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Once again, Driver is turning to his last resort.
He's been standing outside your apartment door for the past ten minutes. Fist raising every few moments, poised to knock, before falling back down in doubt.
Coming to you when he's in this state means involving you, and he would rather bleed out and die where he stands than ever do that. Unfortunately, however, that may be a real possibility.
The gash on his shoulder is still weeping blood, spreading inkblot stains of red over the white of the jacket he'd thrown over it hastily. It's his own fault; he let a guy get too close, and this is his punishment.
He'd even debated going to the hospital before shaking the thought off. Hospitals mean questions, and he'd not gotten this injury nobly. The usual guy who patches him up is out of town — of course. And the cut is in exactly the right place for Driver not to be able to tend to properly on his own, which is why he's still standing outside your apartment door.
He goes to knock again — and fails. Maybe you're sleeping? It's past midnight by now, after all. Except he knows you're not, since he can hear your TV playing trashy late-night shows softly from inside. From what he can tell, you tend to lean more toward insomnia.
He's running out of excuses. Just like how he's running low on adrenaline, and his shoulder is starting to throb dully with every second longer he puts it off.
Finally, Driver raises his fist and taps his grazed knuckles against the wood gently.
The sound from inside your apartment pauses, footsteps towards the entrance, silence for a few moments as you check the peephole (like he'd told you always to do, just in case) — then the door swings open.
You look tired. Eyes bleary with shadows bruising the delicate skin beneath them, blinking up at him slowly as you take him in. Your gaze hovers over how he's clutching at his shoulder with his good hand, and you can guess why he's here in an instant.
"Alright, come in," you nod once and step to the side, gesturing for Driver to follow you in.
"Were you sleeping?" he asks as he steps in, keeping his voice hushed as you shut and lock the door behind him.
You shake your head. "No, I had a late shift at work, so I'm still decompressing. You need help getting your jacket off?" You don't elaborate, and he doesn't ask you to. Shakes his head and eases the fabric off of his injured arm, wincing subtly when it drags over his sliced flesh. You disappear for a minute and return with your first-aid kit, then grab a hand towel and guide him over to the couch.
One of the many things Driver likes about you is that you're still amicable with him. Even when he turns up in this kind of sorry state at your doorstep, looking like a kicked dog pleading for scraps. You've yet to turn him away — like the time a few months ago when he turned up at 4AM, definitely concussed, and bleeding all over your carpets. You'd just sighed and swung the door open, cleaned him up, and let him crash on your couch. Went out of your way to even feed him when he woke up. He doesn't deserve such unconditionally kind treatment.
"Show me, then," you instruct and set your medicine kit out on the coffee table.
Driver pulls up the bloody sleeve of his t-shirt, showing you his shoulder.
"Yikes, that looks gnarly." You shuffle closer, fingers soft when you touch the tips to the skin around the cut. It arcs over the bend of his shoulder and down onto his upper bicep, deep enough for him to feel his own skin pull when he tries to move. You press gently, inspecting, and Driver makes sure he stays completely still. Muscles locked in place, being good for you even when waves of pain jolt his entire body with every careful drag of your fingers.
After a moment, you huff and pull back. "Can you still move your arm and shoulder okay? Be careful." Driver tests it out gingerly as instructed, then nods. "Good. Well, it looks really nasty, but I'm pretty sure it's mostly superficial. Only in the sense that you haven't snagged any arteries, ligaments, or muscles. But it's gonna take a good while to heal, and you're gonna need stitches. At least ten of them, I think."
You press your lips together, and Driver knows you're toying with the idea of telling him to seek actual professional medical help instead of your mediocre skills. You seem to know him well enough to know that that's something that can't happen.
"Fine. I think I have some Steri-Strips in here. It's not gonna be as good as real stitches, but those will have to do." You must like sighing a lot tonight, since you do it again and go to rummage through the kit. "You want a drink for the pain? I think I have a bottle of whiskey open somewhere. I have some numbing cream I can use, but this is still gonna hurt like a bitch."
"No," he murmurs, and he has half a mind to ask you to skip the numbing cream too. He wants to feel your hands on his bare skin without any impediment. Whether those touches come with the worst agony imaginable, as long as it's your hands supplying it, he'll revel in the touch all the same.
