#driver smut

∘₊✧ Sierra Six

Six holds you down with his big, strong hands. He talks you through it, firm but quiet, his whispered voice cracking under the strain of how turned on he is — but he won’t pay any attention to his own needs when you haven’t experienced this before and he gets to be the first to show you such pleasures. There’s something about the responsibility of it that thrills him endlessly. No one will ever do it as good as him, and he wants to make damn sure you know that. He makes you feel completely secure, but also like there’s only one way to end this, and that’s you cumming over and over on his tongue and fingers until he’s satisfied he’s taught you enough of how good it can feel. He doesn’t even care whether you’re coherent enough to see to his needs after, that’s unimportant right now — he just wants to make you feel good.

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∘₊✧ Holland March

Holland smirks when he finds out you’ve never been eaten out before. Not because it’s funny, but because he’s smug. And why is he so smug, you might ask? Because this is where Holland really gets the chance to shine. He’s very good with his hands, but depending on how much he’s had to drink or how distracted he is by a case or how his grief is hitting him that day, his dick doesn’t always work the way he wants it too. It’s complicated. But he still always wants to satisfy you, so get his head between your legs, with a last puff of his cigarette for good luck, the smoke swirling over your glistening folds, and he goes to town. And he won’t stop until your fingers are tugging at his hair and your thighs are clamped around his head for at least the second or third time. You’ll never feel anything like Holland’s tongue. It’s magic.

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∘₊✧ Lars Lindstrom

Lars is nervous, because it’s his first time, too. But he’s glad you’re on this journey of intimacy together, and the trust he has for you surpasses any worries he might feel about getting it wrong or simply not being good at it. More than anything, Lars wants to please you, so when he dips between your thighs, careful fingers brushing over your slicked skin, he uses his fingers to expose your clit and leans in, starting slow. But god is it heavenly. His tongue is so delicate, so precise, he has you gripping the bedsheets in tight fists, crying out his name as he laps carefully but perfectly at your bundle of nerves. Your back arches as he changes pace, tries different pressures and directions… oh he’s a natural and you would beg for him to do this again — only you won’t need to because Lars gets a real taste for making you squirm for his tongue and his touch.

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∘₊✧ Ryland Grace

Ryland considers your inexperience with receiving oral sex carefully before he makes a move in that direction. He doesn’t consider you an experiment, but he likes to keep track of exactly how to please you, and experiment with what works, and therefore what else might satisfy you. He’s obsessed with your pleasure. He knows you love his fingers, that you’d have him pumping his thick middle finger into your soaked pussy knuckle deep every single night if you could, and he always obliges when the time comes. So he starts there, fucking into you with those precise fingers, using exactly the right formula to get you off so good. But just as he gets you going this time, he stops. Expecting your protest, he nervously brings his slick coated finger to his mouth and sucks it clean, moaning around it, his eyes sliding shut. ‘Mmh… please can I taste you?’ he begs, long eyelashes fluttering under your surprised gaze. ‘I’ve done the math and I think you’ll like it...’ And really, how could anyone say no to that? 

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∘₊✧ Colt Seavers

Making out with Colt is always messy. Sex is messy. When he’s lost in kissing you, it’s sloppy and needy — and while sloppy would usually equate to gross, this is anything but. Colt’s handsy and passionate and his hair is always a mess by the end of the night (as is yours thanks to him), he licks and he bites (gently), and there are clothes strewn all over multiple rooms. You can’t even remember half the positions you’ve been in because it’s so fluid and free with him; he finds it exhilarating to pleasure you and just lets all the tensions of life go when he’s buried inside. So the thought of being the first to make you unravel with his tongue has him particularly excited. He’ll take you for a romantic drive, finding somewhere to demonstrate a few donuts, park up looking pleased with himself and kiss you fiercely, then check it’s okay before eating you like a starved man. You’ll have one foot on the steering wheel, the other leg hooked over his shoulders, underwear lost somewhere in the footwell that he’ll find tomorrow. But right now your pussy is all he’s interested in and he’s starved of it.

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∘₊✧ Driver

As if his kisses aren’t sensual enough, Driver’s oral skills don’t stop at getting you both close to orgasm  (or in some cases for him, reaching orgasm) with just his tongue brushing against yours. So imagine his face when you’re making out, hot and heavy, and he begins to press his lips to your neck, unfasten your shirt, push lower… and as you realise where he’s headed you breathe out, ‘Wait- I’ve never done this before-’ Driver freezes, tilts his head up at you, and his sparkling eyes widen for a moment. He tilts his head and you know it’s a silent question; Do you want to? You nod. He resumes. And let’s just say he’s not the only one cumming hard while his lips are on you tonight.

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∘₊✧ Henry Letham

Henry takes his time. He’s in no hurry. He asks casually if you’ve ever cum on somebody’s tongue before and when you say no, he just looks away, thoughtful. ‘You wanna?’ he asks after another drag of his cigarette, still not looking at you while he waits patiently for your answer. And when it comes, affirming that you do want to, with him, he huffs out some vague acknowledgement, stubs out the remainder of his cigarette, faces you, and with the most gentle hands, lays you back. He removes your clothes like he’s making a work of art just by revealing your body, and his lips on your bare skin are hungry and desperate and filled with passion for this particular piece. He fingerfucks you first, preparing you as he watches your pussy take his slim digits, licking his lips before leaning in and finishing you with the most thorough strokes of his tongue. He slows as you breathe through the aftershocks, and then he sits back in his previous position against the wall, pants feeling a little tighter, leaving you to recover beside him as he lights up again. You’re dying to know what he’ll ask you next.

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∘₊✧ Luke Glanton

Luke wants you to feel special, as special as you are to him. He wants you, of course, but he also wants to make sure you feel ready. So after riding around on his motorbike, legs and arms clamped around his hips and chest, the vibration of the engine hitting your core in a way you didn’t expect, he can sense you’re turned on. He pulls over somewhere desolate, kneels beside his parked bike and pulls you around to face him, perched on the seat, before spreading your legs with his rough hands, pushing your underwear aside and burying his head under your skirt. It’s not long until you’re rutting back against his tongue, one hand tangled in his bleach blonde hair as the other grips the seat of his bike that you’re only half sitting on now, to keep yourself tethered. He comes up to kiss you when you’ve come undone for him; you taste so good he can’t keep it to himself. And then you ride back off into the night together.

