Fic: Touched One Another (For the First Time?) // (Speed Racer, Racercest, NC-17)
Title: Touched One Another (For the First Time?)
Fandom: Speed Racer
Pairing: Racer X/Speed
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,240
Warnings: Porn. Really gratuitous porn. NSFW. Etc. Also, y'know, the whole gay incest thing. Enter at your own risk.
Summary: This is his chance to end this, he realizes acutely. He can stop this here, get back into the Mach 5 and go home and neither he nor Racer X will speak of it again.
Notes: So this is a missing scene I've wanted... well, basically since the first time I saw Speed Racer in the theater, and pretty much every time I've watched it since then. This fic is for ocelotspots, who made me stop talking about it and actually write it, and then squee'd over the finished product. ILU, bb! <3
(Title from Gulten Akin, "Tea")
"I just hope when you do, that I'm there to see it."
It's almost too much to handle at once. Togokhan had used him, and now--though he'd been so sure--Racer X isn't Rex at all. NotRex.NotRex.NotRex.
It changes nothing. Rex is dead. Racer X is a rival driver and, maybe, a friend.
It changes nothing. Especially not the way the two of them had connected. The way Speed felt when they'd raced, not just side-by-side but together...
It's the way he felt the first time he drove the Mach 5 on his own. He knew the purr of her engine, the subtle vibrations that ran up the steering column and through his arms. But the power, the rush of the acceleration--it made his heart pound and his fingers tingle with excitement, and when they hit the jump at Thunderhead, some part of him was sure that the Mach 5 would never land, that they would just keep flying forever.
At Casa Cristo--with Racer X, when it had almost seemed that they could read each other's minds--it had been the same. He'd thought it was the excitement, the danger and his adrenaline running high, but just then, even through his anger at Togokhan, when he'd seen the Shooting Star appear behind him on the familiar curves of Thunderhead his whole body had come alive with the thought that Racer X was there, that the man who used to be his brother had come after him, to look after him. A new wave of anger had followed--X made himself a convenient target for Speed's emotional purge, and the thought that Rex would lie to him, would use him just like Togokhan had... But Racer X isn't Rex.
NotRex.
And yet, Speed's fingers are still tingling, and when Racer X--NotRex--had smiled at him, he felt his heart leap into his throat and stay there. It's still there, fluttering awkwardly, as Racer X turns away, and Speed has so much to think about already that it's so much easier not to think about what he's doing when he takes three quick strides forward and grabs X's wrist, fingers closing on warm leather as the tingling only intensifies.
Racer X stops at the touch, turns to look at Speed curiously. There's no anger there, no annoyance, but his face is impassive again, the smile gone from his lips but still hovering in his eyes, and it's that barest hint of a twinkle that allows Speed to tap into the bravery he feels behind the wheel of the Mach 5 and is only just learning to hold onto when he steps off the track.
"You're not Rex." He says quietly, not dropping Racer X's gaze or his wrist. "You're not my brother."
"No, Speed. I'm not." Racer X's expression softens a little, sad like he wishes he could be the man Speed wanted him to be, but his eyes are sharp in the dim lighting of the track and the glowing headlights of their T-180s. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and all of the blood that had been rushing through Speed's veins heads in one direction. He's still not thinking about this, not thinking about what it means. Not thinking about Togokhan or Royalton or Trixie when he leans up and presses his mouth against Racer X's. He can taste the saliva left by X's tongue--slick and cool with a hint of chapstick--and Speed tightens his grip on Racer X's wrist as X's lips go soft and pliant and move against his. It becomes a real kiss soon after that, and Speed pours the same effort into learning the angles of each and every one of Racer X's teeth that he does into learning the curves of a new track.
"Speed..." Racer X murmurs, pulling away a little though Speed can still feel as well as hear his name, spoken against his lips. This is his chance to end this, he realizes acutely. He can stop this here, get back into the Mach 5 and go home and neither he nor Racer X will speak of it again--not the kiss, not the way Speed's erection is tenting his jeans and rubbing against Racer X's leather-clad thigh, nor the answering bulge that's pressing insistently against Speed's stomach. They can forget about all of it, and go back to being ... whatever they were ten minutes before. Rivals, quiet allies.
It's not even a choice.
