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The first thing everyone told Driver, after hours of writhing behind the wheel into some bumfuck nowhere of a town, was that he apparently looked a lot like a man named Lars.
It came first from the bleary-eyed doctor — firm, once he got over the shock of a full 6-foot man bleeding out across his clinic at two in the morning. Through the haze of blood loss, it was hard to tell if the doctor — Dr. Wilson, the letters already blurring on his nametag — was serious, or just saying something to fill the space.
Either way, it didn’t matter. A doctor in a small town (we’re still in California, sweetie, the panicked woman told him earlier, as a pair of stronger hands pulled him out of his car and into the backseat of another, her voice firing into a phone) wouldn’t possibly have ties with a mafia family Nino stole from. He filed it into things he didn’t need much looking into.
“You look like Lars,” parroted the same lady, who was waiting outside of the room for him with her husband dozing off on one of the plastic chairs.
At whatever look on Driver’s face, her eyes widened before she huffed out a breath, holding out her hand sheepishly. Small, womanly hand. The last time he held such a small thing, it was clammy and shivering in his grip, and everything smelled like ozone and perfume and iron.
“He’s my brother-in-law — my husband’s baby brother. Lars.” She let out a small, nervous laugh.
“You… actually look a bit like him. Isn’t that strange? Not in a bad way,” she added quickly. “You’re — well, you’re very handsome. I’ve just never seen the resemblance to him quite like this.”
She hesitated, realising she’s rambling. “Sorry, that must sound odd. I’m Karin, and that’s Gus. my husband.”
Karin was looking at him expectantly, hand still hovering in the air.
The elevator dinged.
“My hands are dirty, ma’am,” He managed to say through the tightness in his chest, before remembering to lift one corner of his dry mouth. That seemed to work, as she let her hand fall back to her side with a smile, shoulders slumping almost in relief. Of what? He didn’t dare to think. He knew what.
“I’m sorry for spooking you both,” He offered, resting the right side of his weight against the wall. He was all patched up and good to go, but the heaviness over his shoulders didn’t ease for some reason.
It still hadn’t eased when Gus parked their truck in front of a landed house, having offered him a place to crash until… well, until he could figure out where to go from there. He wondered if they were scared that he’d blow their brains out if they reported him to the police. Or that they knew the small town’s task force wouldn’t be able to contain him anyway. He basked in the uncertainty of it all.
“We’d love to have you here, but our Lucy’s started teething only recently. Having new people around is gonna stress her out,” Karin said, gathering his bloodied clothes in her laundry hamper, with a trash bag covering the insides.
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll introduce you to Lars. It’ll be good for him. He doesn’t get much company he can really connect with. He’s a good man. Truly.”
Driver watched her fuss over the mess all the way to the laundry room. He looked down to see a little girl — Lucy — peering up at him with wide hazel eyes, half-asleep. She was a cute tiny thing, with a full head of hair, a curious scrunch on her face, and a pair of fists thumping over her own legs. Younger than Benicio, smaller, too.
“Hello,” he murmured through his exhaustion.
Gus picked her up in an instant, angling her away from Driver, shielding her with one shoulder. As if he was about to hurt a little girl in her own house. The thought made him angrier than he should be.
The first time Standard met him, his shoulders were all hunched up too, masculine posturing over Benicio and Irene like a threatened wolf pack leader. Ready to bite and piss all over the floor to mark his territory.
“Are you trouble?”
The choice of words made him feel like a child being chastised, instead. No, this wasn’t Standard, this was— Shannon. Shannon, with all his stupid pride and hovering not unlike a father, who had thought Driver didn’t know any better. That cost the old man his worthless fucking life. Ha.
He lowered his tail. There were no frogs to sting here. Not in this small town three hours away from LA, where everyone was so ready to help a bloodied stranger stranded on the road, no question asked. Well, maybe some questions.
“No, sir.”
“Then what are you? Running from something? Someone?”