Driver was pretty good at sensing when it was that time of the month.

So when you didn't wake up your usual time on a weekend, he checked you were okay, noting your curled up form in bed and the grumble that was not directed to him but to everything else.

He made you both a quick breakfast after scouting the bathroom, storing in his head that you were nearly out of your period products.

That's why he's currently in Big 6 Market, picking out everything he knew you'd need as well as secretly want, as if he could read your mind.

After picking out your products he made sure to grab some of your favourite snacks before he heading home.

Today your cramps were particularly painful, ones that prevented you from moving, sure, you could get up and go to the toilet–but even that was frustrating.

Driver always took care of you silently. He didn't need to guide you with words or ensure that everything would be okay.

He just needed to be your safe space.

And considering he's been your partner for nearly a year now, he's definitely your safe space. No matter the situation.

Whether it's watching over you in public with a protective glare or if it's taking care of you when the knives attacking your body are too much to handle. Yes. That is how you'd describe being on your period, like your being stabbed.

He comes back to your shared apartment to find you on the couch, watching TV with a hidden (yet obvious to him) sour expression.

Placing the brown bag on the kitchen counter, he unzips his signature, pale jacket and hangs it up before bringing the bag over to you.

"Ooh? What's in it?" You wondered, even though you looked straight in the bag anyway, your eyes immediately landing on the products and snacks. "What the– how'd you know?"

"I can just feel it. You were nearly out." He pursed his lips, like it should be obvious that he knows when your cycle starts and ends. Especially when irregular.

"Oh. Well, i appreciate it baby." You smile soflty and he does too.

Before you could say anything else he plopped off to the kitchen. Thats when you heard the tap running and the cabinet door open, you then saw the familiar glass of water and painkillers in his hands when he came back.

"You got any work at the shop today?" You asked–hopeful that he didn't so you could spend time with him–while gulping down the paracetamol with some water.

"Uh um." He shook his head, sitting next to your bundled up self on the couch.

You both sat in silence for a moment, which was a normal thing for you two. A relationship with Driver meant that peace was something that came naturally, even if you yourself wasn't quiet.

He didn't care if you were loud and liked rambling. After all, he loved listening to you. That also applies to your sex life.

Speaking of sex...

"I read that sexual intercourse during menstruation relieves period pain." He didn't look at you, just said it casually.

"It probably does.." You agreed, thinking he was just saying it, which he was, but it came with intentions.

You also didn't want to think about the mess that followed afterwards. You then turned your head to look at Driver, only then noticing his disappointed expression.

"Ohh.. you want to.." you realised. "But.. what about the mess? And I mean.. it's blood.. outa my body.." you were a little self concious of the thought of the act, despite it being with your favourite person.

Thats what you're concerned about? He thought to himself. "It's natural."

Well you couldn't deny that...

In truth you did want to be able to have sex with him, even if it was that time of the month. You loved having sex with him!

"You don't have to." Is he.. pouting!?

You swore you could see that slight grump in his look, he almost looked like a puppy being denied treats which honestly... sounds pretty accurate the more you dwell on it.

Finally caving, "Okay, but how would we do it?"

Driver didn't answer as he got up, picking you up by the waist and hoisting you over his shoulder which you both did and did not appreciate.

He was about to take you on a ride. Literally.

Once inside your shared bedroom, he closed the curtains before carefully placing you on the bed, disappearing into the bathroom to come out minutes later with a dark towel and a box of tissues.

Of course he was smart about this.

You could feel yourself aching already, just seeing him this eager.

Sharing a few heated kisses while he sat on the edge of the bed, he felt himself tent in his pants before he crawled onto the bed, having taken his shoes off.

God, he's so easy.

He pressed his lips against yours until he was aching in his jeans. He gently guided you to sit, placing the towel on the bed and lying on his back so you could take your place straddling his thighs. (Yes, the towel is under his butt, just incase)

It was like you belonged on top of him, because you did. He's yours.

"You sure about this, Love?" You had to make sure before doing anything.

Driver answered you by guiding your hand to the prominent bulge in his jeans, he grunted, relaxing his head against the pillows before his hands moved to help you remove your shorts.

The embarrassment washed over you like a flash flood when you had to remove your underwear.

He didn't care. He just wanted to feel you.

A brush of his fingers along your inner thigh caused you to instinctively spread wider on his lap. He lightly pressed the tips of his index and middle fingers against your needy clit.

You moaned faintly, hands grabbing at the air as you tried to keep upright. You were incredibly high on endorphins and incredibly sensitive.

He slowly slid his fingers through your wet folds, gathering all of what was there, spreading it, buttering you up before circling the bundle of nerves.

Muffled whimpers were trapped inside your mouth as you bit down on your bottom lip. That's when you felt his free hand reach up, thumb tugging at the same lip, opening your mouth.

"I like listening to you."

Christ, if you didn't know any better you could've came right then and there.

You just nodded, letting your hips buck against his hand slightly, moans now freely falling from your throat as he held your jaw open.

He watched in silent awe as blood and slick coated the tips of his fingers.

Driver didn't think seeing such would turn him on but it definitely did. You cried out as he slipped his middle finger inside you, not expecting the sudden fullness.

Soon enough he added his ring finger, pumping them into the sopping canal as you grinded your hips against his knuckles, your head tipping back just like your eyes.

His cock was throbbing in his pants listening to the wet squelching of your pussy as well as the way you sung out in pleasure.

Seeing you in such a state was all he needed.

His fingers curled against that spongy spot inside you, causing you to jerk against him, walls clenching when you cried out, your cunt desperate to suck his digits deep.

Your body was melting into his touch, addicted to the feeling–your heart could jump out of your chest with how fast it was beating.

"Aahh.. I'm gonna–" you didn't get change to finish as the hand gripping your jaw dragged you down, mashing your lips together as his fingers caressed that spot inside you.

It was like a firework went off within your body when you came, moaning on his tongue while your hips bucked against his fingers, riding out your orgasm.

Driver didn't stop until you started squirming, slowly pulling out his fingers.