"You came after me." He looks Racer X in the eye as he drops his grip on the other man's wrist and moves his hands upwards, tangling them in X's sweaty, slightly matted hair and pulling him in for another kiss. He smiles into Racer X's mouth when he feels X's hands on him, holding him by the waist and then moving downward over the curves of his ass. Racer X has easily twenty pounds on him--probably more--and most of it's muscle, so Speed jumps trustingly when X's hands urge him upwards, wrapping his legs around the taller man's waist without relinquishing his mouth. He finds himself deposited on the hood of the Shooting Star a few moments later, the comfortable weight of Racer X's body pressing him down into the warm metal.
Racer X's leather racing gear is surprisingly easy to remove, once you know where the hidden catches are, and Speed is a quick study when it comes to this. The gloves go first; Racer X pulls them off with his teeth and Speed can't help but capture one of his hands and nip at the pads of his fingertips, earning himself a low groan and a stuttering jerk of X's hips for his trouble. It's satisfying, but it's child's play and Speed knows what he's agreed to do here tonight. Racer X's jacket slides off his shoulders to reveal a black t-shirt not entirely unlike the one Speed is wearing, and with that they are equally dressed in far more clothing than either needs or wants at the moment.
Speed reaches down to fumble with his belt; the pressure of his hard cock against his jeans is actually painful. He doesn't bother to slide his belt from his beltloops, just skips straight to thumbing the button open and pulling down his zipper, the ends of the belt flopping there uselessly while he strips off his shirt and tosses it away into the darkness. Racer X matches him, flicking open the catches on his leathers.
Speed doesn't really notice; he lowers his hands back to their work, arching off the hood of the Shooting Star to shove his jeans down over his buttocks and most of his thighs. He stops there, because he can reach no further and because Racer X is running his fingers over the ridge of Speed's erection through the thin, damp cotton of his briefs. The material is almost transparent where it's already been soaked through with pre-come, even in the near-dark of the track. Racer X's fingers slip upwards and under the edge of the waistband, and Speed lifts his hips obediently so that X can pull them down, catching on the sensitive head of his cock and Speed cries out, sharp and echoing against the curves and planes of the empty stadium. Racer X silences him with lips and tongue and teeth, calls him beautiful and runs his fingers down Speed's dick, through the curls of his pubic hair to cup his balls gently and then back upward while Speed gasps and writhes beneath him.
He's only ever touched himself like this, furtively in the dark of his bedroom, knowing that Spritle, that his parents, were just down the hall. Here, the headlights of the T-180s are throwing otherworldly shadows against the empty stands and the quiet track, and Speed lets himself moan at the strange angle and the unfamiliar calluses, the feel of another hand on his cock, so different from his own, so different from Trixie's smaller hands that he'd imagined so many times but never felt, not like this. He'd never imagined this, never known he could imagine this, though now he can't imagine why.
It doesn't take long to get Racer X's pants and underwear out of the way, once he re-engages his brain enough to try, and Speed finds himself faced with the other man's erection, thick and heavy where it falls against Speed's own. He delays, tugging Racer X's shirt up and off him because it's stupid for him to still be wearing a shirt when his naked dick is rubbing against Speed's belly and groin, and because the sight of it is twisting Speed's gut in new and exciting ways. The moment it takes to remove X's shirt is all it takes for Speed to gather himself once again, and he reaches down to grasp Racer X's cock in his hand, smearing his palm with pre-come in the process. The small amount of lubrication smooths the way as Speed strokes down and up and down experimentally, smiling and flushing with something like awe at the way X's flesh twitches and grows even thicker in his grip, at the way he moans Speed and sucks a hickey onto Speed's shoulderblade, plants little kisses down his chest and up his neck.
Racer X smells like sweat and leather and oil and engine grease, and it's hard for Speed not to press his face into Racer X's hair and just breathe, just stay in the feeling of hot, male flesh pressing him down, of flat pectorals and chest hair, of the smooth curves of the Shooting Star at his back, of the needy little noises Racer X is making as he thrusts into Speed's hand.
"Turn over." Racer X orders in that gravelly voice that makes Speed's cock twitch, and he does what he's told. He looks down at the smooth yellow-and-black paint job of the Shooting Star and braces himself, back arched and ass presented invitingly, sweaty handprints marring the sleek shine of the car. Speed knows what he's bracing for--he's heard enough locker room gossip to know what's going on here, and those thoughts, rather than chilling him, send warm sparks down his spine to pool in his groin, but the specifics elude him. He hopes Racer X knows what he's doing, knows more about--then Racer X's hands are on him, pulling him open and bringing his hole into full view.
