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Lars shifts, trying to get comfortable. At least he’s on the couch—Driver is the one kneeling in front of him, with nothing but his jeans cushioning him from the floor. (Lars suggested a pillow. Or a different arrangement altogether. But Driver insisted he likes the hard press of the wood against his knees.)
Lars pushes his hands together, feeling the slight roughness of Driver’s glove against his other palm, which is bare. He takes a careful breath before he extends his gloved hand forward, towards Driver’s face.
“So I just—?”
Lars puts his fingers gently against Driver’s lips, so that they only slightly press against his skin. The thick leather of the gloves keeps much sensation from getting through—maybe a light sort of burn, but nothing painful. Driver’s eyelashes flutter immediately at the touch.
“I might have to stop quickly,” Lars warns, before he goes any further. He’s never done anything like this—he doesn’t want Driver to get his hopes up, and then let him down.
“S’okay,” Driver says breathlessly. “S’okay. Anything.”
Lars pushes experimentally against Driver’s lips. They part, easily, and the tips of the glove brush against his teeth. Driver shudders.
“Too much?” Lars asks, pulling his hand back. He doesn’t want to hurt Driver.
Driver shakes his head.
“It’s not like that for me,” he says. He’s patient, even though he’s explained it to Lars before. “I want you to make it too much, okay? Doesn’t hurt. S’ good.”
Lars hesitates. He’s still not sure he understands.
“Will you trust me?” Driver asks softly, tilting his head.
Lars nods. Of course he trusts him. He wants to make Driver happy, even if he can’t do all of the regular things couples do.
Lars presses his pointer and index fingers back against Driver’s lips, a little more firmly this time, so that they part immediately. He runs his fingers experimentally over Driver’s front teeth, which pushes his lip up unnaturally.
Driver’s breathing is shaky. Lars wonders how he would react to the leather glove tracing other places, like his neck, or his cheeks, or the bridge of his nose.
Lars pushes his fingers in a little deeper to touch Driver’s bottom teeth. That makes his bottom lip squish down, almost like he’s pouting. It’s a strange sight, Driver on his knees, cheeks flushing pink, his own leather glove spreading apart his lips.
Driver seems to take the pressure against his bottom teeth as a sign to let his mouth fall open a little wider. Lars leans forward.
When Lars presses his pointer finger between Driver’s teeth and into his mouth, Driver whines. It’s a low, keening sound, and it’s nothing like Lars has ever heard from him before. So desperate and wanting.
Lars pushes his pointer finger in a little further, and then his index finger. He can feel the pressure of Driver’s tongue through the glove. He knows the leather must be soaking with Driver’s spit, though he cannot feel it, and he’s glad for that.
He lingers there, for a moment, hesitant to go further. Driver just looks up at him through his pretty eyelashes. He doesn’t pull away, or insist Lars move faster.
“You’re patient,” Lars says softly. “That’s good.”
Driver’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, as if the praise is just as overwhelming as the fingers in his mouth.
Driver is patient. He’s very patient. He’s never asked Lars to do anything, not even to touch him. It was Lars who asked him if there was anything he might be able to do. It was Driver who came up with a way for Lars to touch him without having to be touched.
Lars pushes his fingers in further, and slips his ring finger in beside them. He lets his thumb and pinky skate feather-light over Driver’s face. He isn’t really sure what he’s doing—this is all some strange improvisation.
Driver doesn’t seem to mind, at least. He makes another soft sound in his throat, blinking a few times. His bright blue eyes are glossy and unfocused.
“So good,” Lars murmurs, curling his fingers to press a little against the bottom of Driver’s mouth. “So, so good for me.”
Driver’s eyes are becoming shiny and wet with unshed tears.
Part of Lars wants to stop—he doesn’t want to make Driver cry. But Driver said to make it too much, right? He said that’s what he wants. And Lars wants to make Driver happy.
Lars hooks his fingers into the socket of one of Driver’s cheeks, rubbing a bit. He isn’t sure how sensitive the skin is there, even though he has a mouth, too. He’s just never thought about it.
Driver’s eyelashes are damp, now, so that they clump together. It’s pretty, Lars thinks. His eyelashes, and his flushed cheeks, and even his trembling shoulders. He’s pretty.
“I like seeing you like this,” Lars says softly. “So pretty.”
He reaches for the left-hand glove, which is lying forgotten beside him on the couch. He wiggles his fingers into it as best as he can and then uses his teeth to pull it the rest of the way on.
“So pretty,” Lars repeats, bringing his left hand up to cup Driver’s cheek. Driver presses forward a bit against his palm—it’s a little overwhelming, but with the leather, it’s okay. Anyway, Lars gets the sense that Driver is too into his head to remember very well where he is.
“Do you feel good?” Lars asks, rubbing his hand a little against Driver’s face—almost petting him. “This is good?”
Driver nods immediately, desperately, like he’s scared Lars is going to stop. Lars doesn’t feel the need to stop, if Driver doesn’t want him to. The gloves help a lot.
Lars presses his fingers in a little further, slowly, so that they’re filling Driver’s mouth and he has to breathe through his nose. Lars doesn’t go all of the way—he’s worried about choking him.
“Okay?” he checks.
Driver nods again. A shiny tear rolls down his face and slides under Lars’s left palm. Apparently both gloves are going to get wet.
“Too much,” Lars murmurs, half to himself. “But you like that.”
Driver makes another sound, a little muffled by Lars’s hand. More tears roll down his cheeks. His own ungloved fingers push desperately at his thighs.
Lars isn’t sure he wants to do anything else with Driver’s mouth, so he lets his fingers linger there and traces his other hand down Driver’s chin. He slides it up, over his neck, and pets the back of Driver’s head. Driver keens.
