A/N: This is my entry for the Slash/Backslash 4.0 contest. Address for the contest page can be found at the bottom. This story started brewing a couple years ago with Beate73 when we realized there was a severe lack of NASCAR fic (because we all NEED THAT AMIRITE?), and we both agreed that sometimes, it would be nice if Edward wasn't always the badass, ripped, super top he tends to be in most Twislash fics. She created the plot bunny and I hope I did it justice. Thanks to venis envy for her beta eye and allowing me to hold her down and force her to read this bit of crack. (luff you long time)

Disclaimer: All Twilight characters/references are property of Stephenie Meyer. Title and lyrics contained within the story belong to Cake. Mitsubishi belongs to Tokyo. Twinkies belong to Hostess. And Jasper. His milkshake brings all the twinks to the yard. The 'Stache belongs to Charlie Swan. NASCAR belongs to Brian Frances. That knowledge belongs to Google. Apple and various product references belong to Steve Jobs (or, I guess his successor, but whatever…). Femme Edward belongs in my bed (don't question my flawed logic). No facial or pubic hair was harmed in the creation of this fic. Threats don't count.

Warnings: Lighthearted fun-poking of femme boys from pit bosses because haters gonna hate. It's brought on by jealousy, surely. Everything I learned about NASCAR came from Pixar's Cars and Gaterade commercials. And Google when I was feeling ambitious (read: I have no idea what I'm doing). Story contains strong language, sexual references of a deliciously gay nature, and loads of crack.


"Because he's racing and pacing and plotting the course. He's fighting and biting and riding on his horse. He's going the distance!"

"Sweet Jesus, Jasper. Tell me you're not singing that freaking song by Cake," my pit boss grumbled in my ear.

"Shut it, old man. It's a good song," I snapped back.

"Whatever. Cullen's coming up on your left. Ye be warned."

"Not for long, he ain't," I muttered, quickly jerking my wheel to the left.

"Good job, Whitlock. Now you pissed him off."

"That's what he gets for riding my ass."

I heard the distinct sound of Chuck clearing his throat.

"Yes?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing. I'm going to leave that alone."

"Thank you kindly," I replied, continuing to hum my favorite song.

"You know, Whitlock, that song is just a bit disappointing. If you listen to the lyrics—"

"Chuck, I do believe I told you to shut it," I growled.

"Roger that."

With my mind just a bit distracted, verbally boxing with my pit boss, I almost didn't notice Cullen pulling up alongside me in his ridiculous Mitsubishi with the equally ridiculous Apple logo covering the car's exterior.

Really, Apple wasn't ridiculous. I was just a little resentful of the fact that Carlisle Cullen wouldn't have to pay for another iPhone for as long as he lived. Asshole.

"Check this out, fucker," I muttered. "You're driving an Eclipse, and you belong in my shadow."

Downshifting just enough to get that extra burst of speed, I shot out in front of that eagle-nosed blond, effectively cutting him off. I wouldn't be surprised if his grill was kissing my bumper.

"That's right. Kiss my ass, rookie!" I laughed.

"You're asking for trouble, Whitlock," Chuck warned.

"Nah, he should be used to it. S'all good."

Speaking of being used to things, I should have been used to the fucking heat in this rolling hot box, but the stifling, sticky wet scorch filling my vehicle's interior never failed to make me consider a career with a more comfortable work temperature. Something in Alaska, maybe. Would have to be something that allowed me groupies, though. I'm willing to sweat for some groupies.

Speaking of which...

"Fucking hell, Whitlock. I thought you said you were bringing a leash today. Your girlfriend's causing a bit of a ruckus."

I couldn't help but laugh. I could see nothing but the track in front of me, the curve of the asphalt, and the wall. I had no trouble, however, picturing what my pit boss was currently griping over.

A smile curved my lips as I thought about creamy white skin, gleaming with the shimmer shine of that special SPF 3000, allowing sweet, supple flesh to all but sparkle in the sunlight while maintaining a flawless, pale complexion. I pictured that itty bitty, hot pink tank top clinging to barely-there muscles, exposing a soft, youthful belly, complete with an outie navel.

A bulge began to form beneath my jumpsuit as I thought about those fucking tiny cutoff shorts, barely covering the juiciest bubble butt I'd ever had the pleasure of laying my hands on.

