Chapter Text
Timmy is visiting Armie in Texas and the boys are playing a round of Never Have I Ever.
"I've never driven stick," says Timmy, hands resting in his lap, no longer counting on his fingers, the rules of the game forgotten in favor of confessing truths, plain and simple.
"Seriously, what?!" Armie exclaims, somehow shocked at Tim's admission.
Even though he shouldn’t be surprised at all, given where Tim grew up, and the fact of his age.
At the incredulous look Timmy gives him, one that conveys As if you don't know me, Armie says, "Oh right, New York guy. Plus you're young as hell."
"Shut up," Timmy mutters, rolling his eyes. "I've barely driven, man, give me a break."
“Shit,” says Armie, huffing a laugh. He’s thoughtful for a moment before continuing. "I love the way a stick drives. I keep a truck around with a manual transmission just to feel it every once in a while."
Tim's cheeks warm at Armie's confession, although he can't say why.
Armie catches Tim's blush but thinks it's because he's embarrassed at never having learned in the first place. He knows Timmy, loves his openness, delights in seeing emotions play out across his face. It's something he's loved about him since the moment they met.
He wants to show Tim how to drive a stick shift, thinks it's time to pay it forward and give the gift of a lesson to someone else. Timmy seems unsure but Armie is determined.
Growing up in the Caymans, there hadn’t been much to do. All throughout his childhood and adolescence, Armie would spend most of his time alone, just him and his machete. He was often left to his own devices, had to use his imagination and whatever he could find to fight off his boredom. He'd already moved once, had a hard time making friends in the first place, and then his family had moved again, this time to Los Angeles, when he was only thirteen.
High school brought a major growth spurt and a change in the attitudes of his peers towards him. He stood out in literally any situation because of his height, felt annoyed that he couldn't help but be seen above everyone else's head. He still felt awkward around other kids, felt like he didn't fit neatly into any existing social group, didn't know where to find the other machete enthusiasts or island kids in his new environment.
The semester before he dropped out, he’d made friends with an upperclassman who sat next to him in shop class. They had been paired up for a project and started talking, instantly bonding over their amusement at the teacher’s insanely thick eyebrows. They’d moved from It looks like two caterpillars are having a dance party on his face to other topics, like their favorite things to do or what movies they’d watched. The other kid had thought Armie was cool for having spent the majority of his time growing up hacking his way through the forest by himself, had laughed when Armie told him he’d seen Titanic in the lone theater on the island more times than he’d like to count because it was the only thing that was playing.
He’d started bumping shoulders with Armie when he said something the older kid thought was funny, had started leaning over close to Armie, so very close, to see the design he’d been sketching in his class notebook. Armie’s heart had pounded as he’d waited for the kid’s reaction to his drawing, for some kind of response, had nearly stopped beating altogether when the kid had said an easy, but proud, “Cool, man,” with an approving nod of his head.
After a few days of working on the project together in class, Armie had run into him in the school parking lot.
“Hey, Armie!” the kid had shouted (and Armie can still feel the flush that took over his body at having been acknowledged like that, can still feel his cheeks heat at the memory of it). He’d been in his truck, arm resting on the open window, hand sticking out and flicking a lighter absentmindedly.
Armie had thought he was so cool, was at that age where being two years older made a world of difference. This kid had owned a truck, he could drive himself anywhere he wanted; Armie had only dreamed of that kind of freedom. Not only did the kid have a truck, but he had an easy way about him; he smiled often, a brilliant, open smile that seemed to shine wherever he went.
Armie had walked over to the truck, still unable to process that this kid, this cool kid, would want to talk to him outside of class, in public, way out in the open where anyone could see.
“Need a ride?” the kid had said, easily, coolly.
Armie had shrugged, unsure, but unable to decline the offer. He’d climbed into the truck, full of nerves, full of hope, but his head empty of words, of things to say.
His eyes had roamed the interior of the truck, everything appearing to be that perfect combination of cool and easy, in style but not trying too hard; shiny, not from newness but from being worn down with use.
