan against Juan's neck and coming so hard it feels like his spine just liquefied.
When his brain ticks back over into actual thought, they're both panting and sweaty. Juan's eyes are closed and his head has fallen back onto Ralf's shoulder and, before he knows what he's doing, he's pressing his mouth to Juan's neck. Juan hums contentedly and then coughs and Ralf closes his eyes and thinks that it's always like this right after. Like for just a few panting moments they're two people who get along and don't come this close to blows every single day. Like with the need lessened by the release, the hatred has lessened as well. Like maybe the hatred is the part that never really exists.
But it only lasts a few moments. Long enough for him to pull out and run his fingers over Juan's hip. Long enough watch Juan do up his trousers and pointedly avoid looking at him. Long enough to feel lost in the thought that it's never going to end. Long enough to feel angry that he doesn't want it to.
Juan leaves first -- washes his hands as he checks himself in the mirror, unlocks the door and is out of sight before Ralf even has his belt done up. And he stares after him for a moment before shaking off the unwelcome feeling of loss and grinds his teeth together. He washes his hands and avoids looking at his own reflection because he doesn't care to see what Juan's left behind. And as pushes the door open and walks down the tiny, dark hallway to the main dining room, he thinks that he doesn't understand Juan at all but, since he hates him, it doesn't really matter anyway.
end of story.
originally posted to ihatefastcars on 06.15.04.