Is it laziness or inspiration?
Either way, I'm on a roll.
Title: A Certain Misconception
Fandom: Speed Racer
Pairing: Inspector/X, with elements of dub-con.
Rating: NC-17.
Length: 2,121 words.
Status: Potentially complete, but I'm sort of interested in writing an X PoV verson.
Notes: Very fucked up, with potential dub-con and a strangely fluffy ending. From the Inspector Detector's PoV. It won't make any sense otherwise. Is a contrast to Genesis, in which Rex was the 'new guy', whereas here it's (to a certain extent) the Inspector - he's not new to the CIB (which would clash with him investigating Rex's crash and I do like to uphold canon as far as possible) but new to a partnership (lol) with X.
Everything has to have a beginning.
He’s hot and new and fresh. He’s far from inexperienced; closer to overwhelmed, overcome.
He lets his guard down, and he wakes breathlessly naked to a stranger’s bed.
He peels open his eyes, fighting for a vague semblance of control, taking in empty lungfuls of air. He pushes up but can’t move; he writhes but stays still. His eyes focus clammily on an unfamiliar ceiling.
Okay. A steady breath, unfulfilling, making him dizzier. He desperately tries to concentrate. Protocol. Mental sweep. He pokes out with a numbed brain, searching for a throb of pain, but the result scares him more than his expectation; I can’t feel anything. A hot, blind tendril of panic curls around his abdomen and he feels his heart flutter wildly, not helping the rush of blood in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard stars explode across his vision, and nausea erupts nastily in the back of his throat. He feels hot and itchy and icy-numb, but he can’t sleep, can’t be oblivious - the possibility of sleep rests in the back of his eyes, a mocking cathedral with the doors slammed shut.
He drags through the moments of agonising torture - with no real sense of time - until the sensations abate, leaving him suspended in his cloyed state. Movement does not appear to be an option; he settles for thinking, which, so far, doesn’t seem to initiate any displeasure in his over-sensitised body. He relaxes his eyes, keeping them shut, and attempts to concentrate. I can’t remember anything, he realises. How did I get where I am?
This didn’t look promising at all.
I don’t know where I am, what time it is - hell, what day it is - how I got here, who brought me - he shudders. Or what they want.
He decides fervently to keep his eyes closed; not only will it then appear he is still asleep (and perhaps dissuade any approaching captor), his previous attempt to open his eyes had resulted in little more than a total collapse. Figure it out, he thinks. What would you be doing this for? The answer prickles hot and heavy in the back of his mind, and it terrifies him. He pushes it away, tries to focus on something else. They must have drugged me, he decides; nothing else could make his body abandon him so violently. Something tasteless, in my food? The canteen, back at headqu-
The mission!
He’d not even been in headquarters - he’d been out, a field assignment, he’d been partnered for the first time with -
Oh god.
Oh, no.
Who was the only person with access to his meals?
Who was the only person with access to that kind of drug?
Who had he spent the day innocently flirting with?
They said he was fucked up, he thinks, terrified, but kidnapping?
Rape?
Surely not.
He groans. I really shouldn’t have started flirting with him.
Okay. Okay. Now he knows he needs to get out. If half the rumours about this guy are true, he is royally fucked.
In every sense of the word.
Jesus, I’m such an idiot.
“I take it you’ve established it’s impossible to move.” He tries to tense but the movement brings a dizzying rush, and he hisses slightly at the swirl. It’s abating, slightly - he can breathe now at least - but he’s still virtually helpless. He moves open his eyes and identifies the person he knew was there all along.
“X - ” Well. He tries. It rasps and chokes and dies in his throat.
X drops a file on a sidetable beside him. “It makes for interesting reading,” he comments, and he tries desperately to focus on the name of the file but his eyes keep slipping out of focus and blearily spreading into nothing. “All two hundred words of it.” X actually straddles him, tilting his head to look down at him curiously, ohfuck, ohfuck, “how can a company as mighty as the CIB not even know your first name?”
It’s my personnel file, he realises, closing his eyes to deal with the onslaught. Well, yeah. He won’t find anything in there.
X sighs and moves off him, drifting to stand by the windowframe, tracing fingers along the sill. He’s beautiful in the moonlight, he realises. It dances and facets across his skin, a splash of white to illustrate insanity underneath. Moonlight. How long have I been kept here? He looks longingly at the water next to him, but his hand won’t even attempt to move. He attempts to speak again; the single letter rasps itself out from between twisted lips and X turns to attention, face half-draped in shadow. Water, he thinks desperately, but X can’t read his mind and comes to sit beside him on the bed, moving his fingers in patterns across the fabric.