Armie’s gaze had settled in the space between their seats, not knowing what else to say, not knowing where else to look. He’d kept his eyes down, feeling shy, feeling like he wouldn’t live up to exactly what he had to be to deserve sitting in this cool truck with this cool kid.
His mind had stopped spinning long enough to notice the apparatus between their seats, the lever, the thingy that changed the car’s gears. Manual transmission, Armie’d thought, of course. You had to be skilled to drive manual, had to have enough finesse to apply pressure at the right moments and with enough ease to make it look like absolutely no effort at all. Stick shift was the very definition of ‘cool’.
His gaze had flicked up when he’d seen the kid’s hand coming towards him. He still remembered exactly how he’d been holding the proffered joint as he’d held it out towards Armie, stretching into the space between them but not pushing the boundary of Armie’s space, making the effort without much exertion. The cool way.
They’d smoked together in relative quiet, trading the joint back and forth between them, until the kid had started the car and put it into gear. Armie had watched curiously as his feet had pressed and released, as his hand on the shifter between their bodies had moved with precision and ease. He’d felt fascinated, mesmerized.
“Ever driven stick, Armie?”
Armie had simply shook his head.
“You gotta try.”
Eventually they’d decided that Armie would have to learn on the kid’s truck, as there were no other options. They had gone to a spot on the outskirts of the city with no traffic, no other people or cars around, and spent the better part of an afternoon and evening together while the kid taught Armie how to drive stick. Armie can still picture his warm smile when Armie stalled out or got embarrassed by the abrupt, lurching movements of the truck as he’d awkwardly tried to shift gears. Can still feel the warmth of the day, the leather of the seat beneath him, the kid’s arm on his as he’d encouraged him to try again.
When Armie was able to drive on his own, he’d gone out and bought himself a vintage car with a manual transmission as soon as he’d saved enough money. The kid had since graduated and moved away, but Armie had still thought of him every time he’d driven his own manual vehicle, stick shifting his way easily around the city.
When Armie’d moved to Texas as an adult, he couldn’t resist getting a truck with manual. He basically lived on a ranch, and he felt it was befitting of the place he lived and the image that went along with it. The truck was slightly rusty but the engine worked just fine, so he didn’t mind. He’d gotten it for a bargain, and the seller had been confident it would last for a long time, adding a wistful, drawling “They don’t make cars like they used to anymore”.
Whenever he drives his truck, he always thinks of the kid. His calm presence, his ease with the clutch and gear shifter, the way their fingers had brushed when passing the j between them.
When Armie bought his truck, he’d been so proud to be able to drive it home, to feel it responding to him like they were already familiar with one another, like an old friend.
He didn’t drive it much anymore, but kept it around just to have the experience of driving stick every once in a while. He loves his rusty old truck, loves the clutch that sometimes gets stuck and the gearshift that’s so worn down you can almost make out the ridges of the imprints from the multiple hands that have gripped it over the years.
Armie is dying to get Timmy in that truck. He wants him to feel the way a stick drives, wants him to experience driving with his whole body; wants him to feel the gears shift under him, sense the car responding to his every touch.
He has to learn how to drive in manual, just has to get the feel of it, at least once in his life.
And who better to teach him than Armie himself?
They get in Armie's truck, Timmy clambering into the driver's seat as Armie folds himself into the passenger seat. There is a moment of silence as both men adjust their seats to get more comfortable, Timmy pulling up the seat back until he’s sitting completely straight, Armie pushing the seat backward as far as it goes to accommodate his long legs.
When Timmy looks up at the rearview mirror and frowns, Armie reaches a hand over and tilts it down for him, peering at his face carefully. He fiddles with it a bit more, until he gets confirmation from Tim in the form of eye contact and a barely noticeable nod.
They turn away from each other, backs pressed against their own seats, each looking straight ahead.
"So," Timmy starts, looking at the gear shift between them with nervous eyes. "Ummm..."
