Work Text:
Emerson didn't like doing things that took him outside his comfort zone.
I mean, he knows that sooner or later he has to step out of his comfort zone; after all, that’s the only way to get ahead in life. He’s had to do it himself several times throughout his career. However, we have to admit that doing that is… annoying, really annoying—who in the world likes to leave their comfort zone?
Emerson himself currently does his best to step out of his comfort zone as little as possible.
But now, he’s the one to blame for doing something he’s definitely not used to. He had missed the drivers’ meeting because… a really interesting movie was going to be on at that exact time, and Emerson couldn’t resist the temptation.
Usually, in moments like these, he’d ask Ronnie or Carlos for their notes. But Ronnie didn’t go to the meeting either; from what Emerson heard, the drunk version of the Swede thought it would be a great idea to stick a light bulb in his mouth. The result of that wasn’t very pleasant. Ronnie was on sick leave, with his dignity wounded (by his own doing) and a sore mouth. Carlos, well, Carlos went to the meeting, but only God knows where the Argentine had disappeared to. Since he had a habit of vanishing without a trace whenever he wanted.
His second-to-last option was his older brother, even though Wilsinho was more of a talker than a note-taker, and Emerson was the one who kept track of everything—even down to how many times a person sighed during the day. But much to Emerson’s dismay, Carlos had dragged his brother to the ends of the earth with him. The Brazilian can only hope that, wherever those two went, there’s nothing involving playing cards and gambling.
There was also the young Lauda, but Emerson felt he wasn’t close enough to him to ask such a thing. And besides, the way the Austrian looked at him made him feel slightly intimidated.
It was as if Lauda could see right into the depths of his soul and see his most obscene sins. That frightened him.
The last name left on his mental list was Stewart (whom Emerson normally didn’t even consider); Emerson particularly didn’t like asking Stewart for favors. He had nothing against the Scotsman—quite the contrary, he had great respect and admiration for him. However, their relationship is… complicated.
In fact, Emerson didn’t know exactly what kind of relationship they had.
In the past, Emerson believed they were good friends. The Scotsman is a very kind man, easy to talk to, and they had good conversations that didn’t necessarily have to be about work. Stewart was also very observant and would do things before the Brazilian could even ask.
However, one thing about Stewart is that he seems to really enjoy physical contact. Somehow, he was always touching him, whether lightly holding his shoulder or his arm. There were also subtle touches on his back, and sometimes he would guide him by his wrist.
Emerson hadn’t considered this important at first. Until the touches increased significantly.
Stewart had started pulling him and holding him by the waist, with exaggerated firmness, yet so gently, and that constant, warm touch that only the large palm of his hand could provide. The Scotsman had stopped holding his wrist and started touching his hand directly, which made Emerson a little nervous; his hand was so big compared to his that it was almost embarrassing.
Another thing that had also started was that Stewart would whisper directly into his ear.
That shouldn’t have been a big deal, but for Emerson, it definitely was. The sensation of the Scotsman’s warm breath against his ear sent shivers down his neck. If you paid close attention, Emerson would shiver slightly. And Stewart was definitely a man who paid close attention. He knew exactly the effect he had on the Brazilian, and yet he kept going. He kept going as if he enjoyed seeing the effect he himself had on his colleague.
And it wasn’t just that which made Emerson tremble; there were also the occasional touches (at least that’s what Emerson genuinely wants to believe), which strangely only happened when they were alone. Times when the Scotsman’s hand would slide down to his thigh, squeezing it lightly. Again, this shouldn’t have been a problem, but it started becoming one the moment Emerson began to feel strange every time Stewart did that. Especially when Stewart massaged his thigh with his thumb, making small circles on the Brazilian’s sensitive skin.
Emerson had to use all his self-control not to make any inappropriate sounds at that moment, because the sensation of having Stewart’s hand on his thigh and so dangerously close to his groin was enough to make him feel too much and feel his body burning like hell.
That was honestly, very embarrassing.
Emerson's face burned with shame just remembering it. How could he, a grown man, react like a teenager going through puberty receiving his first sexual stimulus?
It was ridiculous.
And it hadn't even been a big deal. Stewart was just caressing his thigh. It wasn't like he'd done it on purpose.
Later that day, Emerson practically avoided Stewart, doing everything he could to avoid being in the same space as him. The Brazilian had been doing this for days. Days in which he didn't exchange a single word with the Scotsman, days in which he did his best not to look directly at his face, and especially, days in which he did everything possible to avoid his touches.
Which, incredibly, had become very difficult.