Fuck.

His dick twitched in his jeans. Seeing his fingers coated in your juices and blood nearly got him there, but he knew when to resist.

"You alright?" He asked gently.

Using the tissue from earlier he cleaned between your legs as well as his fingers, yours and his skin was stained–but, he wasn't done with you yet.

You nodded, "Mh hm. I didn't think it could feel that good.." you were planning to collapse beside him, the adrenaline making you forget he hadn't came; you were used to him coming untouched.

So, when you heard the sound of his zipper you shivered, goosbumps dancing along your skin.

You dipped your head onto his shoulder, looking down between the two of your bodies, watching as he pulled his erection from the confines of the denim.

A hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, Driver's breath hitched as he felt your fingers brush against the short, light blonde hairs trailing along his abdomen.

He swallowed. Hard. Breathing ragged.

Noticing that your thighs were faintly trembling, he noted that–if not you yourself–your legs were probably tired from being on top for so long.

His hands found your hips and he carefully rolled you over so you were lying on your back, hair splayed against the pillows underneath your head.

Lord above, how can you look this fucking attractive?

You moan soflty when his dick lightly taps against your core, hips chasing it, feeling your body tingle all over. Orgasms truly did relieve pain, maybe you should do this more often.

Holding his shaft, he let it slip and slide between your folds, lathering it up with you.

Driver knew he'd need to be careful with what he does, not only for your sake but because if he didn't control himself he'd definitely spill his load all over you rather than inside you.

You whined as you watched him lube himself up with all of your excretions. "Please.." you pleaded, loving the glint in his eyes when you did as such.

Dragging his tip to your entrance, his hands slithered up your thighs, holding and folding your legs at the back of your knees, leaning forward with a moan as his cock sheathed itself inside you.

He pistoned his hips, watching the slow thrusts as his cock began to get painted a dark red, it wasn't exactly pretty, not to the normal person–no.

To him? It was fucking breathtaking.

It was as if he had figured out how to be closer to you than ever. If anything, he has, he was thrusting away the pain that came with menstruation and turning it into immense pleasure.

He could tell it was good by the way you moaned loudly, crying out as the sound of skin slapping against one another vocalised in the bedroom.

"Nnh.. Ohhh- hmh–!" A hand came up to cover your mouth, containing the sounds of pleasure into the palm of his hand.

As much as he loved hearing you, he didn't want you to alert the whole world of what he was doing.

That action just made your walls even more slippery around him, and your reaction just made his dick pulse inside you, his pace increasing just a tad; a smirk made its way to his face, small, but still hot.

You whined into his palm as he squeezed your face, watching his expression. Driver was hitting all of the right spots; all spots sensitive and tender from your cycle.

As you focused on the sound of his hitched breath and low grunts you felt that familiar bubbling heat within you spill over.

With one final drive of his hips, he couldn't contain the whimper that left his throat, your sopping cunt clutching at his cock like a vice as you climaxed, crying into his hand.

Driver easily followed you right after, finally allowing himself that release he had been holding in his balls since he started kissing you–he replaced his hand with his mouth as he spilled into you, arms pulling you as close as possible.

Your breath mingled with his as you came down from that high, bliss overwhelming your senses and you practically passed out against the pillows.

You didn't want to even think about how messy it might be.

In fact, you didn't have to worry about that, Driver was already on the move to get you cleaned up. You knew he had a short recovery period, which is ironic considering how quickly he orgasms when not holding it.

Driver cleaned you with a warm, damp washcloth, sure to be gentle with you especially between your folds. You were thankful for the choice of the dark towel underneath because it ensured the sheets wouldn't be stained.

Once both clean he helped you into the shower–having taken all of your previous clothes off to wash them–and for the first half he changed the bedsheets for the pair of you before stepping in with you.

"Are you okay?" You heard his voice behind you, soft.

"Mhm. That was really good. Thank you.. we.. should do that more often." You smiled and he returned it, the shower spraying against yours and his skin.

You've never felt as close to him as you do now.

• Extra notes: i am lowkey not going to apologise if driver is not the way people want him to be as this is how I perceive him... also I had nightcall on repeat while proof reading this.

at their insistence, he stayed put for a few moments, giving a nod in response to the medical team’s questions. his eyes met yours briefly.

for a moment, the world seemed to blur. everyone else fell out of focus, except for him. maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was just your imagination—but you could’ve sworn you saw the barest curve of a smile on his face. a private acknowledgement, meant just for you.

“alright, great work everyone!” kristoff, the director, clapped his hands a few times, breaking the private trance. “don’t forget! we’re back here tomorrow at six, sharp! great work today, guys. great work.”

you nodded briefly at the director, already turned towards your trailer to avoid being pulled into another conversation. while you normally loved to speak, especially about your work and passion, there was something you were more interested in that evening.

you lingered behind, letting your steps slow without making it obvious. your eyes flicked back, and there he was again. wearing that same faint, almost smug smile, held just long enough for you to catch it. it was just a little more deliberate than last time, enough for you to be sure that it was directed to you. meant for you.

you responded with a subtle motion toward your trailer, careful and casual. his nod back was just as discreet, and the stupid little grin that crept onto your face felt completely justified.

by the time you got to your trailer, the chaos of the set felt distant, replaced by the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the sound of the door shutting behind you. you leaned back against it for a second, trying to let your blood settle.

the adrenaline from the stunt, even as a bystander, hadn’t left you completely. seeing the way he handled the car, twisting and turning as if it was an extension of himself… it left a feeling in your chest that you didn’t even bother trying to name. you’d spent the last few weeks trying not to name it.

you kicked off your shoes, almost walking past before doubling back to rearrange them a little bit neater. the smell of leather and coffee was strong in the trailer, a mix of all the costumes and cheap drink you’d consumed in the past weeks. when a short knock sounded on the door, you weren’t surprised.

you merely turned and found him slipping inside the trailer before anyone caught him. he still had some grease and fake soot on his face—remnants from the stunt he’d just completed. his short hair was sticking up in places, like he hadn’t bothered to smooth it down after removing his helmet.