"So," Armie steps in, all confident and blustering, "This is the gear shift," pointing to the thing between them, "and this is the clutch," tapping the floor beneath his seat with his own left foot while motioning down at Timmy's.
Timmy takes a deep breath and holds it, but otherwise has no other reaction.
“First you gotta put the key in the ignition and start the car.”
At that, Timmy lets out his breath with a huff of incredulous laughter and a tiny eye roll. At least his body visibly relaxes. He inserts the key into the correct slot, turns it with a tight grip and flick of his wrist, and smiles, lips sealed together as the edges turn up with satisfaction, when the engine purrs to life.
“Seatbelt.”
Turning his upper body towards Armie, Timmy sends him a glare, and buckles the seatbelt one-handed without changing his gaze.
“Ok. So, basically: clutch, shift to first, press the gas pedal, let up the clutch as you give it more gas,” Armie says.
Timmy turns back, hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, back straight, seeming to steel himself for the upcoming (and frankly, challenging) task.
"Ready to try it?" Armie turns to him, energy radiating off of him and his face serious but bright; Timmy just sits there, unmoving.
"Put your hand on it,” Armie says, gesturing to the gearshift between them. "Don't be afraid, it won't bite."
Timmy lets his neck hang and moves his head towards Armie, swinging his gaze over dramatically. He lets out a puff of breath, almost a scoff, and his eyes move upward in a barely-there roll.
“Timmy,” Armie sing-songs. He leans in, the vinyl material of the seat underneath him making a scrunching sound as he moves. “It won’t hurt you, I promise. I won’t let it,” he loud-whispers.
Timmy rolls his eyes, fully this time, and lets out a sigh, but takes his right hand off the steering wheel and grips the gearshift instead. He depresses the clutch pedal with his left foot, thigh shifting with the pressure he applies.
With his right hand, Timmy moves the lever timidly, the gears grinding as they slowly change. It’s harder to move than he thought it would be, not as easy to slide between park and first gear as he would have liked. Timmy's face twists as he winces, the noise loud and scratchy. He feels like a teenager learning to drive for the first time, and it’s embarrassing.
Suddenly Armie’s left hand is over his right, having flown over from where it was previously resting on Armie’s own thigh. His hand is so much bigger than Timmy’s that it completely eclipses his smaller hand, now seemingly delicate and fragile under Armie’s strong, capable hand. Armie pushes his hand down and then moves the gearshift, with Timmy’s hand sandwiched in between his hand and the stick, to the left and up.
Armie’s movement is quick, confident. Timmy feels the car shift seamlessly into first gear, feels Armie trapping his hand in a near death-grip; Armie’s so in control.
"Really grip it now,” comes the instruction. He tenses his grip, feeling the way Armie’s hand moves on top of his in response.
Armie tells him how to shift into second - press the clutch, shift straight down, ease off the clutch when you feel the car start to vibrate, keep pressing the gas.
"Now, don't fool with it, shift like you mean it."
Timmy tries, successfully shifting into second but popping his foot off the clutch too soon, causing the car to start to stall. He instinctively presses down further with his right foot, applying more gas to try to get the car to go, but instead it lurches forward, both their bodies jerking with the momentum.
“Want to give it another try?” Armie asks, meaning it but speaking easily, letting Tim know he’s there for him, there’s no pressure to do it perfectly.
When Tim accepts, Armie instructs him to shift back down to first, guiding him step-by-step.
“Ready?” Armie asks simply. Timmy gives a single nod, short but firm. He seems determined to get it right this time.
That giant hand is still over his own, but this time it doesn’t move for him. Armie keeps his hand where it is but lets Tim do the shifting. Timmy jerks the gearshift straight back, letting up on the clutch softly as he applies more pressure to the gas pedal with his other foot. It’s a coordinated movement, and although it takes massive focus on Timmy’s part to pull off, he does so successfully. He’s now in second gear.
“That’s it,” Armie says, and he sounds proud.