Emerson had become so accustomed to Stewart touching him, Stewart always being nearby, that not having him was strange. He really missed the Scotsman's hand holding his, the secure grip on his waist, and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, the whispers that sent shivers down his spine.
Stewart noticed the Brazilian's distancing; he seemed genuinely confused and even hurt by the cold and silent treatment Emerson was giving him. The expression of sadness on his face when Emerson avoided his touches was truly heartbreaking.
Emerson felt guilty about it; he didn't want to make the Scotsman suffer because of him. Emerson genuinely liked Stewart. However, the Brazilian would feel even more guilty if he had to look Stewart directly in the eyes, and he remembered with unbearable clarity that he had been aroused by the Scotsman. That the simple touch Stewart had given him on his thigh was enough to make his groin throb and beg for direct contact.
And he would feel even more guilty remembering what he had to do to relieve himself.
"Stop thinking about that," the Brazilian slapped his cheek, trying to banish the unsettling thoughts from his head.
But honestly, it was difficult not to think about it, now that Emerson had to go to Stewart and talk directly to him. All this because he had decided that watching a movie was more important than the damn meeting.
Emerson didn't know exactly what he was feeling. Confusion, longing, irritation, or any other repressed feeling. Each of these emotions was fighting amongst themselves to decide who would take control of his body. The butterflies in his stomach were almost unbearable; he was nervous, of course he was. Why wouldn't he be? He was face to face with the man who had made him feel...too many things; it wasn't exactly a comfortable feeling.
But here is Emerson, in front of Stewart's trailer, holding nothing more than a small notebook and a cheap pencil. He doesn't know where to look, doesn't know where to put his hands, and definitely doesn't know what to say to the other man. The Brazilian takes a deep breath (perhaps a little too much) and gathers all his courage and knocks on the door. Too quickly and hastily afterward.
It took a while for it to open and reveal Stewart. Who was wearing nothing but sweatpants. His expression went from confused to surprised and then a warm smile blossomed on his lips, which Emerson felt he didn't deserve; there was a peculiar glint in his eyes now, as if he had waited for this moment for a long time.
"Oh, Emerson! It's so good to see you," Stewart said excitedly, descending the trailer steps and getting closer than he should have to the Brazilian.
Emerson swallowed hard, rethinking a thousand times what he intended to say, but now that Stewart was there, right in front of him, obscene memories returned to haunt his head.
"Do you have notes from the drivers' meeting?" He spoke faster than he intended, his voice heavy with nervousness that he doubted the Scotsman hadn't noticed.
Stewart blinked, processing the question; this wasn't exactly what he had wanted to hear. Not when Emerson had given him the cold shoulder for almost the entire week; he had expected at least an apology.
"I don't have any written notes from it."
A sigh that mixed relief and frustration escaped Emerson without his permission upon hearing this.
"I understand! Thank you for your attention—" Before the Brazilian could turn and run away, Stewart grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
Their faces were only inches from his; Emerson could feel the Scotsman's warm breath against him. They were so close that the Brazilian could feel a little of the other man's body heat. This was enough to make his own face flush an unwanted red on his cheeks.
Stewart's eyes shone with hope, and something else Emerson couldn't quite put his finger on. "But I can give you an oral summary," Stewart offered with the same warm smile, but with a suggestive intent in his voice.
Emerson's eyes trembled, unsure whether to look into the Scotsman's eyes or at his lips. He shrank back again, wondering if this was a good idea. Was he really going to risk being alone in a small, enclosed space with Stewart? The same Stewart who had made him tremble with excitement and whine for not being satisfied enough a few days ago?
This was practically his death sentence.
Stewart didn't even give him a chance to think of an answer, or rather, he didn't even give him a chance to refuse (Emerson isn't suicidal enough to accept something like that. God, he doesn't want to do that to him again), he was already dragging Emerson into the trailer and closing the door before the Brazilian noticed.
The trailer seemed smaller than Emerson would have liked.
Or perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, as always happens when he's too nervous.
The windows were closed, and the air smelled of the Scotsman's woody cologne and a hint of tobacco. Emerson looked around; the space was tidy, as always, and exactly as Emerson remembered it from the last time he came here.
Emerson didn't know exactly when Stewart's hand left his arm and went straight to his own. But he recognized the moment it reached his hand, as the Scotsman's touch was accompanied by a firm grip. Stewart guided him to a small table and two upholstered benches with backs, facing each other.
An awkward silence stretched between them. Emerson wanted to say something, perhaps an apology, or a terrible excuse to escape the tension. But the words simply wouldn't come out, stuck in his throat like a bird trapped in a small cage. The Scotsman turned to him, his large eyes filled with an unusual gleam. That made Emerson feel a strange chill in his stomach. The older man smiled at him, but it wasn't the warm smile that had greeted him minutes before; it was something more raw and somber. Emerson swallowed hard, his eyes trembling for no reason. Something was very wrong in the air, and the Brazilian was afraid of what it meant.