“...I give you my word — no one in this town gets hurt because of me. If I even sense that might change, I’ll be gone before it does. I swear it.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Driver couldn’t help it, as a smile snuck onto his face. Out of all the fucked up shit he was capable of, lying was not one of them. Omitting the truth, yes, but nothing more than that had ever proved fruitful to him. It was the one thing he just couldn’t seem to get, among other human qualities he had been absorbing like a sponge, growing up. That made him come out as naive, to some.
How should he explain that he was defective from birth? That he came out wrong — less than halfway done — and now he had to build everything piece by piece all by himself? And in the process, he just still couldn’t seem to grasp some of the most basic attributes in achieving his humanness?
He might’ve lost a shit ton of blood, but he still had the right mind to not dump all that on Gus, however.
“My car’s dead somewhere down the road. No fuel, no phone, no ID. Nothing. If you decided right now I wasn’t worth the risk…nobody would come looking.”
The rising tension came to an almost comical stop at Lucy’s sudden “mama!”, her little arms flailing as she nearly slipped from Gus’ grip in her eagerness to reach Karin.
Driver couldn’t stop himself from drinking in the sight; Karin cooed softly at the little angel, while Gus watched with tired yet fond eyes. Those same eyes flicked up to meet Driver’s, carrying something new as Gus reached out to give his shoulder a light slap.
“Welcome to our small town, kid. Funny thing — you’ve got my brother’s face. Almost gives me chills.”
As it turns out, Driver and Lars look similar in the way all Caucasian men in their thirties would resemble each other if they’re standing in a line at a cowboy rodeo. Strong nose. Blue eyes. Thin lips. That’s all there is to it.
Apart from that, Lars is taller than him by a few inches. Bigger, too. Softer, maybe. His hands and arms are strong and rough, but the way he uses them is anything but. He has a well-groomed moustache that Driver still can’t figure out if it helps him look more pleasant to the eye, or the complete opposite. His clothes — layers and layers of them — are always tucked neatly into his pants. His hair is greasy almost all the time, though.
He’s full of contradictions, Driver decides. An enigma of a human being that he finds himself surprisingly wanting to peel layer by layer with great interest. To see what’s underneath.
Living with Lars is also unexpectedly nice.
When Karin first brought Driver to Lars’ doorstep like a foster Dobermann, all his alarm bells went off the whole time Lars refused to look at him. His gloved hand itched for the solace of a hammer at every suspicious glance. Paranoia follows him closely from Rose’s limp body right to this old garage that Lars had made a home of. It took minutes for him to realise, then, that Lars’ cagey behaviour was not because he somehow knew that Driver was on the run and probably got a bounty on his head.
He’s just… less human. Like the way Driver is. That made a worryingly pleasant warmth bloom in his chest. It’s like, hey, look, I found my person. I’m not the only broken human on this planet, after all.
He knows that deeming this sweet, sweet shy man as that is absolutely insulting on his part. It’s not like Lars has ever committed a crime, or killed someone, like yours truly. Hell, he’ll probably nurse a fly back to health, if he could. But he’s not exactly checking any boxes in the standard human template, either. Driver decides he wants to have this — pretending that they’re outcasts; just a pair of aliens finding sanctuary under the same roof.
He’s always liked playing house. Besides driving.
They have a routine now, somewhat.
At 6 in the morning, Driver would slowly wake up to the sound of Lars brushing his teeth. He’d stretch his arms and legs with a soft grunt — still getting used to sleeping on the floor — vacant eyes locked on Lars’ unmade bed. He likes to put his palm over his own comforter, imagining the warmth. If it’s a weekday, then Lars would be gone for work in 15 minutes, leaving a wonky PB&J sandwich on the kitchenette’s counter for Driver to eat.
