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Once upon a time there was a little stig named Stig. He was a good stig, and drove very quickly and with much bravery. One day, his mother said to him, "Stig, I need you to take this basket of engine cylinders to your grandmother." Stig nodded, took the basket, put on his white helmet, and set out.
Stig was zooming through the woods on his way to his grandma's house when suddenly, the Alfa he was driving (unsurprisingly) packed up. If he was willing (or able) to talk, surely he would have said, "Oh bugger."
Stig was bent over the bonnet of his car, poking around in his engine, when someone cleared their throat behind him. He looked up, and saw a very short man.
"Hullo," the man said. "Having trouble?"
Stig shrugged, and pointed at the cloud of steam coming from the engine.
"Ah ha, yes," the man said, running his fingers though his (clearly styled) hair. "I'm Richard, by the way. Although some people call me the Big Bad Hamster." He looked very proud of this fact, though Stig could have told him that a) it wasn't a very scary nickname, and b) he didn't look very big and/or bad.
In any case, they shook hands and Richard helped him with the engine. Essentially, it needed a chance to cool down since Stig, while being a very brave driver, was not the type of driver to plan ahead, or worry about such mundane things as "oil pressure" or "engine temperature."
They were leaning against the side of the car when Richard spotted the basket. "Are those engine cylinders?" he asked.
Stig nodded.
“That one wouldn't happen to be for a 1963 Opel Kadett, would it?" Richard asked excitedly, reaching for it. Stig slapped his hand away, and gestured at the woods. "Oh," Richard said, tucking his hand into his armpit and wincing. "You're bringing them to someone?" At Stig's nod, he frowned. "I could really use that cylinder..." he said, narrowing his eyes. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be going to Grandma Stig's house? The grey one, with the shawl and knitting needles?"
Stig nodded.
"Ah, well," Richard said. "You don't need me anymore, I think I'll just... head out. If it looks like I'm headed into the woods, you're wrong."
He pushed off the car and hurried into the woods, and Stig felt a slight pang of disappointment, which tasted rather like diesel exhaust, at his sudden departure. It wasn't often Stig felt a connection with anything other than cars, and he was upset to see a new friend rush off like that.
Though, Stig thought consideringly as Richard vanished into the woods, he did have a rather nice bum.
Stig sighed and dropped the bonnet shut. Climbing into the Alfa, he revved the engine until it was screaming before peeling out in a cloud of tyre smoke. Eventually (and in much less time than it should have taken, had Stig ever followed anything remotely resembling a speed limit), Stig made it to Grandma Stig's house.
He hopped out of the car with the basket of cylinders over his arm, and pushed open the door to Grandma Stig's cottage. The house was silent as Stig strode into her bedroom.
Propped up against the pillows with her shawl around her shoulders was Grandma Stig.
Stig dropped the basket on the bed beside her and turned to leave when he heard a slight cough. Concerned, he turned back and cocked his head questioningly.
Grandma Stig coughed again, this time a little louder, and Stig reached over and flicked her visor up (an incredibly rude act that he would never have done had he not been so worried). Richard's face was revealed, gasping for breath.
"Christ," he coughed, clawing at the chin strap, "how do you even breathe in these things?" He pulled the helmet off, and lay panting on the bed.
Stig pointed at Richard's hair, now horribly sweaty and askew.
"Yes," Richard said, "What big hair I have, I know. I'm having a midlife crisis."
Stig pointed at his eyes.
"Yes, I have big eyes, too."
Stig pointed at his teeth.
"I have NOT had my teeth whitened," Richard said crossly.
Stig shrugged, unconvinced. There was an awkward pause that seemed to Stig to be full of lies.
"Your granny's out in the garden, by the way," Richard said finally.
Stig stared pointedly at Richard before reaching for the '63 Kadett cylinder. Richard watched him with resignation.
"That was for Oliver," he said quietly, looking sad. "It's just, I'm trying to fix him up and I've been looking everywhere for one of those..."
Stig set the cylinder on the bedside table as Richard talked, before unzipping his jumper.
"—and... eh?" Richard said, trailing off, watching Stig toe off his boots.
Stig pulled his gloves off, flexing his long pale fingers against the sudden chill.
"Stig," Richard said slowly, "what are you doing?"