"Sit down" was all Stewart said, promptly pointing to the bench. He let go of his hand and went somewhere else, looking for something in the kitchen cupboard.
Not a minute had passed, and Emerson was already missing the warmth of the Scotsman's hand. The other man's large hand engulfing his own. How audacious of him, asking for something that didn't concern him, especially after what he had done to Stewart.
Emerson did as he was told, sat on the bench, positioning himself near the window. The Brazilian stared at his own hands in his lap, playing with his fingers while he waited.
After five whole days of ignoring the other man, giving him such silent treatment. And instead of receiving an apology, he's asked for a note. It was cruel, when you stop to think about it.
A beautiful cup is placed in front of him, with a steaming black liquid. Probably coffee.
Stewart sat beside him, resting his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, looking at the Brazilian with amusement.
"So... What do you need? A quick summary or—"
"The quick one!" It was a lie, completely. Emerson liked long summaries, with all the information so he could understand exactly what was said.
But honestly, he just wanted to leave. The tension there was so high that the Brazilian felt he couldn't stay another minute. He would have to make the sacrifice of abandoning his tendencies for the greater good.
Stewart arched his eyebrows, surprised. He had known Emerson long enough to know that this wasn't the kind of note-taking he liked. Stewart knew Emerson well enough to know exactly what he liked. But an amused smile bloomed on his lips, as if it were a joke, one that Emerson wouldn't tolerate for long and would readily give in to the Scotsman.
"Alright then," the Scotsman readily agreed, then pointed to the cup. "Drink."
There wasn't much Emerson could do but obey him. He took the cup's handle and carefully blew on the liquid. While drinking, he couldn't help but notice his colleague staring at him with a mischievous smile. This made the Brazilian suspicious; there was nothing extraordinary about the drink, it was a little sweet, but nothing special. Maybe Emerson was being paranoid again.
____ ֹ ᮫ ۪ ֹ𓂃 ࣪˖🔥 ⺌ ____
Okay, maybe there really was something in that drink.
At first, nothing had happened, everything was fine, his body was even willingly obeying his desires. Emerson truly believed that everything was fine, that he would finish his report and leave as quickly as possible.
But of course, that's not what the universe would give him, because minutes after taking just a few sips of coffee, his body started to feel too much. And considering the things that had happened lately, that wasn't good at all.
Emerson was genuinely trying to concentrate on what Stewart was saying, noting every word, no matter how silly it was. But it was really hard not to grimace at the moment, because his groin decided that this was a really good time to get excited. It was throbbing so fiercely that Emerson had to close his legs tightly so Stewart wouldn't notice. And closing his legs was also a problem, because Emerson was trying very hard not to rub them to relieve himself.
And as if that wasn't enough, Stewart was still looking directly at him, with a damn smile that wouldn't leave his lips.
He continued talking, using technical terms, throwing out random comments, and commenting on other drivers' opinions.
But he seemed far more interesting in the spectacle before him. Almost as if he knew what was happening.
The idea made Emerson's blood run cold.
Stewart wouldn't do such a thing; he wasn't the type to easily give in to sexual desire. He was a restrained man and knew how to control himself. And besides, why would he do that to Emerson? There's no reason for Stewart to want to see him in such an... inappropriate state.
But anyway, with each passing minute the heat intensified, becoming unbearable with each passing second that Emerson forced his legs together. His eyes were watering from holding back so much.
It was honestly so shameful and depressing.
Emerson swallowed hard, leaning over the small table, his breathing too fast, his vaginal lips aching from being denied stimulation. God, this was worse than the last time he and Stewart were together in an enclosed space. At least, that day he had a reason to get excited. Now his body was simply betraying him. And for no apparent reason. Damn it.
His body no longer obeyed its owner, while Emerson desperately tried to maintain some composure while writing (or at least tried, since his handwriting was becoming blurry). His body decided it couldn't take this chastity anymore; his thighs began to rub against each other, his moist lips brushing against each other, his sensitive clitoris rubbing and sending waves of frustrated pleasure throughout his body.
A viscous liquid wouldn't stop dripping from him, leaving his underwear completely soaked. And slightly staining his shorts.
Emerson felt pathetic, humiliating himself to that extent.
"You seem nervous," Stewart said suddenly, feigning concern in her voice. Turning her body toward the Brazilian.
Emerson didn't dare say a word. He was afraid his mouth might betray him too and let out an inappropriate, obscene sound.