Armie’s words of encouragement wash over him, bringing a calmness and clarity he’s rarely felt in his life. His mind is focused, his skin feels extra sensitive. He feels like he could do anything with Armie gripping him like this, urging him on like this.
Tim can feel the engine rumbling under his seat, feels its trembling all throughout his body, feels himself connected to the car and the car connected to him. They are one and the same, a closed loop of pressure and vibration, action and feedback.
The longer he drives, the more at ease he becomes. He feels more confident with it bit by bit; the longer Armie guides him through it, the less starts and stops there are. Just smooth driving.
When the car is back in park, neither of them are quick to move. A quiet, comfortable silence settles between them. Both men are staring out the front windshield, seatbelts off, absorbing the unspoken closeness between them that had developed since clambering into Armie’s rusty old truck.
Their quiet bubble is broken by some movements from the driver’s seat, where Timmy starts shifting slightly, back now bowed from where he’s slumped down a little, no longer stick-straight with nerves and the need to pay attention. The motion startles Armie from his silence, and he turns his head to look at Timmy.
His head is angled down, and Armie watches as his eyes roam over the car’s interior, as if he’s really seeing it all now. His gaze moves from the steering wheel in front of him down to the pedals at his feet; Armie continues to stare as his eyes stop on the gear shift between them.
Timmy’s eyes remain down, fixed on that lever betwixt their seats, that small moveable object that makes all the difference in a vehicle like Armie’s - manual, work to be done with one’s own hands.
Armie looks at the gear shift too, and to the area right around it, where their legs are casually resting. He didn’t notice it before but now he feels the closeness of their bodies despite the piece of machinery blocking the way to full contact. Both of their thighs are bracketing the shifter, resting directly alongside it, Timmy’s on the left and Armie’s on the right. It’s a kind of human-machine-human sandwich, but in a way it’s fitting; the thing between their legs, although separating them from touching flesh-to-flesh, is the very thing that has bonded them closer together.
Armie beams adoration at Timmy’s slightly downcast face, the nostalgic memory of learning to do the very thing that he just taught Timmy mixing with the uniqueness of this new memory, one where he gets to be on the other side of things, teaching it to someone who he feels this close to.
Timmy still hasn’t looked up, seems to be lost in his own thoughts as he continues to stare at the gear shift, posture relaxed and face soft but intense.
Armie leans back against his own seat, face still turned towards Timmy. His hand comes to rest on the outside of his left thigh, pinky-edge of his palm falling into the inch of seat space left between his body and the whole apparatus between them. His thumb curves up on the meat of his thigh to rest near the top, where he starts absentmindedly rubbing the digit across the soft, well-worn fabric of his pants.
The movement seems to catch Timmy’s eye, who looks up slightly and fixes his gaze on Armie’s finger moving over his thigh instead of the shifter. Armie continues to watch Timmy, who is in turn watching his finger move; he repositions his body slightly in his seat, scooting down so his legs fall open further, hand coming to rest fully atop his thigh now.
He keeps looking at Timmy, who isn’t moving at all except for the rise and fall of his body with each even breath. Armie looks as Timmy continues to watch the hand that’s on his leg. He’s still not meeting Armie’s gaze.
Armie’s watching Timmy, seeking a sign from him, a look, a nod, a laugh, anything. But he doesn’t give it, doesn’t seem to want to break his own thoughts, the atmosphere between them. Suddenly the truck really feels like it’s sealing them in, creating a little bubble just for the two of them and no one else.
Without looking he knows that it’s Tim’s leg-gear shift-his leg, that there’s only a few inches of plastic between them, and suddenly there’s another feeling on top of the pride he’d felt in teaching Tim, in Tim actually doing it because it was Armie who taught him. There’s a new sense now, a want, a need to reach out and touch.
There’s a buzzing in his limbs, a sort of tingling in his fingertips, as he imagines what would happen if suddenly the gear shift, that meaningless, plasticky thing between them were to disappear. If it wasn’t there at all.
If they could be leg-to-leg, nothing to get in the way of skin on skin, nothing to hinder actual contact.