“Just sitting there so pretty for me,” Lars tries, watching Driver’s reaction. “All messy without me even touching you.”
Driver’s gaze never strays from Lars’s face, even as more thick tears gather. Lars has never seen him so raw and open, like Lars could scoop out his insides and do whatever he wanted to them. He doesn’t want to do that—he doesn’t want to hurt Driver, not ever. But he isn’t sure that Driver wouldn’t let him.
“I’m glad I found you,” Lars whispers. He isn’t sure this is the right thing to say—maybe he’s supposed to be more sexual, or more mean—but he doesn’t want to be, and so he isn’t. “I like you being here. Finding out things about you. What you like. I like you listening to me.”
Driver nods, as best as he can with three of Lars’s fingers deep in his mouth.
“You like that, too?” Lars asks. He has to keep up both sides of the conversation.
Driver closes his eyes, nodding again. Sweat is gathering on his forehead and neck and probably mixing with the tears all over his cheeks. Somehow, he still looks so soft. So content.
“Gonna pull out my fingers now,” Lars says. “Okay?”
Driver’s eyes blink open, and this time he makes a shaky thumbs up against his thigh. Maybe he’s tired of nodding.
Lars’s fingers make a sticky, wet noise as they slide out of Driver’s mouth. Usually, Lars would be really grossed out by a sound like that. For some reason, he doesn’t mind it.
A strand of Driver’s saliva stretches between the glove and Driver’s mouth for a moment before it breaks. Lars was right; the glove is soaking. He’s glad that the material kept any of the spit from seeping through to his skin.
Driver swallows, but saliva finds its way over his lips anyway, dripping down onto his chin. His breathing is heavy without Lars’s fingers there forcing him to inhale through his nose.
“Will you stay there for me?” Lars asks. He isn’t sure Driver could move, even if he wanted to—he’s so shaky. But he asks anyway.
Driver hums in assent, watching patiently as Lars pushes himself up from the couch, stepping around Driver on the floor.
“Be right back,” Lars promises. He’s only going to the next room, but he feels bad leaving Driver there, so quiet and wrecked.
Lars stands at the kitchen sink, looking down at the soaking glove on his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. It’s a lot of wet. It’s a lot of feelings, all mixing up in his stomach, seeing Driver like that.
Lars unclasps and pulls off the saliva-covered glove with his other hand, laying it beside the sink without touching it. Then it’s easy to pull the left glove off while avoiding the wetness from Driver’s tears.
Lars’s hands are a little sweaty. He wipes them against his shirt, palms and knuckles, and then twists them together. His fingers are a little thicker than Driver’s, so the seams of the leather have left little red imprints along his skin. He doesn’t really mind.
He puts two dish towels over his arm. He runs a washcloth under the faucet—he’s a little unsure whether he should make it cool or warm, but he decides on cool, since Driver’s skin is so flushed. He fills a glass with cold water, too.
It doesn’t feel right to sit back on the couch, so Lars sinks down on the floor in front of Driver instead. He puts the glass and dish towels down beside him.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, holding up the wet wash cloth.
Driver’s eyes are wide and unfocused, but he must be somewhat aware, because he nods.
Lars reaches forward, wiping the washcloth very gently across Driver’s face. He starts with his forehead and works down, soaking away the sweat and tears and the spit on his chin.
“You were so good,” Lars murmurs while he does it. “You’re always so good.”
It’s not like they’ve done anything like this before, or like Lars expected Driver to be anything but patient. But he’s always impressed by Driver, anyway. How he listens to him. How he looks at him, like nothing else matters. Lars likes when Driver looks at him like that.
Lars doesn’t expect Driver to speak, and Driver doesn’t. He just watches Lars, like he always does. He doesn’t press forward or brush Lars’s skin. He keeps his hands on his thighs, letting the washcloth be their point of contact.
Eventually Lars switches to the dish towel, patting Driver’s face dry. He knows Driver will probably go shower, at some point, but he seems so shaky right now, and Lars doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable.
When Lars is satisfied, he presses the water glass into Driver’s hands.
“Will you drink some?” he asks. “I think you should. I don’t think you’re supposed to have that much leather in your mouth.”
That makes Driver smile. He looks down at the glass for a moment and then brings it up to his lips, drinking it until it’s gone.
“I can get you more,” Lars offers, taking the glass back.
Driver shakes his head.
“Stay?” he whispers. His voice is scratchy.
Lars nods immediately, setting the glass down behind him. “I won’t go anywhere.”
Driver looks at him, for a moment. All of the wariness, all of the fight that usually lingers in his face is gone. It’s so different. Lars likes to think that he made him like this.
“Hand?” Lars asks.
Driver holds out his hand immediately, palm up. They’ve been doing this more often lately—Lars has been getting better at touching people, even without gloves. (Maybe not touching their spit, though. That might be a while out.)
Lars traces three bare fingers along Driver’s palm, shivering a little at the contact. It always feels hot, but sometimes Lars likes that, with Driver. He likes that he can control it—how much they touch, and where, and when.
Lars presses his fingers down, so that they just slightly imprint into Driver’s skin. Bursts of burning heat explode against his fingertips. It’s a hundred times more overwhelming than touching him with gloves on, and Lars can only manage a few seconds before he pulls away.
“Thank you,” Driver murmurs, after a moment. His voice is shaky. Lars isn’t sure whether he’s thanking him for this, or for staying, or for what they just did.
“I liked it,” Lars says. “We could do it again sometime.”
Driver smiles. Happy, Lars thinks. Just like he wanted. “Sounds nice.”