The Scotsman's face darkened, a malicious smile appearing so brazenly and crudely. And that went straight to the Brazilian's vagina, which pulsed desperately again, hot and swollen. Emerson looked away, his lips trembling from the effort to keep from making a sound.
Stewart interpreted this as his cue and slid his fingers to the Brazilian's exposed thigh, so close to where they shouldn't be, and squeezed lightly.
"Maybe I can help you," he whispered, directly in his ear.
Emerson winced at the sensation, unable to contain himself, and the pulse between his legs doubled, a shiver ran down his spine, that... that wasn't it. He was already terrible, this would only make the situation worse.
"Mr. Stewart..." A desperate sob escaped his throat, "I don't think that—".
The Scotsman moved closer, not giving the other time to speak.
"Now, don't be shy," he murmured against the Brazilian's ear, caressing his thigh gently and slowly enough to tease him, to make him squirm.
Emerson swallowed hard, his breath ragged, feeling the blush spread to his ears, his tanned skin burning with shame. He desperately needed relief, and Stewart was giving him too much hope. He needed to refuse whatever the other man was offering. Because if he accepted, it was a point of no return that could be a disaster.
"Open your legs for me, my dear," was the older man's last warning. He inhaled deeply, his voice so authoritative and warm.
And Emerson, against all his common sense, against everything he had just thought minutes before, did as he was told. Because however shameful it was, he needed it, he needed contact, no matter how minimal, he wanted it.
Stewart's fingers slid across the sensitive skin, sending shockwaves throughout the Brazilian's body. His body contracted as one of the Scotsman's fingers slowly passed through his opening, rubbing the tissue over his clitoris. An obscene meow escaped the Brazilian's mouth, accompanied by a mixture of surprise. This wasn't exactly what Emerson had been expecting.
"Ah... Mr. Stewart! What... are you doing?" the Brazilian asked, a mixture of surprise and longing for more.
"Wasn't this what you wanted?" Jackie asked, rubbing the swollen and sensitive clitoris again, harder, making the younger man writhe even more. "I'm giving you exactly what you want. Relief."
Emerson didn't have time to respond; the Scotsman's fingers slid inside his shorts and beneath the damp fabric of his underwear.
This also caught him off guard, because Emerson had never touched himself directly—Well, he would rub himself against something soft and firm when he felt lonely. But he had never touched himself in that way on his own groin.
He shuddered, resisting the urge to writhe as the older man's thick, skillful fingers instantly found his clitoris. He laid his head on the table, turning it to the side, biting his lips as Stewart massaged him with precise circular motions, with just enough intensity for him to feel it. The sounds coming from Emerson were anything but decent, alternating between sighs and tearful moans.
"You know, I've heard you make those sounds before," Stewart said suddenly. The Brazilian's face contorted in confusion, not understanding where the older man was going with this. "That last time we were together."
Emerson's eyes widened as he realized what Stewart was saying. A small flash of despair flooded his brain.
"You seemed so desperate, trying so hard not to make a sound," Stewart whispered, now massaging the Brazilian's sweat-damp hair. "It was delicious to see that, to see you writhing for me."
Emerson shuddered, the shock hitting him hard. So, Stewart knew, he knew exactly what he was doing to the Brazilian's body, and he was enjoying what he was seeing.
"But you know the part I liked best?" The question hung in the air, only leaving Emerson more stunned and anxious. "It was seeing you rubbing against that pillow, so desperate, so tearful, begging and calling my name."
Emerson's face filled with shame and embarrassment. So Stewart had seen that? Had he seen his carnal despair with his own eyes?
"Mr. Stewart, I..."
But Stewart cut him off.
"You don't know how numb I was after that," he slid his fingers further down, parting the warm folds and pressing him against himself. The Brazilian let out a scandalous moan at the sensation.
"You don't know how much I had to hold myself back from bursting into that room and fucking you right there."
Emerson was crying now, without disguising it or maintaining the minimum composure he had promised himself at least half an hour ago.
How could he?
It felt good, that sensation of the older man's fingers against him sending a warm wave of pleasure straight to his core was too good. It was something that even Emerson himself couldn't give himself.
It was also new, but Emerson was loving it.
Stewart took advantage of the younger man's position and tangled his hand in the Brazilian's hair, pulling him forcefully back. Emerson let out a strangled sound at the action, tears falling faster and harder than before. The Scotsman turned his face so that Emerson would look directly into his eyes.
"Look at you, as tearful and wet as that day," Stewart whispered, moving closer to the other's face until they were inches apart. "And the best part? All of this is mine now," his smile was as cruel as it was loving.