He’s so lost in his thoughts that he startles slightly when he feels Timmy’s hand slip under his own, the smooth slide registering on two points of contact, both palm and thigh lighting up at the newly applied pressure. Now they’re both staring at Armie’s thigh, where Armie’s hand lays over Timmy’s, a sort of hand sandwich, delicious not in taste but in touch.
Armie flicks his gaze up to Timmy’s face again, watching. Timmy keeps looking at Armie’s thigh, his hand, Armie’s hand, their points of connection. Armie squeezes Timmy’s hand, applying the slightest pressure to the back of that delicate hand under his own, pressing it down further into his own thigh. At that Timmy turns his face towards his shoulder, looking away from their hands and towards the back of the truck. Armie has the perfect view of his lovely face, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbone mixing with the softness of his dark eyelashes and pink lips. Armie squeezes a little harder and he watches Timmy’s eyes flutter slightly, those dark eyelashes trembling as his eyelids move rapidly.
Timmy’s fingers are delicate but strong, just like the rest of him. Armie pushes his fingers between them, keeping Timmy’s hand flat on his thigh, and feels Timmy’s fingers flex against his leg. He takes Timmy’s hand in his grip and moves it, looking down as he slides them both a few inches up towards his hips.
He hears a puff of breath escape Timmy’s lips and looks over just in time to see his eyes open again. This time his gaze comes to rest on Armie’s shoulder, lids open just enough so Armie can see the color of his eyes, a mix of green and gold and brown that dances in the light.
Armie’s gaze is still fixed on Timmy’s eyes when he feels his hand being lifted off his thigh and pulled towards the driver’s seat. Their hands are still fitted together, Armie’s fingers still clasped between Timmy’s, and they move easily as one. They both watch as Tim brings their joined hands over to his own lap, settling them on his thigh just on the other side of the gear shift from where they were sitting on Armie’s leg previously.
They both watch silently, quiet except for the slightly increased pace of their breathing, as Tim moves both their hands up his thigh, sliding them towards the place where his leg meets his hips. Armie is absolutely hypnotized, amazed at Tim’s courage, at his trust in him; as he watches their hands creep ever higher, there is a strong possibility that he may leave his body altogether at any moment.
As their hands reach the seam of Tim’s thigh, Armie can’t help the way his mouth falls open, how his breath comes out in faster, more ragged pants. Tim’s hand is still stretched out, Armie’s curled around his on top. As they move upward, Tim’s fingers can’t help but brush against his clothed crotch; Armie’s eyes snap up to his face as Tim sighs and brushes his fingers not once but twice, Armie’s hand moving in tandem. Armie can almost feel the material of Tim’s jeans under his own fingers, knows that it’s slightly thicker and rougher where the extra flap of denim covers the zipper. The thought makes Armie’s fingers clench Tim’s hand a little tighter, which in turn pushes Tim’s fingers to touch himself with a bit more force. Armie hears Tim’s gasp and feels like he may die just from that sound alone.
Armie grounds himself in the feeling of Tim’s hand under his own; he knows without looking that it’s his hand-Tim’s hand-denim-Tim, the very essence of him hidden by only a thin layer of cloth. He knows he’s oh so very close to touching Tim for real, with only flesh and cotton standing in the way of full contact. He can’t help but want to reach out and touch; he slowly starts unwinding his fingers from where they’re tightly clasped in the spaces between Tim’s, sliding them from crease to fingertip so that his hand is splayed out on top of Tim’s, both their fingers now stretching towards the place under Tim’s zipper.
He reaches out with his own fingertips to brush Tim’s crotch, mimicking Tim’s earlier accidental motion with more purpose, stroking over the fly of his pants in slow, up-and-down motions. With the way their hands are splayed, he’s moving both of them together, an endless loop of pressure and response, this you move-I move that feels self-contained yet infinite.
Armie takes in the whole of Tim’s face, the soft brow, the almost-closed eyes, that perfect nose, the bow of his lips, pretty pink mouth hanging open in pleasure.