"Ah, fuck. She broke out the god damn pompoms, Jazz. For the love of Camaros, can I please send McCarty up there to stop this shit? You may not find this embarrassing, but the rest of us—"

"Chuck, do not make me stop this car, come over there, and rip off that fucking State Trooper, 70s porn star hick 'stache you have the nerve to call facial hair."

"You did not just knock the 'stache. The 'stache is boss. Chicks dig the 'stache, man."

"Bullshit. Chicks make fun of you behind your back and threaten to shave your upper lip in your sl... fuck shit! Cullen!"

Eclipse Golden Boy had knocked me loose, sending me careening toward the wall. I struggled to correct my course, fishtailing like mad, nearly pulling the muscles in my shoulders in my attempt to control the steering wheel.

Just then, I heard it. The blow. The thump, thump, thump of my ruined tire. The cussing in my ear from Chuck telling me to pit "right the fuck now". I might or might not have heard the shrill cry of my cheerleader, lamenting my blow-out on the track. And of course, the thrashing toddler fit of my sponsor, terrified that I wasn't going to bring home the cup.

I managed to make it to pit row, and I saw my crew chomping at the bit to jump in and make everything alright. Before the car completely stopped, yellow clad mechanics burst forth with tires rolling, and air guns at the ready to loosen and tighten my nuts.

I also managed to stifle a giggle at the thought of getting my nuts tightened.

I could not, however, stifle the moan at the thought of my cheerleader taking care of that particular problem.

"I know you've got this shit under control, but Lady Gaga's having herself a nervous breakdown in the stan—"

"Refer to Edward in a female manner one more God-damn time, Chuck, and I'll force feed you your pubic hair one curly gray strand at a time."

Sometimes I really hated needing a voice in my ear on the track.

Being an openly gay NASCAR driver was easier to deal with when you routinely racked up the most points every season and could line your garage walls with gleaming gold The Checkered Flag is my Bitch cups. I wasn't shunned. Folks did say the stupidest shit sometimes, though.

"I'm sorry, Whitlock, it's just—"

"Need I point out to you that your surname pays homage to a goose in drag? Now, either shut the fuck up, or eat my ass."

"Christ…"

"That's what I thought," I grumbled as I peeled out of pit row.

It was common for many people to lose themselves in thought while driving. Get in the car to drive to work, space out, and not even realize time had passed when the final destination suddenly appeared like magic. Most of the time, I was concentrating really fricken hard while driving 800 horses around the track at a buck ninety—though, without the fucking restrictor plate between my carburetor and intake manifold, the bitches behind me would be eating my dust to the tune of 225MPH, fuck you very much, NASCAR. At the present moment, despite my aggravation over a ruined tire and Chuck's haterade on my sweet piece in the stands, all I could think of was the mouth on said sweet piece. Cherry-flavored, shimmery lip gloss smeared all over my cock sounded like a really good way to celebrate Hostess' win tonight.

Yes, I was sponsored by Hostess. Yes, I was covered in the Twinkies logo. No, I would not apologize, and, yes, everyone could kiss my twink-lovin' ass.

"Daddy's getting a sloppy victory blow job tonight!"

Chuck groaned. "Whitlock, you do realize you said that out loud, right?"

"Don't currr," I muttered.

"Whatever, man. You won't be getting shit if you don't make up the lead you had before pissing off Golden Boy and blowing a tire. Ten laps to go and—"

"The cup is mine, Chuck. Don't worry your pretty little 'stache over it."

"See? I knew you liked it. The stash is boss."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Geraldo Rivera."

"You cut me real deep just now."

"Your razor didn't cut deep enough this morning. You should work on that."

I might have heard a sniffle. Or maybe it was static.

Oh, look! Time to make Cullen cry!

If I wasn't straining to keep the wheel steady around the turn, I would have waved to the iPod on Wheels as I blew right by. I could probably give Cullen a belated wave from victory lane while slinging champagne around and making out with Edward for the cameras. That sounded like a fine plan, actually.

Then later, with Edward back in the hotel room… Christ wearing a cock ring, that sweet thing was more satisfying than any trophy NASCAR could give me. Until Edward, my type had been lean-muscled gym bunnies. Solid and rock-hard everywhere. Edward was stuck in perpetual puberty with soft, supple skin, and just enough muscle to keep him up on all fours while I rabbit-fucked his bubble-butt until he covered whatever I bent him over in a white mess of pretty boy bliss.

