Driver hates loud places. He hates loud people, he hates loud noises, he hates loud. It’s too overwhelming for him.
You, however, are a loud person who likes loud places. Concerts, carnivals, sports games.
“Driver, Driver, baby, look!” You holler in his ear to be heard over the noise, jumping up and down and pulling on his arm. “Oh my god, look! Come on!”
He looks, disinterested and overwhelmed. “Mmh.” He places a hand on your lower back that rather quickly finds your belt loop so he doesn’t lose you. When you stop, he looks over your head, zoning out.
You pick up a shirt bearing the band’s logo and hold it up to your chest, turning to Driver. “Thoughts?”
He nods, distracted and silent.
“Babe. Driver…” You poke him.Â
Driver finally looks at you, then at the shirt, and nods again. “It’s nice.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, but you’ve already gotten yours out and are offering the booth tender a wad of cash with a wide smile.
You pull the shirt on over the one you’re wearing, beaming as you wind your arm through Driver’s. “So, do you like the music?”
Driver shrugs. “It’s good.”
You pull back, looking up at him. “Oh. Oh, you’re done. Oh, okay. You wanna go? Come on, baby, we can go.”Â
When he stops walking, you look back at him. He meets your eyes and shakes his head, making you knit your eyebrows.
“What? I thought you were ready to go, Driver, you look so done—“
“It’s alright,” he mutters. “You’re not ready yet.”
“But—“
“I said no.”
You move close, kissing his cheek gently. “Thank you, baby. If you change your mind, let me know.”
He nods, looking over your head again.
A few hours later, when you are ready to go, Driver’s the one leading. He pulls you out to the car and gets in, then drives you home in silence. You know he’s appreciative, though—just winding down from his long, loud night. Once he gets you in the door, he’s laying you down on the bed and taking off the shirt from the band that he hates, he’s kissing your neck, and gently fucking into you, his thanks for letting him leave the concert.
His grunts are quiet, sweet, low against your ear. He mutters quietly, biting at your throat, marking you up with nips. His hands stay on your hips, holding you tight. It’s probably bruising, but you can’t bring yourself to care—after all, he sat through a night of discomfort so you could have fun, so now you get return the favor and do it for him.
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