Stig reached for Richard's shawl and pulled it off his shoulders with infinite care, giving him time to bolt. Richard stayed where he was, eyes on Stig's visor.
"Is this- is this a punishment?" Richard asked quietly.
Stig snatched his hands away from the zip on Richard's fire suit, shaking his head vehemently.
Richard grinned. “Well, that’s good,” he said, and wriggled out of his suit.
Stig leapt forward and onto Richard, humming happily.
“Easy,” Richard said, laughing, and pushed Stig’s white suit off his shoulders.
Stig sat docile under Richard’s hands until both suits were crumpled on the floor, and then he started to touch. As a driver, Stig was fearless, ever pushing harder and faster, taking turns tighter and braking later. Here, with Richard under his hands, Stig began to falter.
Should he be firm? Gentle? Should he stroke or should he knead? It was all very confusing, and there were many more variables involved than he was used to (he was a smart stig, but too many choices tended to overwhelm him).
Richard was smiling up at him though, and he wet his lips as he looked Stig over. “You’re lovely,” he said, and reached for Stig’s helmet. Stig reared back, hands curled protectively around the sides. “Sorry,” Richard soothed, smoothing his hands along Stig’s thighs. “I just want to see you. We don’t have to, if you don’t want.”
Stig shook his head, and sought to take the sting out of it by leaning down to trace careful patterns into the skin of Richard’s chest. Silverstone’s Becketts sequence jinked over his abdomen, which tensed lightly at the contact. Parabolica took a tight turn over Richard’s nipple, and at his hissed intake of breath Stig traced the entirety of Dunsfold across his pectorals. He took the downward plunge of Mergulho and took Richard’s cock in hand, feeling him shudder beneath him.
“Stig,” Richard moaned, and Stig twitched in response as Richard grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him down. Stig was desperately hard, and Richard’s hands were bruising him, and he couldn’t get close enough. The helmet was in the way, and he pulled one hand from Richard to fumble at it, suddenly frantic to get it off.
Richard’s fingers on his wrist still him. “Let me,” he said, and Stig’s breathing went a little funny and then the damn thing was off.
Stig blinked in the afternoon light, so bright after the visor, and Richard sucked in a breath below him. “Well,” he said. “That was rather unexpected.” Stig stretched his lips into a smile and let Richard pull him down.
This is all so new, Stig thought, his face tender where it rubbed against Richard’s. Richard growled into his mouth and held him like he was afraid Stig was going to jump in a car and drive off, like Stig even could, at this point. Stig nipped at Richard’s lip, hard, and ground down hard enough to feel Richard’s hipbones dig into his.
Richard pulled back, just for a second, and Stig chased after his lips with a desperation that surprised even him. Richard kissed him again, teeth sharp on Stig’s lips, and Stig whined like a Fiat 500 at eight thousand revs.
Stig, still so desperate, wrapped his fingers around both of their cocks and stroked. Richard spasmed, choked, pressed a sloppy open-mouthed kiss onto Stig’s neck. He was panting for it already, his blush trailing down his neck. His fingers trembled where they dug into Stig’s back; Stig smiled and swallowed a moan and tightened his grip all at once.
"I- I should," Richard said, and he stuttered it; Stig couldn’t help the way he ground down at that, or the way he soothed his hand down Richard’s cock. "Should- wait-I want to—"
Stig smiled, and shook his head.
"Well," Richard choked out, and came hard into Stig’s hand, his whole body jerking.
Stig gasped, so hard he couldn’t bear it, and Richard’s come was dripping down his wrist and he couldn’t help it, he was gone, he was coming, and Richard was there to catch him.
They lay there, panting like overheated Alfas (‘A-ha,’ Stig thought, ‘full circle.’). After a moment, Stig reached a shaky hand over the edge of the bed for his helmet. He fumbled it, nearly lost it over the side of the bed, but Richard grabbed it out of his hands.
Stig traced the outline of Richard’s collarbone with one finger, reverent, as Richard put the helmet on him and snugged up the chinstrap.
Stig pointed to the ’63 cylinder and made a gesture understood universally as ‘Shall we go and fix your car, which you have inexplicably named Oliver?’
Richard groaned and buried his head in the pillow. “Give a bloke a little time to recoup,” he said.
Under the helmet, Stig grinned, and flopped back down beside him. There was time enough, he reasoned. Later.