He liked to call our fucking Twinkception.

"You know, a twink within a twink?" he'd noted with a giggle.

"I'm hardly a twink, Edward," I'd growled with a slap to his plump ass.

"Tell that to the big cream-filled cake on your yellow jumpsuit."

And then I'd shut him up with my dick. Problem solved.

I really needed to not drive with a hard-on.

"Four turns left, big guy! Bring her on home!" Chuck crowed in my ear.

"I'm bringing it, bitch!" I yelled, taking the first turn.

Checking the rearview mirror, I saw Blondie right where he belonged: a good two seconds behind me. Glancing across the track, I caught a glimpse of the stands. Two fluffy fuschia things appeared to bounce in place around one section in particular.

Chuck wasn't kidding. Edward did bring pompoms.

"I see you, baby! Daddy's coming!" I crowed.

Of course, later, he'd know that without me having to tell him.

Another peek in my rearview showed that Cullen was attempt at cutting me off from the outside.

"Shit fuck!"

My pedal couldn't go any farther down to the floorboard, and I really disliked the God damn restrictor plate holding me back from that extra boost I'd surely get over the Japanese iCar.

"Brake! Hit the brake, dammit!" Chuck yelled in my ear.

"What? Why would I—"

"I said brake!"

So I did, successfully causing Cullen to swerve and fishtail in my rearview. That was a real fucking gamble on Chuck's part, but bless Cullen's rookie ass and his endearing ability to overcorrect. Poor bastard, never stood a chance.

My overall lead was cut by close to three seconds, but that checkered flag was mine for the taking as I floored the accelerator again, shooting across the finish line.

"Whooo!" I cried, just as a "fuck yeah!" came through my headset from Chuck.

One victory lap, complete with flag waving was just long enough time for my favorite cheerleader to make his way through the crowds and the cameras. Even over shouts, shutters, cheers, and paparazzi shouting out questions, I heard the excited slap, slap, slap of Edward's flip-flops as he squealed my name and barreled through the unfortunate souls that dared to stand between us.

Just before I managed to uncork the champagne bottle, Edward flung his slight frame at me, wrapping sinewy limbs around my body like a sparkly, giggly, pretty little spider monkey. I barely managed to avoid shooting him in the eye with the golden frothy liquid as the crowd erupted in a mixture of excited cheers and aggravated groans at Edward's unabashed excitement.

"Congratulations, Jazz!" Edward cooed, planting a deliciously violating, filthy kiss on my mouth. His little kitten sounds were drowned out by the near deafening sound of the crowd around us.

"Mr. Whitlock! How will you celebrate tonight's win?"

For such a tiny little thing, this spiky-haired reporter in front of me made sure I heard her over everyone else.

"Oh, I promised Edward a bright shiny ring if I won tonight," I answered with a smirk when I managed to reluctantly pry my mouth from Edward's.

The collective "awwww!" was humorous. The crowd's expression after my next statement was priceless.

"Oh, that ring ain't going on a finger…"

"Um…" the little reporter replied, clearly at a loss for words.

"No, we're getting his little belly button pierced. A pretty little stainless-steel ring."

Edward finally hopped down and unashamedly tugged up the hem of his tank top, a whole inch since his navel was hardly covered to begin with. The reporter was completely unimpressed with the display, but fuck her and her fake perky tits anyway.

After press time and the appropriate amount of schmoozing with my fans, signing autographs, and talking shop with my sponsors and reassuring Chuck of his manhood, telling him I was pretty sure Pixie McHooters was a total 'stache rider, I grabbed my Edward and made a break to change and then race to the hotel.

"So, Mr. Champion, whadya say I help you relax on the way over? Drop the top on the Mustang and give the interstate a show?"

I was trying to buckle myself in as Edward asked me this question, all the while he was working opening my pants and mouthing his way around my neck under my ear.

Growling in my frustration, I told him, "That sounds fantastic. How 'bout you suck me off while I finger fuck you 'till you're a dribbling, crying mess all over my leather seats?"

Daisy Dukes flew into the backseat and my dick was wholly swallowed before my words were completely out of my mouth.

Have I mentioned how much I love Twinkies?


A/N: All fic and art entries for the Slash/Backslash 4.0 contest can be found at the slashbackslash livejournal page that FFnet won't let me link to. (If any reader has a work around for that, please to be sharing!) Thanks for reading!