It should be embarrassing, but it's hot, and Speed is more than prepared at this point to deal with the pain he knows is coming, but what touches him is not the blunt head of Racer X's cock. Instead it's something warm and wet and that's stubble burning the inside of his cheeks which means it's Racer X's tongue probing at him, licking him open little by little. X's tongue wanders, tracing spirals around the ring of muscle then abruptly changing course to press inside him, going deeper each time. Speed can feel himself loosening with every gentle thrust inward, accepting more and more until he can feel the subble burn everywhere and his cock is spilling pre-come all over the hood of the Shooting Star, the numeral 9 no longer flawless but covered in wetness and sticky, hazy spots, and he needs more, NOW.
His hole is already sloppy and wet with saliva by the time Racer X strokes over it with his index finger, pushes the tip of it inside little by little. It's different from Racer X's tongue, but the newness of it adds to the pleasure of those calluses against sensitive, nearly over-stimulated skin. The second finger, when it comes, hurts a little, stretches him further than X's tongue could prepare him for, but it's a whole new kind of good, especially when Racer X curls his fingers and chuckles indulgently at the way Speed cries out, "Fuck!" in wonderment, the harsh language a strange sort of liberation given what he's doing and who he's doing it with. Then the tongue returns, teasing the edges of Speed's hole, sneaking between X's knuckles sometimes, and by the time Racer X's third finger is buried in him, Speed is nothing but a moaning bundle of nerve endings, like a thousand sparkplugs all heaped together, an explosion waiting to happen, and he's rubbing himself obscenely against the Shooting Star, the near-frictionless surface not enough stimulation for his aching cock. He presses his face into it, wishes it were Racer X's chest or stomach and not unyielding metal, but his pants are still bound up somewhere around his ankles and this way makes sense, of course, but he wants.
Racer X can sense it, and Speed is grateful for their uncanny sense of each other, because the only words flowing from his mouth are, "Please, please, please!" and he doesn't know how to say what he wants but he doesn't have to. Racer X kisses up the ridge of Speed's spine as he slowly removes his fingers, caressing and gentle, and he doesn't ask out loud but he pauses meaningfully, arched over Speed's back, one hand braced on Speed's hip. Speed doesn't pull away when oh god Racer X's cock brushes against him, pushes into him with aching slowness, stretching him endlessly open and its all Speed can do to gasp, mouth open in a shocky little "o" at the burn and slide of it, pushing his hips up and into the thrust as his body clamors for more, more. Racer X's hands bracket his hips, hold him up and back so he can slide inside Speed, deeper and deeper each time until Speed can feel curls of coarse hair against his skin, X's balls against him with every stroke.
Speed wants to come so badly, wants to hold out so this never ends, doesn't know what he wants. Racer X's hands are going to leave bruises on his hips and he twitches at that, cries out because his cock is already so hard and aching and he can't take much more of this. Racer X's voice is quiet but harsh, all breath and growl and urging, "Speed, come on, Speed," like the pit coach's voice in his ear, then Racer X's hand is sliding over his belly, curling around him and pulling and Speed can't tell where either of them ends anymore. They are one and flying nearly out of control and Racer X thrusts inside him hard, once, twice, guiding Speed around the last curve until flashbulbs go off behind his eyes and he cries out, ragged and needy, and comes in spurts all over the Shooting Star while Racer X's cock pulses inside him.
-----
They can't stay there forever, but they stay long enough, afterward. Speed feels limp and used up, and though he's lying in a pool of his own come he can't bring himself to move. Racer X seems to know, seems to understand, and he turns them sideways so he can fit on the hood, spooned up behind Speed and still buried inside him. Speed rests his head on X's arm and silently demands that they remain that way for a little while, contented when Racer X's free arm curls around his ribs. The righteous burn of his anger has gone out, but the lingering sting of betrayal remains, and it's good to be held like this, without pity or well-meaning empathy.
"I should go." Speed says eventually, staring out across the track. Racer X's forehead is pressed against the back of his head, shifts as he maneuvers to press a kiss to the nape of Speed's neck.
"They'll be missing you." He agrees quietly, but Speed shakes his head a little.
"No. I mean, I should go." And he's relieved when Racer X's arm tightens around him, because it means Racer X knows, and that Speed won't have to answer questions he doesn't have answers for, like Where will you go? and What are you going to do?
"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" He asks instead, curiosity without judgment, and he doesn't press when Speed is silent for a long time.