“What do you think?” he asks him, steadily watching his profile, knowing how much he wants this, practically bursting with how much he wants it, wanting to make sure Tim feels the same. In response, Tim nods his head vigorously and pushes his hips into Armie’s touch, forcing more of Armie’s fingers to cover his crotch, those fingers now coming into contact with the hard line of his cock more fully. Armie lets him breathe into this newly-found angle, then moves his fingers over Tim completely and curls them, gripping him over his jeans. Tim makes a sound that doesn’t have a name, but it’s perfect and Armie’s already trying to name it in his head, describe it to himself in the greatest detail possible so he can remember it and play it back at will. Everything about Tim is slack - his posture, his eyes, his mouth. He seems overwhelmed by Armie’s touch.
Tim seems to come back to himself, regain some control of his motor functions, and Armie watches as he brings his left hand, the one not laying under Armie’s, into his lap to join both their hands. The hand that is under Armie’s slowly starts to move, too, slipping out from under his hand and Armie has the instant instinct to trap it there, not let it escape. But he’s too curious as to what Tim is going to do, so he lets his hand go.
Both of Tim’s hands move to the top of his jeans, Armie’s hand now laying on Tim’s right leg all on its own. Armie still feels the loss of Tim’s hand under his, but relishes the new feeling of Tim’s warm thigh, now only one layer remaining between him and Tim’s soft skin. Armie has his gaze fixed on the movement of Tim’s hands now, everything seeming to play out in slow motion. He watches with bated breath, his body still, his whole self poised in anticipation as Tim moves his hands to his pants and starts undoing them.
Armie’s surely left his body now, he definitely no longer exists in a plane of reality; but he can’t bring himself to blink in case he misses anything, even the smallest detail, in case it is in fact real.
Tim’s fingers flick open the button of his pants and Armie still hasn’t taken a proper breath. It doesn’t help any when he starts pulling the zipper down, slowly, millimeter by millimeter. Armie takes a barely-there breath just to sustain himself; he fears he may stop breathing altogether when it’s all the way down. What’s revealed is not the soft material of some sort of undergarment, but only bare skin, dotted with soft wiry hairs, and Armie thinks he may actually pass out.
He looks at Tim’s newly revealed skin, what seems like miles to Armie’s eyes, and he looks, and he looks. There’s nothing he’d like to do but keep on looking until the end of time but it may be the end of him if he does so. He finally takes a breath, sudden and stuttering, and flicks his gaze up to Tim’s face. What he finds there nearly undoes him, although he’s surprised there’s anything left to undo at this point.
As Armie makes contact with Tim’s face, the first thing he notices is bright green, almost shining, framed by delicate dark brown. It takes him a second to realize that Tim’s eyes are on him, and it makes him shiver; he’s shaken but can’t look away even if his life depended on it. Timmy is looking up at him from underneath his eyelashes, gaze planted directly on Armie’s face for the first time since they’d stopped driving.
Armie feels like he needs to regain some control, lest he lose function of his entire body and melt into a puddle of goo right there in the passenger’s seat. He keeps his gaze on Timmy’s eyes, which are sparkling with emotion, but knows that if he lowered his gaze at all he’d be met with the expanse of Tim’s exposed skin just above his crotch.
Out of his peripheral vision he sees Timmy moving his hands to the unzippered part of his jeans, as if to take himself out. This whole experience in his truck had already made Armie dizzy, but the fact that Tim’s about to expose himself for Armie’s eyes only truly makes his head spin. Armie is set ablaze with anticipation, possessed by a kind of heat he’s never felt before.
Still looking into Timmy’s eyes as Timmy looks into his, he registers that Timmy has finished freeing his cock from the confines of his tight jeans. He wants to look at it, see its size and shape, admire its smoothness, feast upon it with his eyes.
He feels set on fire, and his body’s burning sets him into action again.