"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you." You still apply the salve, dabbing it around the edges of the gash after wiping away as much of the blood as you can.
For someone who claims that their own skills can't compare to someone with "real training", you patch him up well. Pinch his skin back together and lay the sticky stitches over with meticulous precision.
You're quiet as you work, and Driver is too. That's another thing he likes, that you don't ask questions. Clearly, you're not an idiot — you must have at least an inkling about what happens in his private life by now. One or two accidents where he gets hurt are permissible and believable, but this is his fifth time seeking your help. The first time you'd asked what happened, he'd said a few words around it, dodging the topic. You hadn't asked again since.
"Okay, all done." You pat his lower bicep, thumb swiping over his skin in a gentle pet. Driver bites back a pitiful noise at the soft contact. Returning to the medkit, you retrieve a pill bottle and place it in his hands. "Take two of those. They're not very strong, but it'll take the edge off enough for you to sleep."
When was the last time somebody tried to look after him?
It was you. 4AM concussion and morning breakfast.
"I think you should crash here tonight," you eventually continue. "I don't know what you were doing on this side of town, but it wouldn't be good to drive anywhere with your arm still numbed."
He almost attempts to argue before flagging and nodding. He hates to put you out like this, but you're right.
You're gone for a couple of minutes and reappear with a blanket and pillows that you leave stacked on the edge of the couch. Then, much to his surprise, you slump down beside where he's sitting.
Sensing his silent curiosity, you give him a small, playful look and nod towards the TV. "What? I was watching something before you turned up and decided to bleed everywhere. I'd like to finish it, if that's okay?" You knock your shoulder gently against his uninjured one, and he can't help the shy smile and nod he gives you in return.
The silence that follows is heavy. Driver keeps his hands flat on his thighs, and you do the same. Tension thick — all he wants to do is reach out and take your hand in his own. He has before, once, but that's while he was wearing his driving gloves. He hasn't gotten to feel you without a barrier of leather. And now that the temptation is laid out before him, it's all he can think about.
(Unbeknownst to him, you'd clocked the way he'd been staring almost immediately. It's sweet, if not ever so slightly frustrating. He's always respectful and kind with you, but there's a smaller part of you that wishes he could voice when he clearly wants something so badly. Even if it's something as innocuous as handholding. Though you don't mind being the one to take initiative.)
Breath stills in his lungs when he watches your fingers flex, then move towards where his hand is resting over his thigh. Slow and soft as you gently slide your fingertips over his wrist, and then upwards until your palm is flat against his and your fingers slot between his own, fingertips lightly pressed against the ridges of his knuckles.
It's a lot.
Human connection is not something he lets himself have often. And now to have you squeezing your interlocked fingers, and pulling just enough to coax your laced hands over towards your own thighs to sit peacefully in your lap...
Driver swallows thickly.
When he takes another needy glance to the side at you, you're already looking back at him.
"I've been thinking about doing this for a while now," you confess and turn your gaze down to your lap. Your free hand moves to stroke over the back of his palm, and Driver has to physically pull his lower lip between his teeth to suppress a noise. Your touch has heat razing up his arm — and his injury be damned — that warmth travels straight towards his core.
"You have?" he questions in return, voice quiet and thick.
You nod and stroke down towards his wrist, fingertips tracing patterns that nearly have him huffing out a groan. "Never felt like the right time. You don't exactly visit much outside of needing me to patch you up."
Your words aren't said harshly, despite him thinking they should be. There's no malice there — and there's feelings and history built up between the two of you; yet you remain undefined. Really, Driver's just trying to spare you from being pulled into the same mess he's in. You deserve a far better life than paranoia and uncertainty. He still always finds his way back to you despite knowing that himself, however.
"I know. I've been working for another movie lately," he murmurs lamely. It's not technically a lie, and like always, you don't press. You just accept his excuse with ease.
"I'm just glad you're here now." Your fingers wrap around his wrist now, skin blissfully warm to the touch and so good. "I think this is as good a time as any."