"I think... I think I understand now. I think it's what I have to do." He doesn't bother to mask his sadness over it; he's lost two kinds of innocence on this night, and the sudden sweep of adulthood crashing over him makes him bitterly nostalgic for the days when he knew everything would be fine so long as he was wearing the right socks.
Racer X pulls out of him slowly--the burn of the separation is more painful than the initial penetration, in the way the universe has of being ironic and symbolic all at once--and Speed rolls to face him, not caring about the sticky mess they're making. Racer X's eyes are kind and deep and somehow unfathomably sad, and he wraps a hand behind Speed's neck and kisses him and says, "If you need somewhere to go," and Speed sucks softly on X's lower lip and says, "yeah," and "thank you," before they finally let go. He can tell that Racer X is waiting for him to leave first, that he will watch Speed go and then the mask will go back on, and this Racer X he has come to know, who is strangely quiet and kind and whose hands are gentle in soft places, will become a fierce and unknowable force on the track once again.
Speed fixes his belt and finds his t-shirt lying in a wrinkled heap in the middle of the track, pulls it on quickly enough that the cold fabric makes him shiver when it hits his skin. He can feel a little trickle of come sliding down the inside of his thigh, and spares a thought to hope that it's not showing through the denim, not going to instantly reveal to the entire Racer clan what he's been doing here tonight. Racer X is nearly dressed again, pulling on his leather jacket one sleeve at a time, and Speed takes the moment before his armor is fully back in place to lean in and kiss him again, to memorize the feeling of his fingers sliding through Racer X's hair, the strange intimacy of touching such an innocuous place that was somehow yet so private.
"I'll see you." Speed tells him, and he's not sure if he means on the track or like this or when, just tell me when.
"I guarantee it." Racer X says, that playful twinkle back in his eyes, and Speed realizes that he's not sure either, that this new future is unknowable and unforseeable. They'll have to make it up as they go along, but improvisation has always been one of the skills that's served Speed best on the track, and somehow this doesn't seem so different.
He watches the slim, dark shape of Racer X outlined in the Shooting Star's headlights in his mirror until the twists of Thunderhead put him out of sight, then turns the Mach 5 deliberately and with a sense of finality toward home, still wondering if it will be the last time he ever makes the trip.
Fandom: Speed Racer
Pairing: Racer X/Speed
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,240
Warnings: Porn. Really gratuitous porn. NSFW. Etc. Also, y'know, the whole gay incest thing. Enter at your own risk.
Summary: This is his chance to end this, he realizes acutely. He can stop this here, get back into the Mach 5 and go home and neither he nor Racer X will speak of it again.
Notes: So this is a missing scene I've wanted... well, basically since the first time I saw Speed Racer in the theater, and pretty much every time I've watched it since then. This fic is for ocelotspots, who made me stop talking about it and actually write it, and then squee'd over the finished product. ILU, bb! <3
(Title from Gulten Akin, "Tea")
"I just hope when you do, that I'm there to see it."
It's almost too much to handle at once. Togokhan had used him, and now--though he'd been so sure--Racer X isn't Rex at all. NotRex.NotRex.NotRex.
It changes nothing. Rex is dead. Racer X is a rival driver and, maybe, a friend.
It changes nothing. Especially not the way the two of them had connected. The way Speed felt when they'd raced, not just side-by-side but together...
It's the way he felt the first time he drove the Mach 5 on his own. He knew the purr of her engine, the subtle vibrations that ran up the steering column and through his arms. But the power, the rush of the acceleration--it made his heart pound and his fingers tingle with excitement, and when they hit the jump at Thunderhead, some part of him was sure that the Mach 5 would never land, that they would just keep flying forever.
At Casa Cristo--with Racer X, when it had almost seemed that they could read each other's minds--it had been the same. He'd thought it was the excitement, the danger and his adrenaline running high, but just then, even through his anger at Togokhan, when he'd seen the Shooting Star appear behind him on the familiar curves of Thunderhead his whole body had come alive with the thought that Racer X was there, that the man who used to be his brother had come after him, to look after him. A new wave of anger had followed--X made himself a convenient target for Speed's emotional purge, and the thought that Rex would lie to him, would use him just like Togokhan had... But Racer X isn't Rex.
NotRex.