He’s never liked cold sandwiches, and would rather walk to the diner at the other side of the town for some warm breakfast instead. But he finds out earlier on what happens if Lars is dead set on doing something. Giving Karin his favourite blanket. Letting Lucy play with his moustache. Looking Gus in the eye during a small talk. Helping Mrs. Gruner with her things to her car. Making Driver cold sandwiches.
Well, he’s learned to eat them. It’s the least he could do. The sandwich usually got warmer from Lars’ fingerprints on them anyway; he tends to hold the soft bread too hard. Everybody wins.
Then, around 8, Driver will head out for some work to do himself. Either the small auto shop down the street, or odd jobs around town.
If it’s a Sunday, then Lars would lay in bed a tad bit longer. Driver likes watching him curled up under the quilt that’s much too small for a man like him. Likes seeing the morning sun filtering through the curtains and onto his clothes and brown hair in dusty beams.
They’d get ready for the Sunday service afterwards. Driver doesn’t necessarily believe in God, or anything of that sort, but Lars won’t (and can’t) follow him for a drink at the town’s dingy bar. If he doesn’t… grab this thin thread of connection, then there won’t be anything much between them outside of the garage. So fuck it, Driver can be Christian for a bit.
It’s amusing to him that Lars is so determined on going to church every week when he won’t even pay attention to the sermon. Maybe it’s his own way of finding community. Human connection. Another thing to add to his folder. Driver finds himself becoming more and more human around Lars lately. He tries not to think about Irene and Benicio and the couch that always creaks in her apartment.
Lars would tap Driver’s thigh with the tip of his finger for minimal contact, then point at something he himself finds amusing with that smile of his, eyes refusing to look at anywhere higher than Driver’s collar.
A baby in a stroller. A kid with mismatched socks. An old man dozing off at the pew two rows over, mouth ajar. All very human things. Driver would find himself easily smiling back, in return.
His stinger remains dormant.
At night, when both of them are back from work and washed up, they’d have TV dinner on the floor. Sometimes Karin would give them enough leftovers for the week, but Lars is not a big fan of eating the same thing over and over again. Which is a curious thing, since he has no problem making his favourite sandwich for both of them almost every single morning.
Then, they’d sit in the dark — safe for a single night lamp at the kitchenette — to their own devices. Sometimes Driver would go out for a drink, but most nights he’s content to just sit at a small desk in the corner, tinkering away on some old spare parts he got from the auto shop. Lars would sit at the edge of his bed, facing him but never really looking at him, hands clasped together as he listened to the sounds of Driver’s tools.
After weeks of staying with Lars, Driver concludes that he is evidently more friendly with children and old folks. Before heading back home for Karin’s Sunday roast, Driver has the fleeting urge to ask if Lars ever wanted kids. A family of his own.
Lars blinks hard, his mouth twitching a little under his bristly moustache. He only uses his beard oil when it’s a “special day”, along with his “very nice sweater”. Today is not a special day, it seems.
“You don’t gotta answer if you don’t want to, man.” Driver adds. He knows Lars already knows that; he’s not the type to hesitate from removing himself out of uncomfortable situations. It feels proper to say it, though. Another lesson in being human.
“I had a girlfriend. A long time ago.”
Driver waits for him to continue. Lars is not exactly a man of many words, but Driver can be an unmoving mountain if he wants to.
“She passed. A while back.” Lars huffs out a small breath as he clenches and unclenches his fists, eyes blinking weirdly. He does that thing with his mouth where you can see the upper row of his teeth beneath his moustache. He’s obviously uncomfortable, but he’s not walking away. Driver thinks the appropriate thing to do at the moment is to take pity on him, so he does.
“What was her name?”
He ended up asking Karin about Bianca. He’s not entirely sure what he was expecting, but it’s certainly not that. Either way, it puts Lars in a new light for him.
This new development is not something that comes abruptly.
His Camaro is still sitting outside, useless beside Lars’ sedan. He could get it fixed, but in order to get it fixed, he’d need to get the parts delivered. He simply doesn’t have enough money for any of that. Yet.