Cruel because it seemed as if he had claimed something, and honestly he had; Emerson wouldn't be able to deny the Scotsman anything from that moment on. And loving because there was affection there, not just carnal desire, but also a desire to care for and protect. It was a genuine attachment that Emerson could identify with a certain satisfaction.
Stewart's hand left his hair and went to his face, carefully massaging the younger man's cheekbone, his eyes shining with happiness and excitement. Then he kissed him, slowly and voraciously, almost reverently, savoring every moment of the Brazilian's mouth. Emerson returned the gesture, still shy and awkward. Stewart laughed at this, though his laughter wasn't malicious.
It didn't take long for him to start moving his fingers in and out of the Brazilian again with perfect rhythm. Emerson uses one hand to hold the Scotsman's shoulder and the other to weakly grip the older man's wrist, trying to find some kind of support as he locates his G-spot with ease and practice. His abdomen contracts again, becoming increasingly hot and wet between his legs as his partner stimulates him with his fingers in the right spot.
"Ah... Jackie," he moans loudly and seductively, without realizing he's unintentionally used the older man's first name. Jackie smiles against the Brazilian's lips, satisfied. The movements of his fingers increase, revealing that he had enjoyed hearing his first name come out of Emerson's mouth so naturally.
Lust clouds the younger man's mind like a dense fog, and he quickly loses himself in it, barely noticing that he's screaming freely against the other man's mouth and writhing as he reaches a fulminating orgasm. Her clitoris throbs as the Scotsman's palm presses against it, rubbing it until she trembles and gasps for air. She shudders as Jackie's thick fingers slide out of her vagina, wet and wrinkled, as he pulls them from his underwear.
They break from the kiss, and Emerson practically collapses on top of Jackie, he's spasming now, his whole body trembling trying to recover, he's drooling and the liquid spills from his mouth unceremoniously; in normal situations, the Brazilian would have felt ashamed. But now he was too busy trying to recover from the stimulation Jackie had given him. Emerson sobs uncontrollably, hot tears continue to fall from his eyes and his throat is sore from screaming.
Jackie brought his fingers to his mouth, licking the vaginal fluid until his fingers were clean. Savoring it without a grimace on his face, only satisfaction and pleasure, as if he had won a prize he had longed to win for a long time.
And finally he had.
Jackie looked at Emerson, who was still recovering and still having slight spasms, fallen on top of him, his face red and sweaty, his damp hair sticking to his forehead and the light drool trickling from his mouth so gracefully. So adorable, the Scotsman thought. And now this sight belonged to him and only to him.
How lucky he was.
He raised his hand, carefully massaging the Brazilian's now sensitive hair.
"You were so good, so kind to me," his voice was sweet, grateful for the spectacle. "You don't know how happy you made me, thank you my sweet Emerson."
Emerson nodded weakly, a soft purr escaping him in response to the older man's affection. Jackie laughed at the action, intrigued by the feline reaction. It was cute.
"You reacted so well to my fingers, imagine how well you'd react to my cock," Jackie whispered in his ear, in a playful but promising tone.
Emerson made a face, not liking the joke very much.
"Jackie, I'm tired," he grumbled in a hoarse voice, pouting indignantly, but still not pulling away.
An arrow of love struck the Scotsman's heart at the sight before him, feeling so lucky to witness something so adorable. He hugged the Brazilian tightly, but not enough to bother him.
"I understand, my sweet Emerson, I'll wait until you feel comfortable again." He kissed his head lovingly. "Until then, rest well."
Emerson seemed to like this response, closing his eyes and snuggling against the older man's chest, his purring growing louder and softer. Allowing himself to feel Jackie's body heat, the Scotsman carefully adjusted the Brazilian so he was as comfortable as possible in his lap.
They stayed like that for a while, Jackie enjoying the sound of his companion's breathing stabilizing and the spasms finally ceasing. Emerson looked beautiful like that, lying on him and making soft, peaceful sounds. Jackie continued stroking the Brazilian's hair, tenderly massaging the part he had pulled earlier.
Emerson opened his eyes again, consciousness darting through his mind faster than a peregrine falcon. His face contorted in embarrassment, realizing something important.
"Jackie, you're getting me dirty," he complained, his soaked underwear beginning to bother him terribly. "I want to take a shower."
The Scotsman laughed; Brazilians had a very serious problem when it came to showering. They hated feeling dirty.
"Understood," Jackie shifted the younger man's position, placing one arm under his legs and supporting his spine with the other. Carefully getting off the bench, he stood up and lifted the Brazilian in his arms, heading towards the small bathroom.
"Let's take a shower."