And yet, Speed's fingers are still tingling, and when Racer X--NotRex--had smiled at him, he felt his heart leap into his throat and stay there. It's still there, fluttering awkwardly, as Racer X turns away, and Speed has so much to think about already that it's so much easier not to think about what he's doing when he takes three quick strides forward and grabs X's wrist, fingers closing on warm leather as the tingling only intensifies.
Racer X stops at the touch, turns to look at Speed curiously. There's no anger there, no annoyance, but his face is impassive again, the smile gone from his lips but still hovering in his eyes, and it's that barest hint of a twinkle that allows Speed to tap into the bravery he feels behind the wheel of the Mach 5 and is only just learning to hold onto when he steps off the track.
"You're not Rex." He says quietly, not dropping Racer X's gaze or his wrist. "You're not my brother."
"No, Speed. I'm not." Racer X's expression softens a little, sad like he wishes he could be the man Speed wanted him to be, but his eyes are sharp in the dim lighting of the track and the glowing headlights of their T-180s. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and all of the blood that had been rushing through Speed's veins heads in one direction. He's still not thinking about this, not thinking about what it means. Not thinking about Togokhan or Royalton or Trixie when he leans up and presses his mouth against Racer X's. He can taste the saliva left by X's tongue--slick and cool with a hint of chapstick--and Speed tightens his grip on Racer X's wrist as X's lips go soft and pliant and move against his. It becomes a real kiss soon after that, and Speed pours the same effort into learning the angles of each and every one of Racer X's teeth that he does into learning the curves of a new track.
"Speed..." Racer X murmurs, pulling away a little though Speed can still feel as well as hear his name, spoken against his lips. This is his chance to end this, he realizes acutely. He can stop this here, get back into the Mach 5 and go home and neither he nor Racer X will speak of it again--not the kiss, not the way Speed's erection is tenting his jeans and rubbing against Racer X's leather-clad thigh, nor the answering bulge that's pressing insistently against Speed's stomach. They can forget about all of it, and go back to being ... whatever they were ten minutes before. Rivals, quiet allies.
It's not even a choice.
"You came after me." He looks Racer X in the eye as he drops his grip on the other man's wrist and moves his hands upwards, tangling them in X's sweaty, slightly matted hair and pulling him in for another kiss. He smiles into Racer X's mouth when he feels X's hands on him, holding him by the waist and then moving downward over the curves of his ass. Racer X has easily twenty pounds on him--probably more--and most of it's muscle, so Speed jumps trustingly when X's hands urge him upwards, wrapping his legs around the taller man's waist without relinquishing his mouth. He finds himself deposited on the hood of the Shooting Star a few moments later, the comfortable weight of Racer X's body pressing him down into the warm metal.
Racer X's leather racing gear is surprisingly easy to remove, once you know where the hidden catches are, and Speed is a quick study when it comes to this. The gloves go first; Racer X pulls them off with his teeth and Speed can't help but capture one of his hands and nip at the pads of his fingertips, earning himself a low groan and a stuttering jerk of X's hips for his trouble. It's satisfying, but it's child's play and Speed knows what he's agreed to do here tonight. Racer X's jacket slides off his shoulders to reveal a black t-shirt not entirely unlike the one Speed is wearing, and with that they are equally dressed in far more clothing than either needs or wants at the moment.
Speed reaches down to fumble with his belt; the pressure of his hard cock against his jeans is actually painful. He doesn't bother to slide his belt from his beltloops, just skips straight to thumbing the button open and pulling down his zipper, the ends of the belt flopping there uselessly while he strips off his shirt and tosses it away into the darkness. Racer X matches him, flicking open the catches on his leathers.
Speed doesn't really notice; he lowers his hands back to their work, arching off the hood of the Shooting Star to shove his jeans down over his buttocks and most of his thighs. He stops there, because he can reach no further and because Racer X is running his fingers over the ridge of Speed's erection through the thin, damp cotton of his briefs. The material is almost transparent where it's already been soaked through with pre-come, even in the near-dark of the track. Racer X's fingers slip upwards and under the edge of the waistband, and Speed lifts his hips obediently so that X can pull them down, catching on the sensitive head of his cock and Speed cries out, sharp and echoing against the curves and planes of the empty stadium. Racer X silences him with lips and tongue and teeth, calls him beautiful and runs his fingers down Speed's dick, through the curls of his pubic hair to cup his balls gently and then back upward while Speed gasps and writhes beneath him.