So he’ll be stuck here, in this town, with Lars. It’s undoubtedly a stark difference from his old life in Los Angeles. Back there, he could look at the bare tits of a stripper straight on, and he wouldn’t feel a thing. There was an endless stream of attractive women and men everywhere; he’s grown desensitised to it. Now, he just can’t seem to stop staring at Lars.
Not that he’s ever not looked at Lars, especially for his little project of documenting his behaviour in his head, but knowing that Lars has once treated someone — an inanimate object at that — with so much love and care makes him feel… something. It’s not an emotion he’d associate with being around Irene whatsoever. This feels… brighter. More charged. Less constricting in his chest.
Lars is a big man, he’s always known that. Beneath all those soft clothes, he can picture a burly man with a warmth to him that settles in all the right places. His hair is darker than Driver’s, dusting his heavy arms in a dense, unruly spread. It trails downward, a soft, dark line along his stomach, slipping past his navel and continuing, lower and lower, disappearing where thought alone is enough to make his groin ache.
His hands are covered in those downy hairs too, always so sure when handling his axe and steering wheel, but a bit clumsy around his knitting needles.
Lars is not a woman, he’s aware of that. He won’t smell like roses, or vanilla, or baby formula. He smells like wood, musk, and the earth. He smells like the aftershave they both use. He smells like sunshine and fabric softener.
Driver is not terrified of this development.
Lars isn’t a woman — so, logically, he tells himself there’s no need for the same careful gentleness he might offer one. He’s horny, a little pent-up, and Lars is right there. No use overcomplicating things. Whatever it is between them, it’s something rare in this town, something that sets them apart from everyone else. The odds of rejection feel slim. Hopefully. Still, he figures he can talk his way in, lean on that easy charm of his, then deal with whatever comes after when he gets there.
But the thought of losing Lars’ trust somehow terrifies him. Another recent development.
He just settled into this town. A roof over his head. A place to sleep. Someone he can talk to without slipping fully into a facade. He gets to eat warm home-cooked meals at a dining table, like a proper family. Someone trusts him enough to place their small daughter in his arms, to let him rock her gently to sleep.
He once had everything he didn’t know he needed, and he fucked it up. He doesn’t wanna repeat the same mistake, no matter how little guilt he feels about it. He did what he had to do. There’s no use lingering on the deep loss cementing itself in his chest the moment his call went into voicemail that night.
He did what he had to do.
Driver closes his eyes, reaching for everything he’s observed and stored away about human connection — about Lars. How much of the truth is he allowed to give?
Strangely, he doesn’t feel afraid to lay out all his cards, face-up, for this. Because if Lars could find something that looked like love in a plastic doll, then surely Driver wouldn’t be much of a downgrade.
In the end, he settles on something equally direct and cowardly.
It’s nighttime. They’ve moved on to fruit after Karin’s leftover grilled salmon — or rather, Lars has decided they have. He’d picked up apples from the market that morning, and now he’s peeling and slicing them neatly, setting a portion aside for Driver without a second thought.
Driver takes the dishes to the sink, while Lars gets ready for bed.
He’s fiddling with the corner of the kitchenette’s counter when Lars returns, watching as he sits down on the bed in his pyjamas, thick fingers absentmindedly wringing his favourite blue blanket.
“You know,” Driver starts. Lars doesn’t look up at him, but he does lift up his head, eyes staring somewhere into the distance.
“I got something a little like that blanket of yours.”
He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. The blood never fully faded. It’s settled into something like rust now.
“You ever hear the story about the scorpion and the frog?”
Lars shakes his head, blinking. Of course he hasn’t.
“It’s an old fable. A scorpion asks a frog to carry it across a river. The frog’s scared — doesn’t want to get stung. But the scorpion promises it won’t, says if it does, they’ll both drown.” He pauses, stepping a little closer. “Halfway across, the scorpion stings it anyway. When the frog asks why, it just says — ‘it’s my nature.’”
