Richard Hammond finds in the drawer of one James May:
-three pencils perfectly parallel to one another
-one gum eraser
-five paper clips
-a set of schematics to something that does not resemble any car Richard Hammond has ever seen.
It's not that Richard is a snoop. Well, okay, he is a snoop, an unrepentant one at that. He didn't mean to go riffling through James' desk, though. He'd just needed a binder clip. It was just once he got the drawer open it was so organized that he couldn't help himself.
Richard folds up the plans and sticks them in his back pocket. He forgets about them, distracted by James and his wine, until he pulls the Porsche into his garage later that night.
It's the crinkle of the paper against the denim of his jeans that reminds him of what's he's done. He hits the dome light and unfolds the papers to get a better look.
Richard's first assessment was right, it's not a car. For one thing, there are no wheels, for another, the Range Rover is more aerodynamic than this thing. It's James though, so the lines are perfect and crisp, the lettering in an engineering hand that is still familiar. Richard traces the lines with his finger tip, brow furrowing. It's not a car, not a vehicle of any type, not even a TARDIS. There is a seat, but no steering wheel.
Richard is staring at what he had assumed was a gear shift when it dawns on him: James May has designed a fucking machine. Richard sits there in his car, staring at the clean lines on the page for a long time, his head filling with possibilities.
He wonders if James has actually built it, or if this is as close to reality as it will ever get. He wonders if James would let him use it, would watch him use it. If James would touch himself while his machine fucked Richard mercilessly. If James would come to the ragged sounds of Richard moaning as the machine used him up.
He's gone hard against the zip of his jeans, so he does what anyone would do and unzips them. Which is how he find himself tossing off over a set of schematics. A set of schematics for a fucking machine. A fucking machine designed by James. His fist tightens around his cock at the thought, ripping a groan from his throat.
Richard has one hand on his cock and the other tracing over James' beautiful lines. He can't help but think of James' hands wrapped around a spanner, tightening the bolts just so. James sawing the wood; measuring twice, cutting once. Every piece perfect, coming together to create a greater whole. Richard know better than anyone about the power of machines. He flicks his thumb over his slit and hisses with the pleasure of it, pressing his head into the back of the seat, and coming over his hand.
When Richard comes back to himself, he's careful not to mar the schematics. He considers keeping them briefly, but on second thought, decides to return them to James' drawer with a note. James, after all, does appreciate constructive criticism.