He's still staring at your joined hands, now fixated on watching the way the tendons in your wrist flex as you clutch him gently. His breath's already speeding up, muscles tight as he forces himself to stay still and let you take it at your pace— which is a lot quicker than what he was expecting it to be, apparently.
"… I really want you to touch me properly," you murmur, in a tone matching his own softness. Too bad he barely notices it, preoccupied with remembering how to breathe.
"You do?" he rasps. His hand trembles in your own, giving away all nerves and eagerness alike.
"I do. You want me to prove it?"
It starts slowly, but eventually Driver nods his head in a few jerky movements.
Unlacing your fingers, you drag your other hand down to encircle his wrist, and lead it until the tips of his fingers whisper against the space between your collarbones. He goes slack in your hold, completely pliant as you skirt his digits down along your sternum. Once you press harder, letting his palm lie flat against your middle, he lets out a shaky breath and flexes his fingers over the fabric covering your belly.
He wants to touch more, slide his hand downward, and edge underneath your clothing. But he needs to be good, show restraint, only go as far as you permit.
"Can you feel how fast my heart is beating right now?" you whisper.
He can. Your pulse radiates through your entire body, thrumming away beneath his fingertips. Driver nods and hums affirmatively, instinctively pushing his hand harder against your skin to feel. "It's because you're touching me. Because it feels so good when you do."
The noise that escapes him is audible this time, a groan caught in the back of his throat.
"Do you want to touch me more?" you ask, as if he could ever say no. Another nod from him, which apparently isn't enough for you this time, since you keep his hand still. Flicking up to meet your gaze, he finds you looking right back at him expectantly.
"Please," he murmurs breathily, the word escaping in a pleading exhale.
His eyes dip to your lips, soft and slightly parted with every breath you take. You must know what you're doing to him, must be able to see the way his arousal is already bulging his pants, just from as little as this. Subconsciously, he tilts closer to you on the couch, adjusting the angle so he can face you.
"Ah," you make a knowing noise, and Driver watches as your lips pull into a small smile. "You want to kiss me first?"
"Always," he answers before you're even finished asking.
You lean in, and he meets you halfway.
The kiss is soft at first, with his hand still pressed to the soft fabric of your navel, your hand around his wrist. It's blissful to finally have you like this. After months of pining, expecting to never know how good you taste.
Then he feels your breath hitch against his mouth, and his restraint lapses. Deepening the kiss, he catches your lower lip between his own, grazes his teeth over the delicate flesh and sucks lightly. It's painfully good, feels like his entire being is singing when you moan into him. Heat pools between his legs, cock confined to the too-tight denim of his jeans.
His hand on your middle slides across to your waist, clutching wantonly. Your own hand moves with him until you're clutching at his forearm and melting into the kiss. Tongue swiping at your bottom lip, he relishes in the mewl you make as you part for him, letting him lick into your mouth with a huffing, low whimper.
Unfortunately, you eventually need to breathe. You break the kiss slowly, pulling back an inch; Driver chases you. Tilts his whole body onto your axis to follow your mouth. You chuckle at his neediness, and the sound of it only makes his cock throb harder.
"Thought you wanted to keep touching me?" you smile against his lips when he ducks in close and peppers your lips with kisses.
"…I do." With that confession, Driver reluctantly pulls back, but still stays close, tucked against your side with his arm over your middle.
Slowly, you resume your teasing, fingers flexing around his forearm and guiding his fingers down further past your waist and over your belly. Driver daren't breathe in anticipation.
On the cramped space of your tiny couch, there isn't much room for you to spread your thighs properly, not with Driver taking up the other half of the loveseat. But there's just enough for you to slip his hand between your legs, letting him feel the molten heat even through your pants.
"Fuck," Driver hisses under his breath. He curls his index and middle fingers, taking back just enough control not to push too far too quickly, rubbing up against the dampness, grinding down with enough friction to make you mewl.
Your grip relaxes, hand drawing up further to wrap around his uninjured bicep and cling. Driver takes that as all the encouragement he needs.
He still takes an aching age to slip his hand back up and deftly unbutton your pants, fingers trembling with eagerness. Maybe he's giving you a chance to stop him, but thankfully, you seem to drink in his touch with as much enthusiasm as he has giving it to you. You're breathing hard, hips tilting up as he slides his hand into your open fly and beneath your underwear.