“hey there, hotshot,” you smirked teasingly, leaning your hip sideways against the inside of the trailer. “i was wondering how long it’d take for you to get here.”

your grin widened when he didn’t even roll his eyes in response to the teasing. instead his smirk turned sharper, and your chest tightened at the sight.

“would’ve been quicker if i could teleport,” he said.

you laughed at that, head tipped back as you couldn’t hold it in anymore. you saw the crinkle in his own eyes before he stepped in towards you. your laughter died, but the smile remained on both of your faces as the distance between you closed in two steps.

“hey,” you whispered, unable to stand the silence.

your hand lifted, brushing lightly over the back of his neck. you watched almost in awe as he leaned into it, lashes fluttering shut for a moment. he didn’t use words, but you could understand him anyways. your noses nearly touched, breaths mingling as your lips drew nearer.

you closed the gap, mouth moving over his slowly at first. getting reacquainted after an entire day apart. your other hand lifted to graze his hip, and you pulled him closer. his hips knocked into yours and he let out a sound so sweet that you had to pry apart his lips to drink it up. the hand on his hip drifted to the small of his back, before dipping lower and resting on the curve of his ass.

the corners of his lips tipped up enough just for you to feel it into the kiss. you grinned back, nipping his lower lip before letting your lips trail down. you settled your lips against a spot below his neck where a fading hickey still remained. 

“makeup department give you any trouble?” you murmured against his skin.

“not as much as medical,” he responded quietly after a moment.

you smiled and bit the spot again, before soothing the sting with a swipe of your tongue.

he let out a low hiss, his fingers tangling into your hair as you began to suck the spot. after a few moments, he began to get impatient, if the way he repeatedly tugged on your hair was any indication.

“eager,” you teased with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to his pulse point.

“we’re on a time constraint,” he responded, sharply tugging at your hair once again. “i’d rather not have the janitors walk in on us again.”

“that was one time,” you defended yourself while smiling stupidly. “and they never recognized you. besides, i thought i apologized for that already. multiple times.”

“you did,” he said. “but i’ll still bring it up.”

your eyes crinkled with your grin, but you let him back you up onto the couch in your trailer. the leather creaked below you as you sat down, getting comfortable. you pulled your shirt off and threw it aside, arms spread over the back of the couch as you looked up at him.

he was standing still above you, brows slightly furrowed as if he was contemplating something.

“what?” you laughed. “getting cold feet after four weeks of this?”

he shook his head simply, taking off his own shirt as well before settling onto your lap, his knees on either side of your thighs. you raised a brow, about to ask him if you should take your pants off first, when he rocked his hips suddenly.

the moan you let out was echoed by him, a sudden sound in the quiet of the trailer.

“fuck,” you murmured, bringing both hands around to settle onto his hips. you tilted your head back, letting him come down to mark the column of your throat.

“let’s do it like this,” he said against your skin.

your response was lost as he rubbed his clothed erection against your own, this time more deliberately.

“y-yeah,” you managed to ground out. “like this is perfectly fine.”

your hands on his hips guided his slow rocking, while your own hips twitched upwards to chase more of that friction and meet him in the middle. your mouths were pressed together again in a kiss, but it was little more than an exchange of moans and heavy breaths. he ground his hips faster, and you could feel his cock twitch despite the layers between you.

you wanted to say something, anything, but your brain had short circuited so that nothing was clear except for him and the way he moved against you. the way he fit, like a missing puzzle piece.

one of your hands slid down from his hips to the globe of his ass, and squeezed.

“fuck,” he responded breathily into your own mouth.

you felt him reposition himself slightly, reangle just so. in a way that the friction was nearly unbearable as he continued his motions. the shape of his cock was already familiar to you, but the way it pressed against your own like this had to be a form of heaven.

“i’m—fuck, i could cum like this,” he murmured, lips wet as he spoke against yours.

“then do it,” you responded, the breath suddenly knocked out of your lungs. just the thought of bringing him over the edge like this was enough to make your cock twitch in your pants.

he bit your jaw, and then picked up the pace once more. you rocked your hips up each time, meeting him in the middle of each movement. the layers of fabric between the two of you, and the way you could still feel the outline of his cock made you desperate for relief. you rubbed against him quicker, whispering a mixture of honey-slick encouragement. you didn’t even think they made sense, the words leaving your mouth, but you were too far gone to even care.

you felt him drop his head against the crook of your neck, just barely covering up the sound of his broken moan as his movements slowed down. it took a few moments for your lust-addled brain to catch up, but then you felt the wetness of his pants against your own. heat rolled low in your stomach, and it didn’t take long for you to follow him over the edge.

you panted quietly, one hand rubbing his lower back while the other brushed the short hair along his nape. when he finally lifted his head, his forehead was drenched in sweat, and he was flushed a pretty pink. he looked wrecked, considering you guys hadn’t even taken all of your clothes off. you were sure that you didn’t look any better.

you couldn’t help but brush back some of the sweaty strands against his forehead. “remind me to do this again soon.”

this time he rolled his eyes, a quiet laugh escaping him. “if you don’t get dressed and get out of here before the janitors come by, there won’t be anything happening soon.”

you watched with a fond smile as he got up, collecting a shirt off the ground and prepared to make his way back to his car. you stayed close behind him the entire way.

Ryland chooses that exact moment to sidle up to you, already trying to suppress a smile. “Can I—”

You don’t let him finish the line. “That’s him.”

“Who? Who’s him?”

This is about to turn into a ‘Who’s on First’ bit, so you try to discreetly angle your head at the man across the room. “Him. Leaning on the wall. He’s—the guy. When you…on our way home, that one night, in the car. The one I. Looked at.”

To anyone else, the explanation would mean absolutely nothing. But he nods, looking on thoughtfully. “Oh.”

“We can go home, if you want,” you rush out, because this is already causing a crowded tangle of emotions to crop up in your chest, the memory of Ryland’s fingers inside of you and your eyes glued to the rearview mirror, the nod.

When he finally looks back at you, his expression is a touch confused. “No, what? Why? You’re wearing your new boots, you’ve been excited all week to wear them out.”