He’s close enough now that he can see Lars’ dark lashes clearly in the darkness of the room.
“The scorpion’s supposed to be the villain,” he goes on, quieter. “But I don’t see it like that. In this world, you don’t get to trust people. Just yourself. Maybe the scorpion’s just… protecting what it is.”
“I wear this because it feels like it protects me.”
Lars only really looks at him then — wide-eyed, frozen — when Driver drapes the jacket over his shoulders.
“You’re strong. You don’t need it,” Driver murmurs. “But I think I want it to protect you too.”
Their eyes hold, longer than they ever have.
“I like you, Lars,” he says, softer now. “The way Karin and Gus like each other. The way you liked Bianca, maybe.” As much as someone like him can like another person, that is.
Lars is processing, it’s so painfully obvious. He’s looking at his lap now, then up, and down again, hands squeezing the poor blanket.
“Good night,” Driver breathes out, already heading to the door. He needs to give Lars some space. He could use a drink, anyway.
Their routine remains in place.
He got home sometime past midnight, to Lars asleep in bed. The jacket is nowhere to be seen.
They woke up around the same time, as usual. Lars left him cold PB&J, as usual.
Driver is not bothered by this. Lars wears his heart on his sleeve. If he harbours any discomfort or disgust towards him, he’d know right away. Normalcy is better than nothing. He can live with this.
After dinner, Lars asks him if he’s heading out to the bar, since it’s Friday night. He says yes, then realises with great gratification that Lars has changed into his nice sweater. His moustache is freshly groomed and looks like it’d be soft to touch. Lars asks if he can come along. Driver nods breathlessly.
“Oh. Wait,” He watches as Lars ducks back inside, then reappears moments later, hurrying out with the blue blanket clutched in his hands.
“Here. It’s cold out,” He exclaims brightly, that familiar grin pulling at his face — deepening the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t offer to put it on for Driver, but the warmth settles all the same.
“No– you gotta– put it all the way– yup, yes,” Driver huffs out a soft laugh at that, wrapping the soft fabric properly over him. It clashes with his top, but he finds himself not giving a single fuck.
Their shoulders keep brushing the whole walk to the bar. Lars doesn’t pull away, so Driver basks in the warmth. At the bar, Lars doesn’t really keep his eyes away from his lap, choosing to sip his mocktail in silence while Driver nurses his beer and admires him openly. Then, Lars presents him a single stalk of pink flower he doesn’t know the name of, the stem already bent in half from being stuffed inside his jacket.
“Mrs. Gruner said I should give this to someone nice, for a start,” He explains softly with that thin-lipped smile of his, eyes blinking hard, looking at Driver’s throat.
“Thank you, Lars. This is really nice,” When he takes the flower, he locks eyes with the bartender, who simply winks at him. He doesn’t miss the way Lars is smiling into his drink. He’s probably grinning the whole time too, he’s not so sure. It feels strange, to be so normal. It’s exhilarating. The adrenaline makes him feel like he’s behind the wheel again, counting down the seconds.
Back at the garage, they both sit on Lars’ bed for a change, Driver’s left thigh pressed flush against Lars’ right. They both face forward, quiet, but Driver feels it — the slow, tentative hook of Lars’ pinky around his gloved one. He smiles, turning to look at him, only to find Lars already watching.
Lars turns away almost immediately like he got caught, a giddy smile breaking across his face, his socked feet wriggling against the floor as his gaze darts anywhere but back at Driver.
Driver lets out a soft laugh, unable to stop himself. Lars joins in a moment later — hesitant at first, then warmer, surer, the sound settling easily between them.
“You look nice tonight. And you gave me a pretty flower. Is this a date?” Driver asks, after their laughter died down. Lars clenches his fists out of habit, not noticing that he’s taking Driver’s left hand into his tight grip as well.
“Yes,” Lars bites out, firm.
