♡

“C’mon, c’mon, come with me,” he said, reaching out, grabbing your hand from your side. “Wanna get outta here.”

“Okay, Stallone,” you muttered, obliging as he pulls you through the crowd. The second you were through the door, the cool spring air washed over you. It was the cusp of summer; a thin sliver of sunset still hanging on the horizon, the sky otherwise inky blue. It was still warm out, the heat from the day clinging to the pavement in shimmering blankets. Your chunky heels clicked on the sidewalk, your steps in time with Max’s. 

He gave your hand a squeeze and grumbled out a halfhearted protest of the nickname, looking down at his feet as you walked. Even in the dim night, you caught a glimpse of the pink that spread over his cheeks. “You make me sound so much cooler than I am.”

“Maybe you underestimate yourself,” you replied, flashing a grin. 

He smiled back, and you both came to a stop in front of his car. It was parked in an alley (“How’m I supposed to leave something this gorgeous in a place like this?” he’d whined while parking, lamenting ad infinitum until you’d flicked the back of his head and reminded him that the car was almost forty years old,) and a single streetlight from the junction a block down was the only source of light. 

Max scratched the back of his neck, leaning against his car, hip bumping the window. “Sooo…I’ll drive you home?” 

You had other ideas. Swiftly, you opened the passenger door and pushed him in. 

Breathless, he looked up at you through the curls over his forehead. “You wanna drive…?” he asked, but quickly shut up once you climbed in on top of him. “Oh.” 

You looped your arms around his neck, settling in his lap. Your short skirt rode up slightly, and all that was separating you from him was his dark-wash jeans and your Victoria’s Secret underwear. The thin barriers did little to conceal his arousal. 

There was something about his dick you envied. In a lot of ways, it communicated his desires for him. Of course, not always, and not exactly, but most of the time. It eliminated the need to voice his base wants. It was easy to deal with; straightforward. 

You palmed him, and his eyes fluttered before settling heavily on you. 

“You wanna?” he asked again, his hands landing on your hips, always bigger and heavier than was congruent with his demeanor. “Somebody could—” He swallowed hard. “See.”

You hummed, pressing down harder with the heel of your hand. “I want you, though.”

His expression was enough to tell you that the statement was enough. His fingers slipped up your skirt, skimming over your thighs. “Fuck, uh, m’kay,” he said, nodding. When you leaned forward, sucking a purplish mark onto his jaw, his head fell back against the headrest and his lips parted. He grew increasingly hard under your palm. 

“You want me too?” you goaded, rolling your hips. The space was tight, but the seat was pushed all the way back, so you had a little bit of room to move your heads. “You want me to touch you?”

He nodded jerkily, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. You knew his tells well enough to know that he was trying not to thrust up into your touch. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“Say it,” you murmured, kissing his jaw again. “What do you want?”

“Your hands,” he said tightly. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, then trailed downward, lingering on your lips and tits shamelessly. 

You hummed and wiggled two fingers past his waistband, your fingernails scratching through his pubes. “Where?”

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, chests shuddering. “On my dick.”

Grinning, you undid his fly and pulled his underwear out of the way, freeing his dick. Contrary to what everybody—apparently, and according to a few friends of yours—thought, Max Cooperman was fucking hung. His cock bobbed up, smearing against his t-shirt and making him grimace.

The look on his face utterly fucking transformed, though, when you wrapped your fingers around the shaft, squeezing slightly at the base before turning it into a deliberate, teasing stroke upward. 

“Like that?” you asked innocently, rolling your hips again. 

He shuddered forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder while you worked him. “You’re so fucking hot,” he muttered into your skin. “You’re so much fucking cooler than me.”

You bit back a laugh and let your lips drift to the top of his head. 

Your hand sped up, and so did Max’s breathing.

“M’gonna fuckin’—” he gasped out after a few minutes, his fingers digging into the cushion of your hips. “Ah, ah—”

And you eased off. 

Max looked up at you with utter betrayal in his eyes, lips pink and bitten, jaw loose. “What—fuck—why’d you stop?”

You shrugged and pulled back, grinning at him in the moonlight that shone through the windshield now that the sun had completely disappeared. “Dunno.” 

“I—” he spluttered, recovering the steadiness of his breathing. You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he tried to collect himself, his grip on your hip easing. 

Then you gave him another heard stroke and his fingers dug so deeply into your flesh you were sure the bruises would last a fucking millenia. 

“Oh, I—Jesus,” he gasped, hips bucking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…please—”

You obliged, quickening the pace and making your strokes more deliberate. Beneath your fingers, his skin was hot and you could feel his pulse beneath the surface.

He cried out a little when he came, like he always did. The first time, you’d been worried it was painful, but the embarrassment on his face and the teeth marks on his forearm made it clear that it was just a…quirk. A really hot fucking quirk, admittedly. 

You both wiped up the mess with a strip of fabric left over from a terrible wardrobe malfunction the week prior, and Max took a minute to regulate his heartbeat before climbing out of the car and into the driver’s seat as you settled in the space he once was. 

In the new quiet of the car, you could hear his labored breathing particularly well.

You grinned and clapped a hand on his inner thigh. “C’mon, Stallone, make this beast purr.” 

He flushed, glanced over at you, and started the engine. “Great fucking sound,” he muttered, moving off.

Your smile widened impossibly and you squeezed his thigh again, a giggle escaping past your teeth. “Mm, I can think of some better ones.”

“Aw, fuck you!” he shrieked, head whipping around in half mock-indignation, half embarrassment.

You flicked his shoulder and fake-scolded, “eyes on the road, dude.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” he grumbled, but you caught him peering over at you periodically throughout the drive. And adjusting his pants.

tags: @z0mbie-unic0rn @star-rey-night @ethereallmonkey @kylesdove

there's a swag imbalance here for sure

not beta'd & i'm sleepy so i'm sorry about mistakes

the 1968 Ford Mustang Gt Fastback interior is really not conducive to car sex......heartbreaking, but we persist....

i'm so sorry reader didn't get her rocks off, i was more focused on making max whine and whimper, and i assume her interests were in line with mine, so unforch her panties remain unsoaked (for now)