This is true. They’re black, with chunky heels and leather that stretches all the way up to the knee. You are, if you’re being completely objective about it, very hot in them, particularly since you’ve paired them with your black miniskirt, the same one you wore the first time the two of you played this game. No underwear, obviously. Your tits are also practically spilling out of your strappy top, all of which is to say that you have purposefully dressed in a way that you know riles him up. “Well, yeah, but. I don’t know, this feels a little weird.” There is an unspoken addendum to this statement: it feels weird because you like it, and there’s still some uncertainty as to whether you should or not.

“Doesn’t have to be. I mean, you did kind of…” Something lights up in his eyes, then, right in the middle of the sentence he never finishes. It’s a dangerous look, because it means—“Go up to him.”

“Um. What?”

“Go up to him,” he repeats. “Ask him to dance. We’re strangers, remember?” His smile widens, as if he thinks he’s just had an absolutely fantastic idea.

You shift next to him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He grabs your hand and squeezes. “And if it sucks, or it’s uncomfortable, or whatever—we can go home. Or to another bar, if you want. Okay?”

This is—you take a beat to try and gather your thoughts. There’s a touch of anxiety there, of course; but the most overwhelming thing is the excitement curling through your stomach, the idea of Ryland watching you, of taking this little game the two of you like to play and pushing it to its limits. “Okay,” you finally reply. “Okay.”

His free hand slides to the small of your back as his head dips down to your ear. You can almost feel the upward curve of his lips against the shell of it. “Just, you know. Remember who you’re going home with.”

A deep breath, a few beats, and then you’re pushing away from the bar counter, rounding the corner of it, anxiety slowly dimming with each step. He’s watching you—they’re both watching you, as you walk up to the man who’s leaning against the wall.

“Hi.”

There’s the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips, but otherwise he doesn’t react, doesn’t move his hands out from his pockets. Alright. The ball is firmly in your court, it seems. You are starting to understand why Ryland defaults to cheesy pickup lines when the two of you do this.

You don’t know how you know this, but you think a direct approach will work best. “Buy me a drink?”

He looks down at you, considering this, before the corners of his mouth turn up, and he nods, pushing off of the wall. You follow him to the bar. He doesn’t even ask what you want, just quietly orders it from the bartender, and soon he’s handing you an amber-colored shot. Nothing for him, apparently, because his hands return to his pockets once you take it from him.

You knock it back. It burns, delightfully, in the back of your throat, all the way through your chest, until it sits, warm and tingling, in your gut. “A shot, huh? Not a proper drink?”

“Leaves your hands free,” he says simply.

Oh. That’s—you set the glass down, and your hand is trembling as you do it, just a little bit. He doesn’t watch the movement. His eyes are still trained on your face, and you let yourself stare back at him for a moment. Your thighs rub together, before you’re even able to think about it. “Free for what?”

His smile grows by a fraction. The toothpick moves as it happens. You wonder what it tastes like, if there had been something on the end of it before he put it in his mouth, or if it would simply taste of wood and his saliva.

The song transitions; the beat of it is driving and almost sultry. It seems like a sign, so you turn around and walk onto the dance floor, weaving your way through the crowd, not even checking to see if he’s still behind you. He is, of course he is, when you turn around to face him. You bring your hands up and smooth them over the collar of his jacket, his shoulders.

As you step closer, his own hands slip out of his pockets, reaching forward and sliding onto your hips. The feeling makes you close that last little bit of distance, and then you’re practically flush against him. You take a moment to let the pulsing bass filter through you, to find the rhythm before you start moving. He looks down at you the whole time, as your body rocks and drags and rolls into him; there’s one particular flourish of your hips that allows you to feel the slowly growing hardness there, pressed against your pelvis, and his fingers just barely tighten in their grip.

His head dips. The movement is so minute, but you clock it immediately, and your face tilts up in response, reflexively, and you’re still grinding against him. The toothpick seems like a problem, you think distantly. Maybe you should take it out, throw it on the floor or tuck it behind his ear—

A different set of hands finds your sides; another body is pressed into your back; a nose nudges into the side of your head; and then Ryland is murmuring feverishly into your ear, tugging you into him. “Revising the idea, couldn’t do it, couldn’t wait—”

You lean your head back, brushing your cheek against his. “Do you—should we leave?”

There’s no answer, at least not a spoken one, because then his mouth is dropping to the side of your neck, his tongue is laving against your thrumming pulse, licking up the salty sweat and feeling the whimper that vibrates through your vocal cords. You’re taking that as a ‘no.’

Your fingers slide across the jacket lying beneath them, gliding up to feel the soft skin of the man’s neck, the line of his jaw, the brush of his hair. The hands at your hips squeeze again, and Ryland’s are dancing all over you, like they can’t quite decide where they’d like to be, because they simply want to be everywhere: your sides, your ribs, your chest, your stomach. At one point, they glide over the other set of hands before reaching forward to knead your thighs. The thought of them on top of each other, skin on skin, Ryland’s fingers brushing over this other man’s knuckles, makes a quiet moan fly out of your lips.

The man in front of you is still just watching your face, studying the half-lids of your eyes and the way your lips part when Ryland brushes his teeth against your throat. One of your thumbs drags down, over the man’s jaw and down to his Adam’s apple, so you can feel it bob up-and-down as he swallows. He does it again, just for you. You are realizing that there really should have been more of a conversation before this all happened, because you feel a bit like you’re flying in the dark here, and it is becoming increasingly clear that there is quite a lot you would like to do.

“Still good?” Ryland half-whispers. His voice is a little shaky, and you might mistake it for hesitation or discomfort if it weren’t for the hardness pressed against the swell of your ass.

You nod and turn your head so you can look at him. His face is entirely flushed, lips shining from biting and sucking at your neck, and his glasses are already a mess. He searches your expression with so much care and love that all you can do is nod again and then sigh when he cranes his head down and kisses you, hot and heavy and desperate. There’s a slight pressure, then, as he gently guides you forward, until you’re flush against the man in front of you again, so close that you can feel the tip of his nose against your temple while Ryland traces the curve of your teeth with his tongue.

Fingers slip underneath the hem of your shirt. You can hear him, the exhale he lets out when he feels the sliver of skin there, can sense the warmth of it as it brushes over your cheek. The rhythm of your bodies probably doesn’t even match the music, not anymore, but the pace of it is heady and dizzying, and you wonder if you’d even be able to stay standing if it weren’t for the two bodies sandwiching you, keeping you upright.