“It was a nice date. Thank you,” A beat of silence. “I take it that you like me too, Lars?”
There’s a blank look on Lars’ face. Then he plasters on a forced smile, like there’s someone controlling him and presses the button too late. It’d look almost eerie, and unsettling, if Driver doesn’t already know him so well. They’re cut from the same cloth, he thinks. Just that Lars doesn’t really know how to pretend to be human that well. It’s fine, they’re both learning.
“Umm. Maybe. You make me feel less lonely. And… I like being around you. Touching you doesn’t hurt as much.”
“Does it usually hurt? When someone touches you?”
“You won’t believe me,” Lars’ smile drops again. There’s a pensive look on his face now.
“No, of course I believe you. I do, promise,” Driver squeezes Lars’ hand. His eyes widen, as if only now remembering that their hands are still intertwined.
“It’s not like… it hurts, like, actually. Dr. Dagmar said if I try really, really hard, then I can hug anyone I want to. Without the pain.”
“Do you wanna try hugging me?” Driver tries, quieter. Lars glances at him, looking away once he meets Driver’s gaze. He worries his lower lip with his teeth, his free hand squeezing his own thigh.
“Yes.”
He’s not sure if he’s ever been this careful in his whole life. He settles with wrapping one arm over Lars’ shoulder, and another under his left arm, letting his mouth rest on Lars’ shoulder, relishing in the soft press of wool against his lips.
“Put your arms around me. Yes, just like that. Good. Do whatever feels nice to you– yes, yes, that’s good. Tell me if it burns,” Driver exhales once he feels Lars’ much, much stronger arms wrap around him, so gentle yet so firm. He can feel the slight softness of Lars’ belly against his torso.
Lars is bigger than him, so it’s endearing when he naturally folds in like this, seeking solace from the crook of Driver’s neck, as if hiding himself from the world. He smells exactly how Driver imagined he would — musk and aftershave, a hint of citrus, clean fabric softener, and something unfamiliar beneath it all. Cologne, maybe. He probably chose that just for tonight. Just for this date.
Driver doesn’t want to ruin the innocence of the moment, but the assault against all his senses is not helping his case. He can feel a pleasant ache at the pit of his tummy, followed by a tingling sensation between his thighs. It feels dirty, however, to hide this from Lars.
He inhales deeply, before pulling away just enough to catch Lars’ eyes. Driver licks his lower lip absentmindedly at the flush on Lars’ cheeks; he looks so fucked out already. And the fact that Lars is not even aware of it is doing something to him.
“Wanna know something, Lars?” Lars shifts slightly at that, resting properly against Driver’s chest, waiting.
“When I said I like you, I also meant it sexually.”
At the alarmed look on Lars’ face, Driver instinctively coos, one hand smoothing down the back of Lars’ hair.
“You don’t have to do anything. I’m not expecting you to touch me that way, either.”
Lars swallows, lip caught between his teeth again as he taps a rhythm against Driver’s chest with his index finger, most likely not even realising that he’s doing it.
“I… I don’t think I’m ready for that, yet.”
“It’s fine.”
“But I… I don’t want to hold you back just because of that.’
“It’s fine. I can wait.”
“I can smell you,” Lars murmurs, eyes downcast once more.
“What?”
“Your… uh… arousal. I can smell it.”
“No way. You’re joking.”
“No. It’s true. I can smell you,” Lars insists, looking up hesitantly, finding a random spot on his shirt to comfortably set his gaze on. “We usually smell the same, because we use the same soap. But right now I can just smell you better.”
No point in pretending, then. Driver’s briefs have been soaked for quite some time. It’s dripping through the cotton and sticking to the insides of his thighs, uncomfortably so. He doesn’t usually get this messy, but he’s been wound up tight for far too long. It’s getting impossible to ignore, especially not with Lars in his arms like this.
“Well, how about this? You don’t have to remove your clothes, or touch me, or do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Well–”
“I want to help,” Lars whispers, firmer. “I want to.”