He's only ever touched himself like this, furtively in the dark of his bedroom, knowing that Spritle, that his parents, were just down the hall. Here, the headlights of the T-180s are throwing otherworldly shadows against the empty stands and the quiet track, and Speed lets himself moan at the strange angle and the unfamiliar calluses, the feel of another hand on his cock, so different from his own, so different from Trixie's smaller hands that he'd imagined so many times but never felt, not like this. He'd never imagined this, never known he could imagine this, though now he can't imagine why.
It doesn't take long to get Racer X's pants and underwear out of the way, once he re-engages his brain enough to try, and Speed finds himself faced with the other man's erection, thick and heavy where it falls against Speed's own. He delays, tugging Racer X's shirt up and off him because it's stupid for him to still be wearing a shirt when his naked dick is rubbing against Speed's belly and groin, and because the sight of it is twisting Speed's gut in new and exciting ways. The moment it takes to remove X's shirt is all it takes for Speed to gather himself once again, and he reaches down to grasp Racer X's cock in his hand, smearing his palm with pre-come in the process. The small amount of lubrication smooths the way as Speed strokes down and up and down experimentally, smiling and flushing with something like awe at the way X's flesh twitches and grows even thicker in his grip, at the way he moans Speed and sucks a hickey onto Speed's shoulderblade, plants little kisses down his chest and up his neck.
Racer X smells like sweat and leather and oil and engine grease, and it's hard for Speed not to press his face into Racer X's hair and just breathe, just stay in the feeling of hot, male flesh pressing him down, of flat pectorals and chest hair, of the smooth curves of the Shooting Star at his back, of the needy little noises Racer X is making as he thrusts into Speed's hand.
"Turn over." Racer X orders in that gravelly voice that makes Speed's cock twitch, and he does what he's told. He looks down at the smooth yellow-and-black paint job of the Shooting Star and braces himself, back arched and ass presented invitingly, sweaty handprints marring the sleek shine of the car. Speed knows what he's bracing for--he's heard enough locker room gossip to know what's going on here, and those thoughts, rather than chilling him, send warm sparks down his spine to pool in his groin, but the specifics elude him. He hopes Racer X knows what he's doing, knows more about--then Racer X's hands are on him, pulling him open and bringing his hole into full view.
It should be embarrassing, but it's hot, and Speed is more than prepared at this point to deal with the pain he knows is coming, but what touches him is not the blunt head of Racer X's cock. Instead it's something warm and wet and that's stubble burning the inside of his cheeks which means it's Racer X's tongue probing at him, licking him open little by little. X's tongue wanders, tracing spirals around the ring of muscle then abruptly changing course to press inside him, going deeper each time. Speed can feel himself loosening with every gentle thrust inward, accepting more and more until he can feel the subble burn everywhere and his cock is spilling pre-come all over the hood of the Shooting Star, the numeral 9 no longer flawless but covered in wetness and sticky, hazy spots, and he needs more, NOW.
His hole is already sloppy and wet with saliva by the time Racer X strokes over it with his index finger, pushes the tip of it inside little by little. It's different from Racer X's tongue, but the newness of it adds to the pleasure of those calluses against sensitive, nearly over-stimulated skin. The second finger, when it comes, hurts a little, stretches him further than X's tongue could prepare him for, but it's a whole new kind of good, especially when Racer X curls his fingers and chuckles indulgently at the way Speed cries out, "Fuck!" in wonderment, the harsh language a strange sort of liberation given what he's doing and who he's doing it with. Then the tongue returns, teasing the edges of Speed's hole, sneaking between X's knuckles sometimes, and by the time Racer X's third finger is buried in him, Speed is nothing but a moaning bundle of nerve endings, like a thousand sparkplugs all heaped together, an explosion waiting to happen, and he's rubbing himself obscenely against the Shooting Star, the near-frictionless surface not enough stimulation for his aching cock. He presses his face into it, wishes it were Racer X's chest or stomach and not unyielding metal, but his pants are still bound up somewhere around his ankles and this way makes sense, of course, but he wants.
Racer X can sense it, and Speed is grateful for their uncanny sense of each other, because the only words flowing from his mouth are, "Please, please, please!" and he doesn't know how to say what he wants but he doesn't have to. Racer X kisses up the ridge of Speed's spine as he slowly removes his fingers, caressing and gentle, and he doesn't ask out loud but he pauses meaningfully, arched over Speed's back, one hand braced on Speed's hip. Speed doesn't pull away when oh god Racer X's cock brushes against him, pushes into him with aching slowness, stretching him endlessly open and its all Speed can do to gasp, mouth open in a shocky little "o" at the burn and slide of it, pushing his hips up and into the thrust as his body clamors for more, more. Racer X's hands bracket his hips, hold him up and back so he can slide inside Speed, deeper and deeper each time until Speed can feel curls of coarse hair against his skin, X's balls against him with every stroke.