Ryland is, apparently, getting a little annoyed at the current angle, because he steps back to grab you by the shoulders and turn you around to face him. You don’t even get a proper chance to look him over; he’s already threading his fingers into your hair and licking into your mouth, pressing you back into the other man—you should probably ask him for his name, at some point, if this keeps going at the rate it has been—who, after a beat, slides one of his hands around your front, thumbing at your waistband. Something in your brain just—shuts off, then, when you feel Ryland come even closer to you, pressing into the hand on your stomach, and your own comes up to cradle the back of his head, just to have something to hold onto.

Your head tips back, resting on the man’s shoulder, as a mouth travels down the column of your throat again. It lolls to the side, and then your forehead is pressing into his neck. You swear you can feel his pulse jumping underneath his skin there, can smell the tang of the sweat lining his jugular. If you just—if you tilted up, just a little, maybe you could get a taste—just to see what it would be like, if it would slake the thirst building up in every nerve ending—

You do not. Instead, your other hand travels down, grazing over his arm until it reaches the hand still on your hip, and your fingers slot into the spaces between his. The hitch in his breath is quiet, so quiet, and if you were further away you would never know it happened; but here, pressed against his skin, it crowds your senses.

“I want—I want—” You can’t even finish the sentence, because the want is all-consuming, and the sudden force of it overwhelms you, so much that you have to turn your head away, just to try and gather what little thought remains in your head.

There’s a mouth at your ear, then, a voice: “What? What do you want?”

Part of you almost feels ashamed that you cannot discern whose voice it is, that you don’t bother trying to figure it out before you respond. “Need you.” It doesn’t even answer the question, not really, both because it had originally been about what you wanted, not needed, and because there is no specification as to who exactly it is that you need in that moment.

A response does not come; not yet. So you try to realign yourself with the music in an effort to get your bearings, to communicate the desire that is collecting in every span and divot of you, still holding the hand at your hip and the back of Ryland’s head. The first sensation you manage to discern is how deeply your chest aches to be touched; the second is the slick heat gathering in between your thighs; the third is the twin desires pressed against either side of you as you swivel your hips to the driving bass.

Ryland brings his head back up to kiss you. His hands trace the curve of your neck, your shoulders, and then one hand keeps going, down, down, down, until it splays over the interspaced fingers there on your hip. He squeezes, and you can feel his knuckles against your thigh, which means that his hand is wrapped around more than just your own, and you can feel the length of him twitch against you—“I want,” you gasp out, “I need to think, can’t think like this.”

“Yeah, yep, sort of feeling the same way,” he mumbles against your lips, fervently nodding. “Are we—this is—okay, somewhere quieter first, I think, then we can.”

He doesn’t actually finish the sentence, but you have a sense of where it was heading. “Alright, um, bathroom? I can’t, I mean, I already can’t think super well,” particularly because the three of you are still moving, still grinding against each other, even as this conversation continues, “and that’s the only thing coming to me right now.” And you don’t necessarily want to leave, just yet, but that seems obvious enough to leave it unsaid.

For the first time since this whole thing began on the dance floor—well, maybe it’s the second, you’re still not really sure—the man behind you speaks. “I know a spot.”

You look up at Ryland. You’re decently confident that he is into all of this, if the past…however many minutes was indicative of anything; but this is much further than the game the two of you play sometimes on a night out, than the way he’s increasingly gotten bolder and bolder about touching you in public. “I’m good with that if you are,” you tell him, because you are, you are very much fine with all of this, but only if he wants it, too.

God, his pupils are so wide, you realize, still waiting for him to respond. And his hand is still on yours, and his, still clutching them both. Finally, he nods, and then he flicks his eyes up to the man behind you. His fingers tighten. “Lead the way.”

It’s perfect timing, really, because the music changes, and people are cheering excitedly and flooding onto the floor, and it must be a crowd favorite, or something, but you can’t discern it in your current state. He guides you both through the undulating mass of bodies, past the bar, down a hallway, up a set of stairs. Jesus, this place is huge, and he must be a regular here, to know about this.

He holds the door to the men’s room open. It’s smart; likely less trafficked than the women’s restroom, particularly up here where it’s tucked away. After he follows the two of you in, he wordlessly starts checking the stalls, and you’re left wondering if this is a regular occurrence for him. It would explain his quiet acceptance, the way he’s just been going along with it all.

You and Ryland look at each other. The strangeness of the situation, the suddenness of it, hits you both simultaneously, and after a beat the two of you start laughing. “This is sort of insane,” you smile, drawing a hand down his upper arm. “Is this—are you good? With. All of this.”

His face is still flushed as he nods. You must look a little doubtful, because then he’s rushing out, “Yes, yeah—sorry, there’s, it’s. I’m going through a lot of self-discovery, at the moment.”

No kidding. “We can still leave, if you want. If it’s too much.”

“No,” he says, almost forcefully, and it catches you by surprise. “I told you, when we first started doing this. Want to show you a good time.”

Your eyes soften, because it still amazes you, sometimes, how single-minded he is about making you feel good, making you happy. “It’s only good for me if it’s good for you, you know.”

His hand comes up to smooth over your hair. “It is. This is—it’s very good. Surprisingly good. You’re corrupting me,” he grins. “Just. I don’t think I want him to. Uh—you know. With you. Not tonight.”

Something zings up your spine at those last two words. “Okay.” You press a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth, another against his lips. “Maybe he can just. Watch?”

“No,” he murmurs into you. “He can—just not—inside. I want to do that.”

Jesus. You wouldn’t be surprised if you were so wet that it’s leaking down your thighs. “As long as you’re sure.”

He nods again. You can feel his glasses slide down his nose, his scruff brushing against your skin. “Very sure.”

You pull back a little, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Is he still—checking the stalls? There can’t be that many of them,” you mutter.

As if on cue, the man walks back out, past the two of you. He locks the door to the bathroom. The metallic click is almost like a bell chiming, a stopwatch being started, because the energy palpably shifts. You give Ryland one last look of confirmation before pushing his glasses back up and then winding your fingers through his hair, tugging him forward so you can kiss him again. When your mouth opens, his tongue meets yours immediately, and for a moment the only sounds are the soft little groans the two of you are breathing into each other, the slide of his hands over your clothes, the faint music that’s pounding on the first floor of the club.