A thready gasp escapes you at the first press of his fingers against your bare cunt. With how heated you are, his digits are cool when they dip into your slit and directly over your clit. Driver pauses, swallowing hard. You're soaked.
"You're so wet," Driver rasps, taking his time to really feel you. Your slick clings to his digits as he gently increases pressure, notching his movements into tight, slow circles over your clit.
Your head knocks back against the headrest of the couch, nodding dazedly. "I told you I've been thinking about this." He knows you told him that, but he can hardly believe it. A whimper tears from his throat in response, and he ducks his head to press his mouth against your shoulder. Licking up to your neck, neediness on full show as he lathers any inch of your skin he can get his mouth onto with kisses.
His fingers keep pace, occasionally easing off of your clit to slide down into your wetness, stroking over your entrance until you shift your hips, then gathering your slick back up to wetten his caresses.
It doesn't take long until he feels your thighs tremble. He pulls back enough to watch your eyelids flutter closed, tiny worry lines creasing between your brows as you furrow them in pleasure. He knows what that means — you're close.
The angle is bad. The hemline of your pants digs into his wrist enough to cut off blood flow. And the limited amount of space means his fingers are already beginning to cramp. Driver couldn't care less; he'll keep going until he physically isn't able to move, as long as it means you'll give him the blessing of falling apart in his arms.
You do, a minute later. A chanting plea of 'shitshit fuck, please,' falling from your slack jaw as your hips jump up into his hand. He has to angle himself enough to use his own leg to keep you down, so he can maintain speed until you freeze, gasp, then shudder and quiver under his hold. He feels your cunt clench around his fingers when he gathers enough of your wetness to work you through your orgasm.
The sight alone is almost enough to send Driver to ruin.
His own cock pulses; the friction of it just lying beneath his jeans is close to enough stimulation to have him cumming in his pants. Somehow, he restrains himself, too focused on your pleasure to let himself succumb to his own.
You're breathing heavy by the time you go slack, sinking into the back cushion of the couch with a little sigh.
"God. I think you nearly killed me," you say between breaths, trying to calm yourself.
Driver looks up at you with glazed eyes of his own, carefully working his hand out from between your legs and instead tucks up under your shirt, petting over your belly — needing to keep touching you in any way he can.
"Sorry. You okay?" His words are strained, and he knows he most likely looks pathetic. All flushed and sweaty, cock still obscenely hard and twitching between his legs. He knows you can see it, and he doesn't even try to hide his pitiful state.
You glance him over before answering. "I'm okay. How's your arm?"
Truthfully, he'd forgotten about it. He'd had much, much more important things to focus on.
"Still numbed." He peeks down at his bicep, and the extra layer of gauze you'd wrapped around it is still clean and dry. "And there's no more blood, I don't think."
You grin at the confirmation.
"Wonderful, that means I can do this then." Driver doesn't get a chance to answer before you're shucking his hands from your body and gently coaxing him to sit with his back straightened on the couch.
Then, you push yourself up and promptly swing a leg over his to straddle his thighs. He nearly chokes, but makes a quick grab for your hips. Finger's snaking under the raised hem of your shirt to sink his fingers into the soft flesh — his eyes almost roll back into his skull at the give of your skin under him.
"Let it be known that if you weren't injured right now, we'd be doing a lot more than just this," you purr.
There are conflicting emotions within Driver at your words. Guilt claws at him for his poor actions and him technically involving you in them. But without them, he never would've ended up like this, staring up at you as you get yourself acquainted in his lap. But also, without them, if he somehow still did end up on your doorstep, his injury wouldn't be coming between him and heaven incarnate-
You cut off his thinking with a firm, experimental grind of your ass against his cock.
"Oh—fuck," Driver keens, any and all thoughts melting away as you drag your hips forward again. With the decaying remnants of his coherence, he decides it's a good thing you're not going all the way — since he already feels like he's five thrusts away from finishing right then and there.