Won’t you look at that. His boy is being so brave for him. Driver doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this feeling. This warmth.
If Lars is this eager to give, then he’ll give back just as much. He already knows how.
“This is what’s going to happen,” He begins, voice dropping just enough to pull Lars in.
“I’m going to take off my jeans, and my boxers. I’m going to take my time, and you’re gonna watch me. I’m gonna touch myself, and I’m gonna come all over you. You don’t look away, even for one second. Keep your eyes on me. No matter what. If I see your eyes somewhere else, even for a second, then you’re on your own. Do you understand?”
Lars’ eyes are so, so wide. His lips are parted beneath that moustache.
“I said, do you understand, Lars?”
“Yes.” Lars manages to breathe out, gruff. “Um. Yes.” He tries again.
“Good. Very good, Lars.”
The sounds of their heavy breathing and belt unbuckling seem so loud in the dark room. It’s absurdly filthy, as if they’re about to soil this little sanctuary they’ve built for themselves. Driver’s mouth embarrassingly waters at the thought of this being their little secret. Not that he minds if Lars ever wants to introduce him formally as his boyfriend. Or a partner. He already likes the sound of that.
But right now… right now he just wants to indulge in the sweet victory of being the one that has put that look on Lars’ face.
Lars is trying so hard to obey Driver’s commands, his left eye almost twitching as he tries to not look away. The flush is high on his cheeks, rising up to the tips of his ears, and spreading back down under his collar.
Driver can’t help it. He knows he’s easy on the eyes, and the power he can hold over someone by his looks alone if he tries hard enough. At the moment, he’s intent on trying his damn best to make sure Lars never forgets this.
He lifts his hips to discard his jeans and briefs in one go, spreading his thighs properly for Lars to see the sticky mess between his corded muscles. This is always the best part, for him — his partners’ reactions to such a wanton display. The dilated pupils. The shortness of breaths. The evidence of their own arousal, confined beneath their clothes and locked away under his commands.
Sometimes he likes to give. Sometimes he likes to take. He’ll see which end Lars will get by the time they’re done.
Lars is waiting like a good boy. Driver’s immensely proud of him. His eyes are wide, unblinking, set on Driver’s body.
“Do you like what you see?”
“Maybe.” Lars mutters earnestly. Driver feels the warmth spreading to his spine, all over. “You’re handsome,” Lars adds, remembering to be polite.
With a slow breath and an exasperated smile, Driver reaches between his thighs, resting his middle and ring fingers over his hard cock. He twitches at the contact with a soft hiss. It’s really been too long. All of his blood has rushed south, and his puffy cunt feels like bursting as a result.
“Watch me,” he whispers, gnawing on his lower lip as he experimentally swipes over his cock. He lets out a soft gasp, toes curling. Okay, so maybe not there, yet. It’s too much already, and he doesn’t want this to be over in 30 seconds.
He looks up, smiling breathlessly when he sees Lars’ big eyes on him. Those sturdy fists of his are clenching so hard over his clothed thighs.
Driver exhales, longer this time, eyes fluttering as he gently spreads his labia, gathering the juices there. The slick is leaking everywhere — matting the soft whorls of light hair there, and dripping onto the bed. Lars’ attention seems to catch on exactly that.
“You’re gonna dirty my bed,” Lars exclaims through his teeth. Driver raises an eyebrow, a retort ready at the tip of his tongue.
“Come here. It’s better.” He blinks as Lars reaches forward without much hesitation, scooping him into those big, strong arms, and onto his lap. His back is flushed against Lars’ chest, his thighs spread in the air.
He turns his head to the side when Lars tucks his soft chin over his shoulder, his lips brushing the stubble there.
“Much better. Go on, I wanna see,” Lars murmurs into his ear, which is probably not even intentional on his part, to Driver’s chagrin.
So much for not coming under 30 seconds.