And then—footsteps. Each one against the tiled floor heightens the lust building between your thighs, until you’re shuddering when a hand reaches up and draws your hair back. His nose just barely grazes against you, at the spot right below your ear, as his head tips down. You can hear the deep inhale, as if he is trying to commit your scent to memory. The end of the toothpick clips against your earlobe. It is slowly becoming your mission to find out what it tastes like.

There’s a hand toying with the strap of your top on your shoulder. Another at your waist. Yet another following the track of your spine down your back. Not knowing who they all belong to makes your head hazy, limbs heavy with desire, your core tighten. “Need someone to touch me,” you whimper, as Ryland starts nipping at the line of your jaw.

The voice in your ear: “Where?”

You shudder at the sound, the timbre of it. “Anywhere, please, just—” The hand at your shoulder slides the strap down, and someone is doing the same to the other, dragging your shirt down to rest around your waist. The sudden brush of air against your chest only teases you further. Your back arches when a palm finally smooths over your breast, catching the peaked bud.

“With your fingers,” Ryland mumbles against your collarbone. “Your thumb.” Oh, God.

The driver—well, not really, since you are decidedly not in his car, but you still don’t know his name, and you think your brain is simply defaulting to how you first met him—immediately follows this instruction, rolling your nipple between his fingers before swiping his thumb over it, again and again, breath catching as you mewl. “What’s—hah—your name?” You need to ask this now, before words start to completely escape you.

He huffs. You think you can hear the slight smile in it. “Doesn’t matter.”

Alright, that’s fine, you think distantly, ‘the driver’ will just have to do, because it is hard enough as it is to keep all of this straight. As you nod, you can feel a hand travel down your side to the hem of your skirt. Another hand joins it to help drag it up your thighs, and the only coherent thought that can form in your mind is that this is, quite possibly, the hottest thing that has ever happened to you.

Ryland groans when his hand dips between your thighs once your skirt is pulled up, when he brushes against your slickness. “So wet,” he says, feverishly, full of awe, and all you can do is moan loudly and try to spread your legs a little further as his fingers swipe through your folds.

Someone, most definitely the driver, brings the hand that isn’t still toying with your breast to your thigh and slowly lifts your leg so Ryland can properly circle your clit. The imbalance of being on one heeled foot and the pleasure combine to make you wobble, and the driver steps closer to you, steadying you with his hand at your chest and his body pressed into yours.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got her,” and then Ryland is switching out the hand at your cunt so he can lift your leg up instead, wrapping his arm around your thigh and holding it by his hip. The other man’s hand stays there, just for a moment, the pads of his fingers dimpling into your skin, before it moves up, and up, and up, finally resting on your ass. “Still good?” Ryland asks, eyes darting between your face, the hand at your breast, his fingers at the apex of your thighs.

You nod deliriously. “It’s—yes, it’s good, so good, but, I need,” and then the hand on your ass squeezes at the same time that the fingers on your clit move just right, and you can’t finish the statement even if you wanted to.

But it’s fine, because he knows exactly what it is that you’re desperate for. You watch as he looks to the driver. “Start with—with one, but—won’t take long for two, you’ll know when,” and Jesus Christ, if you had known hearing him tell someone what to do to you was going to affect you like this, you would have suggested this so much sooner.

His hand slides down as soon as Ryland finishes talking, dipping past the crease of your thigh to gather up some of your wetness. You’re about to say that you are, honestly, probably fine to just start with two, but then his finger is sliding inside of you, slowly, measured, and your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your eyes flutter shut. “Like this?” He breathes into your ear.

Yes, like that; the feeling of a stranger’s finger curling and dragging in your cunt is so new, so different, so delicious, that you can only give your strangled whine as an answer and grip Ryland’s shoulders for support.

Three different sets of fingers zero in on your pleasure, at your breast, your clit, in your cunt, and Ryland is right, he knows exactly when you’re ready for a second, and you moan so loudly when it joins the first that anyone in the hallway would instantly know exactly what is happening in this room. “Oh, fuck,” you choke out, above the filthy sound of two separate hands playing with your pussy, “that’s, just like this, please, please.”

The arm around your leg tightens. “Are you…?” You open your eyes and nod, watching Ryland’s swollen lips part, his glassy eyes rove over your face. “Already so close, just from—from our fingers,” and even his eyes shut, just for a moment, at the words leaving his mouth.

“Three?” Is all the voice by your ear says, and you clench involuntarily at the suggestion. You gasp out a throaty yes, and then you’re full, so fucking full, and you drag Ryland’s head down so you can try to muffle your pathetic whines with his mouth.

And then—and then—the fingers inside of you shift, and the pressure on your clit is adjusted just so, and the thumb on your nipple is still circling, and the tension in your core finally breaks open as you cry out into his mouth. Your legs are shaking while it roils through you, to the point that you probably would have collapsed by now if they weren’t holding you up. Neither of them stop, and you can feel a face nestling into your hair as Ryland whispers against your cries, “That’s it, I’ve got you, we’ve got you.”

You are empty and raw and quivering when the driver pulls his hand away, when Ryland kisses you with flimsy restraint, when your leg is lowered to rest back on the ground. “I’m still good, still so good,” you whimper, “need to feel you inside of me.”

There are hands on your shoulders, then, turning you around gently. You are struck by the intensity of his eyes, the paralyzing blue of them, so close to being the same shade as Ryland’s. He still has the damn toothpick in his mouth, and when he catches you looking at it, his lips lift into a smile.

“So perfect,” Ryland murmurs, stepping forward, dropping an open-mouthed kiss onto your bare shoulders. You shiver when he guides his cock, warm and heavy and leaking, through the remnants of your orgasm, brushing the head of it over your clit. His head shifts next to yours until he’s looking forward. “Isn’t she so perfect?” The driver’s eyes flick to him, then back to your face, then slowly traveling down to take in your flushed chest, the clothes banded around your waist, the way your thighs tremble.