"Okay?" You ask breathily, slowly your hips to a — just as good, but not nearly enough — pace until Driver is nodding frantically. His fingers dig into your hips, tugging and pulling, trying to get you to grind down against him again.
"More. Keep going. Please. Need you," he grunts, soft voice breaking.
At the same time as he ruts his hips up again, you bear down. And this time, you set a rhythm. A drag of your ass against his dick, forwards and backwards. Blearily, he wishes this were skin-on-skin. That he could feel your softness instead of the gritty friction of his jeans. But then you find just the right angle to have him moaning again.
As if you couldn't be treating him any better, you lower your front against his. More warmth, more of your scent, closer and against him, right where Driver always needs you. You lightly clutch at his shoulders, making sure to steer clear of the injury sight, and roll your hips down again.
Pressure builds at the base of his spine, seeping outward. Muscles in his abdomen tighten as he tries to stave off his climax through sheer willpower alone. Sweat beads on his hairline, and he shudders out a breath, hands sliding from your hips to your ass, helping you lift your weight as you grind.
You moan deliciously when he squeezes. Nuzzling into his neck and licking upwards, you worry your teeth into his throat a moment later, marking him. Distantly, he thinks that Shannon will tease the life out of him for turning up to the garage with a hickey on full display. He quickly decides he doesn't care, and tilts his head to the side, giving you ample room to claim him as you wish. He's all yours, after all. You could do whatever you wanted with him and he'd let you with a shy smile.
"So good," you mumble into his neck, hips circling, obviously chasing your own pleasure as much as his.
Driver suddenly has a new goal: to last long enough to drive you over the edge again with him.
He focuses on moving with you, complimenting your thrusts, and angling just right so the line of his cock catches against your cunt, over and over until he feels your own thrusts stutter.
You drag your teeth up his neck until you're licking and nipping along his jaw. Mewling a small "wanna kiss you again", before slotting your lips against his. Last time, it started soft and slow. This time, however, it skips straight to deep and hungry.
He puts his whole body into the kiss, lifts his chest to press against yours, parts his lips, and lets your tongue into his mouth with a groan. It's nearly too much, holding himself back to the point of overstimulation. Your fingers work their way to the back of his head, scratching at his scalp and threading between the short bristles of his hair. Tugging gently, you angle his head — Driver obeys, pliant under your instruction as you run your tongue along his teeth.
He's close to pleading, clawing at your body for release when he finally feels your thighs clench, bracketing his own. Your grinding turns to short ruts, directly over his throbbing cock.
Hands in his hair, pulling sharply, and nipping at his lips with a moan.
It's over for him, heat unwinding, unable to hold his orgasm back for a second longer. Luckily for him, you follow him right over the edge, shuddering in his arms as he spills his release in his jeans.
Blessedly, you kiss him through it, and only pull back to breathe once you're both firmly sated.
Driver's lips are numb, vision blurry, and he thinks this might actually be the best moment of his life. His hands stroke over your back when you sag against his chest, giving you both a moment.
You pull back wordlessly, press a kiss to his cheek as you slide off his lap and disappear into your tiny bathroom, ambling on still-shaky legs. Returning with wipes, you both spend a while cleaning up in comfortable silence. Yet another addition to his long list of affections for you; you're accepting of his silence, and even join him in it.
Once you're both cleaned, with Driver stripped down to his boxer's after he'd given up trying to salvage his soiled jeans for now, and you in a similar state of undress, you both settle back onto the couch.
"I can't believe you made me miss my show again," you grumble. He glances to the side to watch you smile, returning it with one of his own.
"I'll find a way to make it up to you." You don't challenge him and instead duck to swipe the blanket and pillows from where they'd been knocked to the floor earlier. Tucking the pillow behind his head, Driver watches you unfold the blanket and throw it over the two of you. Then, you turn to tuck yourself into his side, head resting gently against his good shoulder.
"You can get breakfast tomorrow, then. You owe me after fixing you up again, too." You're gazing back at the TV, but when he glances down, he can see the way your eyelids are starting to droop.
He hums affirmatively and winds his arm around the back of your waist, pulling you closer so you can rest your weight against him.
Come morning, he'll happily indulge you. Any excuse to just have a little more time at your side.