“Put your hand on it,” Armie commands, registering the answering blaze that flashes in Timmy’s eyes as he says it. He finally allows himself to lower his eyes to Tim’s exposed member, devouring it with his gaze, thinking at once that it’s too much and never enough.
Tim gets his hand around his cock, and once he’s done it, he looks back up at Armie, whose gaze is still lowered, unable to tear himself away from the sight of Tim’s delicate hand, Tim’s hardening cock.
He stares at the union of hand and cock and wants nothing more than to touch them both, to close his hand around Tim’s and become part of the loop of contact. Acting on those desires, Armie fits his hand on top of Tim’s hand, so that now they’re all connected. He’d know, even without looking, that it’s his hand-Tim’s hand-Tim. Now he’s got all of Tim in his hands, his hand, his cock, no longer any layers of anything between their touches.
Armie’s eyes are fixed squarely on Timmy, on his face, his hand around his dick, his eyes, his reactions.
He grips his hand tighter around Tim, making him squirm and softly moan.
“Show me,” he says lowly, wanting to help make him feel good, be a part of his pleasure.
Timmy starts moving his hand, and they both sigh, Tim at the feeling of some friction on his swollen dick and Armie at the way his hand can’t help but move on top of Tim’s. Armie’s hand is glued to Tim’s, his eyes glued to Tim’s face, not wanting to miss a single movement, a single expression.
It’s awkward with how they are sitting, the gear shift between them, but Armie lets him set the pace as they both begin working Tim’s dick slowly.
Armie has to focus on his breathing, feels like he’s forgotten how, this thing he’s done all his life without thinking now requiring intention, exertion. He’s touching Timmy, who’s touching himself; their hands are touching, and they’re touching Timmy together -- it’s a great big mixed up sequence of touch-on touch-on touch, and it has Armie overwhelmed.
The longer their hands move over Tim’s length, the more noises escape from those pretty pink lips; those sounds seem to move from Armie’s ears all throughout his entire body, spreading through him like warm medicine, relaxing and arousing him in the same measure. Armie’s ears seem extra sensitive to Timmy’s voice, his breath; he’s tuned in to all their nuances, wants to steal them from Timmy’s lips and keep them for himself somewhere safe.
Armie shifts in his seat to get a better grip, and his hand shifts in return, moving a little side-to-side on top of Timmy. The new movement unexpectedly forces a moan from Timmy’s lips, as if he can’t hold in how good it feels, and the sound goes straight through Armie like a rod, piercing him with want. His blood boils with it.
He can’t help the way his hand tightens over Timmy’s in response to that delicious noise, and selfishly he wants to hear Timmy do it again (and again, and again). Timmy’s back arches and his head tips into the headrest behind him, lost in his own pleasure, in the pleasure Armie’s giving him, in what they’re creating together. He recreates Armie’s accidental movement by pushing against Armie’s grip to give a little flick of his wrist at the head of his cock, and Armie leans into it, increasing the pressure of the twist by adding his own momentum to it.
They’re moving in all directions now -- up, down, left, right, back and forth, side to side. Timmy grips himself tighter and Armie squeezes Tim’s hand in response, hanging on for dear life. He hopes Timmy’s close at the same time that he wishes for this to simply go on forever, both their hands moving in tandem ad infinitum.
But Timmy seems keen on driving himself closer and closer towards orgasm, Armie along for the ride, leaning into it, helping him out. Armie loves that he’s a part of this, watching Tim get closer, being a part of the reason Tim’ll fall apart.
Timmy’s got his mouth open wide, lips wet and cherry red, cheeks flushed pink, hand pushing down against his dripping cock. He’s gasping for air, body pulling taught, his hand twisting over his dick, moving against Armie’s hand, their hands working in conjunction.
He turns his head to look over at Armie, open mouthed, brow creased, eyes desperate. He looks so open, so beautiful, all flushed and wanting -- because of Armie, because of what they’re doing, hand-to-hand, gaze-to-gaze.