When he meets your eyes again, he simply nods in agreement. You can feel Ryland’s smile as he turns his head back into your neck, and the cool metal of his glasses, too, and then his groan against your slick skin when he finally pushes inside of you and meets no resistance. Your hands fly out to grip the jacket of the man in front of you, because you’re still a little limp and unsteady, and the toe-curling pace Ryland is setting is not helping.

The driver’s gaze dips down to your breasts for a few moments to watch them move before he brings a hand up to his mouth. He slides the toothpick out, and for a moment you think he’ll just pocket it or throw it on the ground or something, but then he lifts it to your lips. You open your mouth eagerly and take it between your teeth, swirling your tongue around the end; there’s nothing but wood and his saliva, and you moan at the taste of it.

He presses two fingers to your cheek and gently turns your head until you’re looking at your reflection in the mirror on the wall, at the toothpick hanging out of your mouth, at the way he smiles again, at your chest bouncing from the cock gliding against your walls. After a few seconds of this he starts to crouch, and you look back down at him and let your torso dip a little to follow, leaving Ryland’s head behind.

When he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, still looking up at you, you bite down on the toothpick so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t snap in half. “Oh my gosh,” Ryland chokes out. His hands tighten on your hips as you clench around him. “That’s—this is—holy shit,” and you give him another squeeze, because you adore it when you’ve made him feel so good that he slips up and swears.

You lift a tentative hand from the shoulder it was gripping to thread through the driver’s hair as he licks and teethes your peaked bud. A particularly hard thrust makes you close your fist tighter and pull, without really meaning to, and his eyes squeeze shut for what you think is the first time this whole evening, and he whines into your skin. “Oh,” you breathe out. You have to adjust the toothpick in your mouth to keep it from falling out. “You sound so good, like that—I want—keep doing it.”

His eyes fly open. You tug at his hair again, chasing the pretty noise he just made, staring into his blown pupils. It strains your neck to keep looking down like this, but you find that you simply do not care, not when it means you can watch his control break a little bit while he whimpers and laps at your breast.

Ryland suddenly slows and then stops, still buried inside of you, and rests his forehead between your shoulder blades. “Sorry, I’m just—don’t know how much longer, which is really not my fault, in my defense, and I really want you to again,” and at this point he’s basically babbling against your skin as he reaches a hand around your hips to circle at your clit again. And then his fingers still. “I have an idea.”

You laugh breathily, because the man in front of you has not stopped what he’s doing during any of this. “Another one? Your first one is already going pretty great, so.”

“I think that you’ll like this one even more.”

Now you really would like to know what the idea is, if that’s truly the case, since there’s not a lot you can think of that would top what is happening right now. He presses a kiss to your spine and then slides one of his hands around until it’s splayed on your stomach, and he gently raises your upper half. You’re about to call this idea into question, because now your chest is regretfully devoid of any stimulation; but then his other hand shifts to the back of your thigh, lifting your leg up—the one you were resting on earlier, thankfully, and he must have already realized that it probably can’t hold all of your weight up again. “What are you…?”

The driver, apparently, does not need the same explanation that you do. He drops down to his knees and brings his hands up to your thighs. Then he just—looks, for a moment, before bringing his face into your cunt, right when Ryland starts to move again.

“Oh God,” you cry out, fisting both of your hands into his hair as his broad tongue laves over your clit. “Yes, yes, this, good idea, great idea, even—fuck,” and this is around when words simply stop working for you, and the only sounds falling out of your mouth now are stilted moans and whimpers.

The hand on your stomach moves up to hold one of your breasts. “Don’t know,” Ryland groans, “if I can agree, it’s not—serving its original purpose, because, because I—I can feel his tongue.” The last word comes out with strained and high-pitched, and you think you can feel a smile against your clit before there’s a long suck that turns your laugh into a garbled whine.

Ryland’s other hand moves, then, so he’s cupping both of your tits, fingers moving desperately over their peaks in an effort to get you there again. You can already feel his rhythm start to falter. Even though you’d like this to last as long as it can, forever, even, you try to focus on the second orgasm building between your thighs, on the feeling of the hair between your fingers, the quiet sounds the man kneeling in front of you makes when you tug.

You try to smooth your hand over his head as a kind of apology—you haven’t exactly been gentle with his hair, since there have been other things on your mind—and when you look down, his eyes are open, and he’s staring at you with such fervor that it almost borders on obsession. He doesn’t look away, even as you can feel his tongue dart out and circle at you; and you can tell when he stretches it forward as far as he can, because Ryland lets out another broken moan behind you.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just—I can’t,” he rushes out, and then he’s buried to the hilt inside of you, biting at your shoulder and groaning into your skin, and the driver’s tongue is still moving, even as Ryland spills inside of you.

He’s—he’s—licking it all up, you realize, and he’s still looking at you, and then he does the fucking nod again, just like in the car. This is the thing that finally does it for you, sends you clenching around Ryland’s cock to the point that he’s keening and twitching from the overstimulation. And then he doesn’t stop; not when your grip slackens in his hair; not when Ryland pulls out; he simply keeps his face there, buried in your cunt, lapping up the cum and your slick, until you have to just tug him away because it is simply too much.

Ryland gently sets your leg down before he helps you clean up with some paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, and then the two of you are fixing your clothes. At one point, you just look at each other, and you both dissolve into laughter at the utter absurdity of what has just happened. “So,” you grin, “is that self-discovery still happening?”

“I think I can safely say that the self has been thoroughly discovered.”

You turn to the driver, who’s back to leaning against the wall and watching all of this with the ghost of a smile. You take the toothpick out and hand it back to him; he pops it into his mouth without a second thought.

“Um—thank you,” you say after a moment. “I don’t. I’m not really sure what you’re supposed to say after something like that.” He just nods at this, a real smile on his lips now. You look over your shoulder to Ryland, and then you have to fully face him to fix his glasses, because they are an utter wreck. “I guess we should…go home?”

He nods and pulls his phone out. His fly is still down, so you reach forward to take care of that. “I can—oh, thanks—I’ll order an Uber.”

“I can drive,” the man behind you interrupts.

You look up at Ryland. He looks back at you. After a long moment, he does this silly little bit he likes to do, where he slowly shakes his head and then turns it into a nod with a slow smile.