“There’s so much I want to know,” he murmurs thoughtfully, twisting the cover around one finger. “But there’s time.” X leans in closer and he freaks, tensing and convulsing in a way that makes his head go crazy; he misses X’s recoil - a smacked cat skulking away - through the fog of drug-induced messiness, but when he comes to X is stood by the window again, and he doubts whether it has ever happened.
There’s something creeping back with the ability of physical function; something more prominent, much more dangerous, curling and clamping in a much similar way but with much more awful consequences.
Pleasure.
Oh, god, he thinks desperately, eyeing up X by the window. What have you done?
X turns to face him, the knowledge curling in his eyes as he recognises the reason for the increase in breath, the shift in position, the desperate shuffle. “So, Detector.” X spits the name like a lie. “Are you ready to give me some answers?”
“What - ?” he manages, sinking back on a gasp, room still spinning dangerously.
X leans in very close to whisper in his ear. “Aphrodisiac,” X breathes, and he shudders convulsively beneath him, a familiar tingling beginning to envelop the soles of his feet. “I figured I could charm it out of you, Detector.” He whines as X’s suddenly somewhat attractive kisses begin along his collarbone, twining and curling along his throat to reach a bite on his chin. “Your name,” he whispers. “It’s all I’m after. Your name.”
No, he thinks vehemently, and surrenders to fingers plucking at the sheets, slipping down to caress his stomach gently.
X has lost his violent leather attire to a shirt, some trousers; he rectifies this mistake immediately, forcing and fumbling till they are in the same naked state. His fingers curl and lock around X’s forearm and pull him bodily on top of him and then for the first time they truly kiss.
It’s not what he’s always liked to label a kiss; that would infer some sense of romanticism, some sense of affection, not violent, angry pride, not a collision simply infused with lust. Yes, it’s hot, sofuckinghot, I’m hard already, but it’s not a kiss. He doesn’t do fucks for the sake of fucks.
X does.
He can tell.
For a second, he fights it. For a second, he’s not surrendering to some drug raping his system and fucking with his nerves. For a second, he’s frightened, naked, pinned, about to be fucked but -
- for that second -
- he realises -
- X is frightened too.
Then he surrenders and it hardly matters anymore.
X’s hand has moved lower in his panic, pressing gentle patterns up against his thigh, too close but not too close; he’s whining and pressing and begging to be closer. He fervently wants to be fucked but desperately doesn’t; caught in a paradox, damned if I do, damned if I don’t. He watches, instead, X’s hand clutching sporadically on the sheets beside him and damn it’s hot, goddamn, but everything’s hot at the moment, everything’s a dizzying unrelenting spiral of sex. He’s garbling, he can tell; he knows he’s not begging because he does have something left but he’s moaning and whining, grinding into the palm of X’s hand (freshly surrendered) and he’s close already but can’t, not yet, because he knows what’s to come and oh god -
- it’s arrived -
Announced by X’s fingers stroking the small of his back, caught between the sheets and his writhing body, and this is where he freaks, normally, this is where he freezes and cries out in terror but nonono, today it’s all ricocheting through his body with yesgodpleaseyes which is alien - his body’s alien - but not unwanted. Sometimes, sometimes he should let go. X’s left hand curls around him as his right hand flickers just below his spine and he garbles, hot and loud, long and moaning. Maybe, maybe I’ll surrender.
Just this once.
Just this -
X breaches him then, just his forefinger’s knuckle but he arches and screams, pushes up as desperately as he can as his fingers scrabble on X’s back, already craving more. He remembers some semblance of sanity and X doesn’t even have to move his hand; he pushes down himself, allows himself to be fucked slowly as he inches it in, settles back against it, tosses his head back and moans at just a finger - just one finger - and their breathing is intertwined, caught in a helpless never-ending spiral, always just one breath behind what they need, gawping desperately at the air like drowned fish, craving some semblance of sanity. X adds the second; he himself is too caught up in a realm of delirium to invoke it but he enjoys it nonetheless, moaning happily and grinding against it. There’s nothing more but a long garble of moans until the third splays out from the first two, spreading like a spider clawing inside and then X finds it and he screams, sobbing, arcing again off the bed to press desperately above him but harder onto thererightthere.