Speed wants to come so badly, wants to hold out so this never ends, doesn't know what he wants. Racer X's hands are going to leave bruises on his hips and he twitches at that, cries out because his cock is already so hard and aching and he can't take much more of this. Racer X's voice is quiet but harsh, all breath and growl and urging, "Speed, come on, Speed," like the pit coach's voice in his ear, then Racer X's hand is sliding over his belly, curling around him and pulling and Speed can't tell where either of them ends anymore. They are one and flying nearly out of control and Racer X thrusts inside him hard, once, twice, guiding Speed around the last curve until flashbulbs go off behind his eyes and he cries out, ragged and needy, and comes in spurts all over the Shooting Star while Racer X's cock pulses inside him.
-----
They can't stay there forever, but they stay long enough, afterward. Speed feels limp and used up, and though he's lying in a pool of his own come he can't bring himself to move. Racer X seems to know, seems to understand, and he turns them sideways so he can fit on the hood, spooned up behind Speed and still buried inside him. Speed rests his head on X's arm and silently demands that they remain that way for a little while, contented when Racer X's free arm curls around his ribs. The righteous burn of his anger has gone out, but the lingering sting of betrayal remains, and it's good to be held like this, without pity or well-meaning empathy.
"I should go." Speed says eventually, staring out across the track. Racer X's forehead is pressed against the back of his head, shifts as he maneuvers to press a kiss to the nape of Speed's neck.
"They'll be missing you." He agrees quietly, but Speed shakes his head a little.
"No. I mean, I should go." And he's relieved when Racer X's arm tightens around him, because it means Racer X knows, and that Speed won't have to answer questions he doesn't have answers for, like Where will you go? and What are you going to do?
"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" He asks instead, curiosity without judgment, and he doesn't press when Speed is silent for a long time.
"I think... I think I understand now. I think it's what I have to do." He doesn't bother to mask his sadness over it; he's lost two kinds of innocence on this night, and the sudden sweep of adulthood crashing over him makes him bitterly nostalgic for the days when he knew everything would be fine so long as he was wearing the right socks.
Racer X pulls out of him slowly--the burn of the separation is more painful than the initial penetration, in the way the universe has of being ironic and symbolic all at once--and Speed rolls to face him, not caring about the sticky mess they're making. Racer X's eyes are kind and deep and somehow unfathomably sad, and he wraps a hand behind Speed's neck and kisses him and says, "If you need somewhere to go," and Speed sucks softly on X's lower lip and says, "yeah," and "thank you," before they finally let go. He can tell that Racer X is waiting for him to leave first, that he will watch Speed go and then the mask will go back on, and this Racer X he has come to know, who is strangely quiet and kind and whose hands are gentle in soft places, will become a fierce and unknowable force on the track once again.
Speed fixes his belt and finds his t-shirt lying in a wrinkled heap in the middle of the track, pulls it on quickly enough that the cold fabric makes him shiver when it hits his skin. He can feel a little trickle of come sliding down the inside of his thigh, and spares a thought to hope that it's not showing through the denim, not going to instantly reveal to the entire Racer clan what he's been doing here tonight. Racer X is nearly dressed again, pulling on his leather jacket one sleeve at a time, and Speed takes the moment before his armor is fully back in place to lean in and kiss him again, to memorize the feeling of his fingers sliding through Racer X's hair, the strange intimacy of touching such an innocuous place that was somehow yet so private.
"I'll see you." Speed tells him, and he's not sure if he means on the track or like this or when, just tell me when.
"I guarantee it." Racer X says, that playful twinkle back in his eyes, and Speed realizes that he's not sure either, that this new future is unknowable and unforseeable. They'll have to make it up as they go along, but improvisation has always been one of the skills that's served Speed best on the track, and somehow this doesn't seem so different.
He watches the slim, dark shape of Racer X outlined in the Shooting Star's headlights in his mirror until the twists of Thunderhead put him out of sight, then turns the Mach 5 deliberately and with a sense of finality toward home, still wondering if it will be the last time he ever makes the trip.