“Right. Yes. Keep your eyes on me, Lars,” Driver tries for a semblance of control, resuming his idle stroking over his folds.
It’s getting increasingly hard.
Driver feels utterly exposed and helpless like this, spread open over Lars’ lap, slick pooling on his clothed thigh. Lars is so big. He can feel and smell Lars all over him, around him, and he’s horrified by the way his hole is weeping for Lars to be inside him too.
“You’re not moving. Why?
“Shut– ngh. I’m just trying to draw this out.” Driver snaps, and he can already see Lars’ sad blinking without even having to look at him.
“Alright. I just… I was worried that you might be hurting.”
“...I’m fine. It’s just been too long. So everything’s sensitive,” Driver offers, a half-truth.
“Oh,” Lars says. “I’ll help.”
“What–”
What sets Lars apart is how attentively he learns from the world around him. He makes PB&Js for Driver after watching Karin cook for him. He helps Mrs. Gruner with her things because he’s seen Gus do the same for Karin.
And now, Lars is trying to emulate how Driver would care for him in moments of discomfort. Having been deprived of touch for so long, the first brush of his bare hands against the back of Driver’s thighs nearly sends him into an early grave.
Lars coos into his ear, not unlike what Driver did earlier.
“You’re doing so good. I… I like how you feel. And– you look so pretty down there, too. Smells sweet, too. Good, very good.”
He’s done for.
Driver sinks two of his fingers at once into his wet heat, tipping his head back with a guttural groan, wet eyes blinking up at the ceiling. His thighs threaten to close, but Lars easily spreads them wide again with a firm hold, grumbling about not being able to see.
“You’re going so fast, now,” Lars observes, eyes unblinking. Hands idly squeezing Driver’s thighs. “You’re dripping so much more onto my pants. All over me.”
It’s insane how much Driver’s losing control. He’s a leaky mess, whimpering and whining quietly as his fingers — four, now — jackhammer sloppily into his sopping hole. He can no longer register what Lars is saying, as the buzz in his head gets impossibly louder at every stroke.
“Shit– oh, fuck, oh fuck—” He can’t find himself getting embarrassed anymore at how high is voice is getting, or how unruly he’s acting.
Lars seems to understand what’s coming, as he simply tightens his hold around Driver, pressing his cheek almost vehemently against Driver’s wet temple.
Lars is crushing him. He’s defenseless. It’s too much. Lars is crushing him—
He comes with a choked sob, back arched as he gushes all over his pruny fingers and Lars’ pants.
White bursts flicker through his vision, his limbs shaking uncontrollably. Lars rubs his large hand over Driver’s lean torso, bringing him down to Earth as he catches his breath. He only realises that his cheeks and lips are wet when Lars gently cups his jaw to press a chaste kiss over his mouth, the bristles of his moustache ticklish against his skin. It’s merely a firm, unrefined press of two mouths, if anything. But it’s a progress.
Lars slowly pulls back. His lips are already in that tight smile again, cheeks flushed as he keeps his eyes locked on Driver’s nose.
“I didn’t look away.”
Driver huffs, resting his temple over Lars’ neck, covering the hand holding his waist with his own.
“[—]?”
At the sound of his name, Driver slides out from beneath his Camaro, setting the wrench aside as he pushes himself up with a grunt.
“Lars? I thought you wanted to sleep in.”
Lars doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him — eyes still heavy with sleep, squinting slightly. He’s even softer like this, clad in his pyjamas with Driver’s jacket tossed haphazardly over his shoulders.
“You’re repairing your car,” he says, flat.
“Uh.” Driver glances at the car, then back at him. “Yeah.”
Lars’ hands curl into fists, then loosen again, like he can’t quite settle.
“You’re leaving?”
Driver’s brows lift before he exhales, shaking his head.
“Nah.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He watches as Lars nods to himself a few more times, that familiar smile slowly returning.
“You wanna go for a ride sometime soon?”