X is shaking, trembling, and they catch eyes for a nanosecond and think yes, ready yes, ready yes yes yes NOW so X shifts on the bed, pushing him harder up against the headboard, splaying his legs. He’s desperate at the emptiness but terrified of the future prospect, staring at X’s face with yespleaseyes and nopleaseno twisted in a painful fix, and he sort of thinks X whispers “sorry” as he presses inside.
He’s trapped in a chasm of fire, licking and rubbing, pain twining up his spine to hammer relentlessly at the base of his skull but X has stopped, is waiting, trapped and trembling above him with his eyes clamped shut. He shifts his hips slightly and X moans quietly, a little gasp, and he watches X’s hand convulse in the sheets, wrenching them. He’s testing his control, he realises. Or is it because he really ca-
He blacks this out, grinding down hard and sliding the final inch in neither of them really knew was there but they cry out softly together at its presence, pushing nails into virginal skin, ripping in places, the sharp shock wonderful against white soft sheets. X’s eyes flutter open slowly, coming to meet his own, locking steadily and they anti-gasp - it’s a noise of silence with as much wrenching meaning as a moan, a lock of deadened noise where they’re trapped in incredible pleasure. Then he really does gasp, his breath hitching as X shifts his hips away from him and then towards in a sudden slam, curling his spine and cooing gently, fingers scraping at his shoulders bluntly. X moves again, rinse and repeat, and then they were always fucking, they always would be fucking, it’s like a stretch of eternity, an insurmountable tunnel of grinding and thickness and gooey, permeating pleasure that whips around the both of them as they fuck forwards and backwards and into each other, gasping desperately. They writhe around until X is the one pressed into the bars and he’s above, and he knows he has a little more to go so he spreads his legs and, locking his eyes with X’s, sinks down and moans.
X isn’t breathing.
He isn’t either.
He reads X’s eyes.
Tell me your name, they plead, I want to scream it when I - He closes his own and thinks of nothing and rides the man beneath him till he comes, shrieking out nothing, and X follows suit with a sobbing cry.
A smattering of sunlight makes litanies across stained sheets.
He opens his eyes.
X is sat in a chair by the window, watching him, terrified, and he knows it’s from fear that he’ll leave.
He doesn’t move.
They lock eyes.
“Come back to bed,” he says softly, stretching out a hand, and X does.
Everything has to have a beginning.
“Narcolite Benzamine. A highly effective and debilitating drug. Stays in the system for hours, but leaves with no trace.”
Title: A Certain Misconception
Fandom: Speed Racer
Pairing: Inspector/X, with elements of dub-con.
Rating: NC-17.
Length: 2,121 words.
Status: Potentially complete, but I'm sort of interested in writing an X PoV verson.
Notes: Very fucked up, with potential dub-con and a strangely fluffy ending. From the Inspector Detector's PoV. It won't make any sense otherwise. Is a contrast to Genesis, in which Rex was the 'new guy', whereas here it's (to a certain extent) the Inspector - he's not new to the CIB (which would clash with him investigating Rex's crash and I do like to uphold canon as far as possible) but new to a partnership (lol) with X.
Everything has to have a beginning.
He’s hot and new and fresh. He’s far from inexperienced; closer to overwhelmed, overcome.
He lets his guard down, and he wakes breathlessly naked to a stranger’s bed.
He peels open his eyes, fighting for a vague semblance of control, taking in empty lungfuls of air. He pushes up but can’t move; he writhes but stays still. His eyes focus clammily on an unfamiliar ceiling.
Okay. A steady breath, unfulfilling, making him dizzier. He desperately tries to concentrate. Protocol. Mental sweep. He pokes out with a numbed brain, searching for a throb of pain, but the result scares him more than his expectation; I can’t feel anything. A hot, blind tendril of panic curls around his abdomen and he feels his heart flutter wildly, not helping the rush of blood in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard stars explode across his vision, and nausea erupts nastily in the back of his throat. He feels hot and itchy and icy-numb, but he can’t sleep, can’t be oblivious - the possibility of sleep rests in the back of his eyes, a mocking cathedral with the doors slammed shut.
He drags through the moments of agonising torture - with no real sense of time - until the sensations abate, leaving him suspended in his cloyed state. Movement does not appear to be an option; he settles for thinking, which, so far, doesn’t seem to initiate any displeasure in his over-sensitised body. He relaxes his eyes, keeping them shut, and attempts to concentrate. I can’t remember anything, he realises. How did I get where I am?
This didn’t look promising at all.
I don’t know where I am, what time it is - hell, what day it is - how I got here, who brought me - he shudders. Or what they want.