Their eyes meeting is like a lightning strike, and Armie feels equally struck by the quiet “Oh, fuck” that spills from Tim’s lips, looking into his eyes as he starts to come, gazes still connected while thick ribbons erupt from Tim’s cock and over their joined hands, before Tim’s eyes slip shut as he rides out the rest of his orgasm.
Once it’s over, Tim slumps back against his seat, panting hard. Armie takes a moment to realize he’s breathing just as hard in his own seat; Tim’s breath is his, flowing through their joined hands and into his own body.
They keep their hands glued together, their joining now aided by the sticky white substance that covers them both, helping to fix them together further.
Tim’s eyes open when his breathing slows down a bit; at first he’s staring out the front windshield, his gaze eventually slipping down to their hands and his now-softening dick. Armie follows his gaze and they’re both staring at their come-covered hands, still one on top of the other.
Armie knows from his own experience that Tim could be oversensitive, plus he may want to clean up, so he regrettably starts loosening his grip on Tim’s hand. He moves his own hand back over to his side of the truck, mind already thinking to a pack of his tissues he’s hopefully got stashed under his seat so he can help Tim clean up. His movements are slowed down by the fact that Tim’s come follows his hand, sticky and stringing out, keeping them connected still, and Armie keeps his eyes on it until the strands break.
Then he’s moving, keeping his left hand hovering as he starts digging under the passenger seat with his right. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for initially, has to stretch a little further to reach under the seat more, and his hand covered with Timmy’s release comes into contact with the gear shift, resting there momentarily as his other hand finally touches the corner of the box of tissue.
He sits back up triumphantly, holding up the cardboard box, expecting to meet Timmy’s eyes. Instead he finds him not having moved a single inch, hand still on his dick covered with white fluid, eyes wide as he looks at Armie’s hand over the shifter. Armie smirks, taking a moment to watch Tim stare at his hand with his mouth agape.
After taking a few seconds to appreciate the sight, he plops the tissue box into his lap and brings his hand over to wipe it off. It takes a moment before he learns it’s best to pull out several tissues at once, the cooled fluid being too sticky for just one tissue at a time. After his hand is clean, he takes one last tissue and swipes it over the gear shift, balling it all up and tossing the dirty paper into the backseat without looking. He can clean it up later.
He takes the box in his now-clean hand and stretches it out towards the driver’s seat, stopping midway when he sees Timmy’s face, mouth still hanging open slightly and cheeks flushed deeply in embarrassment. But Armie can’t bring himself to be embarrassed in the slightest, is amazed at Timmy’s openness and is grateful for his willingness to expose himself to Armie, in every sense. He’s proud of him, for everything that he’s done, not just for what’s transpired during their little lesson or time spent jerking him off today.
Armie can’t help but beam at him, eyes soft and smile wide; he watches Timmy meet his gaze and soften, too, cheeks still flushed but a small smile coming to his face. Tim reaches over with his clean hand to grab a handful of tissue and turns his attention to the mess in his lap. Timmy slowly releases his hand, hissing as he lets go, head falling back and eyes closing momentarily as the feeling registers on his oversensitive cock; Armie winces in sympathy. He then goes about cleaning himself carefully, looking up to see Armie’s hand still outstretched over the gearshift between them. He looks uncertain for a moment before he places the whole dirty wad into Armie’s hand, who tosses it over his shoulder once again without a second thought.
Armie’s hand comes back to the front of the truck and he can’t help but reach out and touch, brushing a lock of hair behind Timmy’s ear and leaning over to kiss his cheek quickly.
Timmy looks at him, still looking awfully beautiful and sweetly vulnerable, every emotion he’s feeling dancing in his eyes. It’s everything Armie loves about him.
Still gazing at Timmy’s lovely face, Armie raises his eyebrows and asks, “Drive us back?”, wanting to get Tim home to show him something else.
It takes a few moments for the words to register with Timmy, who eventually shuffles in his seat so he can tuck himself back in and re-buckle his seatbelt.
They drive back in silence, their little bubble still unbroken.