He decides fervently to keep his eyes closed; not only will it then appear he is still asleep (and perhaps dissuade any approaching captor), his previous attempt to open his eyes had resulted in little more than a total collapse. Figure it out, he thinks. What would you be doing this for? The answer prickles hot and heavy in the back of his mind, and it terrifies him. He pushes it away, tries to focus on something else. They must have drugged me, he decides; nothing else could make his body abandon him so violently. Something tasteless, in my food? The canteen, back at headqu-
The mission!
He’d not even been in headquarters - he’d been out, a field assignment, he’d been partnered for the first time with -
Oh god.
Oh, no.
Who was the only person with access to his meals?
Who was the only person with access to that kind of drug?
Who had he spent the day innocently flirting with?
They said he was fucked up, he thinks, terrified, but kidnapping?
Rape?
Surely not.
He groans. I really shouldn’t have started flirting with him.
Okay. Okay. Now he knows he needs to get out. If half the rumours about this guy are true, he is royally fucked.
In every sense of the word.
Jesus, I’m such an idiot.
“I take it you’ve established it’s impossible to move.” He tries to tense but the movement brings a dizzying rush, and he hisses slightly at the swirl. It’s abating, slightly - he can breathe now at least - but he’s still virtually helpless. He moves open his eyes and identifies the person he knew was there all along.
“X - ” Well. He tries. It rasps and chokes and dies in his throat.
X drops a file on a sidetable beside him. “It makes for interesting reading,” he comments, and he tries desperately to focus on the name of the file but his eyes keep slipping out of focus and blearily spreading into nothing. “All two hundred words of it.” X actually straddles him, tilting his head to look down at him curiously, ohfuck, ohfuck, “how can a company as mighty as the CIB not even know your first name?”
It’s my personnel file, he realises, closing his eyes to deal with the onslaught. Well, yeah. He won’t find anything in there.
X sighs and moves off him, drifting to stand by the windowframe, tracing fingers along the sill. He’s beautiful in the moonlight, he realises. It dances and facets across his skin, a splash of white to illustrate insanity underneath. Moonlight. How long have I been kept here? He looks longingly at the water next to him, but his hand won’t even attempt to move. He attempts to speak again; the single letter rasps itself out from between twisted lips and X turns to attention, face half-draped in shadow. Water, he thinks desperately, but X can’t read his mind and comes to sit beside him on the bed, moving his fingers in patterns across the fabric.
“There’s so much I want to know,” he murmurs thoughtfully, twisting the cover around one finger. “But there’s time.” X leans in closer and he freaks, tensing and convulsing in a way that makes his head go crazy; he misses X’s recoil - a smacked cat skulking away - through the fog of drug-induced messiness, but when he comes to X is stood by the window again, and he doubts whether it has ever happened.
There’s something creeping back with the ability of physical function; something more prominent, much more dangerous, curling and clamping in a much similar way but with much more awful consequences.
Pleasure.
Oh, god, he thinks desperately, eyeing up X by the window. What have you done?
X turns to face him, the knowledge curling in his eyes as he recognises the reason for the increase in breath, the shift in position, the desperate shuffle. “So, Detector.” X spits the name like a lie. “Are you ready to give me some answers?”
“What - ?” he manages, sinking back on a gasp, room still spinning dangerously.
X leans in very close to whisper in his ear. “Aphrodisiac,” X breathes, and he shudders convulsively beneath him, a familiar tingling beginning to envelop the soles of his feet. “I figured I could charm it out of you, Detector.” He whines as X’s suddenly somewhat attractive kisses begin along his collarbone, twining and curling along his throat to reach a bite on his chin. “Your name,” he whispers. “It’s all I’m after. Your name.”
No, he thinks vehemently, and surrenders to fingers plucking at the sheets, slipping down to caress his stomach gently.
X has lost his violent leather attire to a shirt, some trousers; he rectifies this mistake immediately, forcing and fumbling till they are in the same naked state. His fingers curl and lock around X’s forearm and pull him bodily on top of him and then for the first time they truly kiss.
It’s not what he’s always liked to label a kiss; that would infer some sense of romanticism, some sense of affection, not violent, angry pride, not a collision simply infused with lust. Yes, it’s hot, sofuckinghot, I’m hard already, but it’s not a kiss. He doesn’t do fucks for the sake of fucks.
X does.
He can tell.
For a second, he fights it. For a second, he’s not surrendering to some drug raping his system and fucking with his nerves. For a second, he’s frightened, naked, pinned, about to be fucked but -
- for that second -
- he realises -
- X is frightened too.
Then he surrenders and it hardly matters anymore.
X’s hand has moved lower in his panic, pressing gentle patterns up against his thigh, too close but not too close; he’s whining and pressing and begging to be closer. He fervently wants to be fucked but desperately doesn’t; caught in a paradox, damned if I do, damned if I don’t. He watches, instead, X’s hand clutching sporadically on the sheets beside him and damn it’s hot, goddamn, but everything’s hot at the moment, everything’s a dizzying unrelenting spiral of sex. He’s garbling, he can tell; he knows he’s not begging because he does have something left but he’s moaning and whining, grinding into the palm of X’s hand (freshly surrendered) and he’s close already but can’t, not yet, because he knows what’s to come and oh god -
- it’s arrived -
Announced by X’s fingers stroking the small of his back, caught between the sheets and his writhing body, and this is where he freaks, normally, this is where he freezes and cries out in terror but nonono, today it’s all ricocheting through his body with yesgodpleaseyes which is alien - his body’s alien - but not unwanted. Sometimes, sometimes he should let go. X’s left hand curls around him as his right hand flickers just below his spine and he garbles, hot and loud, long and moaning. Maybe, maybe I’ll surrender.
Just this once.
Just this -
X breaches him then, just his forefinger’s knuckle but he arches and screams, pushes up as desperately as he can as his fingers scrabble on X’s back, already craving more. He remembers some semblance of sanity and X doesn’t even have to move his hand; he pushes down himself, allows himself to be fucked slowly as he inches it in, settles back against it, tosses his head back and moans at just a finger - just one finger - and their breathing is intertwined, caught in a helpless never-ending spiral, always just one breath behind what they need, gawping desperately at the air like drowned fish, craving some semblance of sanity. X adds the second; he himself is too caught up in a realm of delirium to invoke it but he enjoys it nonetheless, moaning happily and grinding against it. There’s nothing more but a long garble of moans until the third splays out from the first two, spreading like a spider clawing inside and then X finds it and he screams, sobbing, arcing again off the bed to press desperately above him but harder onto thererightthere.
X is shaking, trembling, and they catch eyes for a nanosecond and think yes, ready yes, ready yes yes yes NOW so X shifts on the bed, pushing him harder up against the headboard, splaying his legs. He’s desperate at the emptiness but terrified of the future prospect, staring at X’s face with yespleaseyes and nopleaseno twisted in a painful fix, and he sort of thinks X whispers “sorry” as he presses inside.
He’s trapped in a chasm of fire, licking and rubbing, pain twining up his spine to hammer relentlessly at the base of his skull but X has stopped, is waiting, trapped and trembling above him with his eyes clamped shut. He shifts his hips slightly and X moans quietly, a little gasp, and he watches X’s hand convulse in the sheets, wrenching them. He’s testing his control, he realises. Or is it because he really ca-
He blacks this out, grinding down hard and sliding the final inch in neither of them really knew was there but they cry out softly together at its presence, pushing nails into virginal skin, ripping in places, the sharp shock wonderful against white soft sheets. X’s eyes flutter open slowly, coming to meet his own, locking steadily and they anti-gasp - it’s a noise of silence with as much wrenching meaning as a moan, a lock of deadened noise where they’re trapped in incredible pleasure. Then he really does gasp, his breath hitching as X shifts his hips away from him and then towards in a sudden slam, curling his spine and cooing gently, fingers scraping at his shoulders bluntly. X moves again, rinse and repeat, and then they were always fucking, they always would be fucking, it’s like a stretch of eternity, an insurmountable tunnel of grinding and thickness and gooey, permeating pleasure that whips around the both of them as they fuck forwards and backwards and into each other, gasping desperately. They writhe around until X is the one pressed into the bars and he’s above, and he knows he has a little more to go so he spreads his legs and, locking his eyes with X’s, sinks down and moans.
X isn’t breathing.
He isn’t either.
He reads X’s eyes.
Tell me your name, they plead, I want to scream it when I - He closes his own and thinks of nothing and rides the man beneath him till he comes, shrieking out nothing, and X follows suit with a sobbing cry.
A smattering of sunlight makes litanies across stained sheets.
He opens his eyes.
X is sat in a chair by the window, watching him, terrified, and he knows it’s from fear that he’ll leave.
He doesn’t move.
They lock eyes.
“Come back to bed,” he says softly, stretching out a hand, and X does.
Everything has to have a beginning.
“Narcolite Benzamine. A highly effective and debilitating drug. Stays in the system for hours, but leaves with no trace.”