I come to humbly beg for anything with Driver 🙏 I watched Drive the other day and I’ve been so obsessed with that sad wet dog of a man ever since, I’m throwing back ao3 fics like shots and it’s still not enough LMAO
405
Driver x f!Reader
Word Count: 4,304
TW: descriptions of blood and tending to of wounds
A/N: i acknowledge and fully accept that i am evil for taking this long to respond to any of my requests. kindly blame my college courses. i will say, i am quite proud of this one, and tysm for the request!!
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that, for the longest time, you were convinced Casey absolutely despised you. After the way you two met, you can’t really blame yourself for jumping to conclusions.
The elevator smells like old carpet, piss, and stale cigarettes.
Lovely.
You knew moving to LA on your own would mean living in a less than desirable location, but–despite your current situation–you can’t quite bring yourself to regret the decision.
Still, it fucking stinks, and after the day you’ve had, you’d like to think you’ve earned a little bit of moping about it. Your shift was long and miserable, most are, and you’d like nothing more than to get to your apartment and collapse into bed. You should probably shower first, and you tell yourself you will while knowing that you won’t.
The elevator comes to a stop, and you don’t bother checking the floor before starting towards the doors. They slide open with a slightly alarming screech, and you stop yourself just seconds before barreling into the man on the other side.
“Oh-” You step back, looking up at him.
Good God.
It’s unfair, really, that some people just get to walk around looking like that.
“Hi. Sorry. Um-”
He waits, an exceptant look in his eyes. Not impatient, not yet, but you have a feeling you’re pushing it when he blinks slowly.
“Right…” You whisper, stepping back into your corner of the elevator and tucking yourself a little further into it this time around.
“...Have we met? I just moved in a month ago. I’m in-”
“406.” His voice is low as he interrupts, and he doesn’t look away from the doors ahead. “I know.”
Your mouth remains slightly open as you digest his words, more than a little caught off guard.
“...Why?”
He finally looks at you, no trace of a smile on his face as he replies, “We’re neighbors.”
Oh.
Well, you suppose that makes you the asshole.
“You…oh! Right! Sorry, I…I’ve been meaning to introduce myself.” You haven’t. “I’m-”
He looks down at your hand as you extend it, his jaw tightening a fraction, and you quickly retract it, swiping your palm down your jeans in the process.
“Sorry.” Third apology, if you’re counting correctly. “I’ll…yeah. Okay.” You step back to your corner of shame, eyes trained down at your shoes. If the suspension cords holding up this stinking box broke right about now, you don’t think you’d be too upset about it.
The elevator chimes and he steps out wordlessly, without so much of a glance back at you. The last thing you see before the doors slide back shut is the golden scorpion on the back of his jacket, glinting and catching on the fluorescent lights.
From that moment onward, you believed he hated you. It wasn’t until two months later that he proved you wrong.
“Yes, I’m aware that-” You sigh for the umpteenth time. “Will you please just send someone out!? It’s downtown LA, not the middle of fucking nowh-”
There’s a click from the other end of the line, and you’re overwhelmed by the sudden desire to chuck your phone at the ground.
You settle for screaming.
“Fuck!”
The grocery store parking lot is deserted besides your car and two others, one of which you’re fairly certain is abandoned. Smoke rises from your popped hood, and of course, of course, triple A can’t manage to send someone out. Not like you’re in the most densely populated county in America, or anything.
“Fucking assholes.” You mutter, staring down at the mess of wires before you, none of which you know the meaning nor purpose of. You stay like that for a moment, hunched over the hood and breathing in the fumes. Probably not the best choice, but it can’t be any worse than LA smog.
Besides, passing out in a parking lot might be preferable to your current predicament.
You consider the medical bill that might result from it and immediately take a step back, wiping away tears before they can fall. You’re a big girl, you don’t-
“Need a hand?”
You know that voice. It was two months ago the last time you heard it–he hasn’t spoken to you again since–and yet, still, you recognize it immediately. Intrinsically, almost. With slumped shoulders, you turn towards the source of it. He’s standing a few feet away, a paper grocery bag sat on the ground beside his feet.
“I’m oka-” The lie doesn’t have time to leave your lips, as he’s already walking towards your car. You step back, letting him take your place at the hood.
“Can you tell what’s wrong with it?”
He blinks, slowly turning his head to stare at you.
“...Not yet.” It occurs to you suddenly that he’s barely even had time to look at the thing, let alone come to any conclusions, and you quickly shrink under his gaze.
“Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” You wrap your arms around yourself despite the thin sheen of sweat coating your arms. He–whoever he is–returns his focus to the car, staring for a moment.
Then another.
And another.
You’re about to swallow your pride and ask again when he lifts his hand, placing it in the open hood with a surprising amount of precision. One sharp tug, another, and he steps back.
“It’s good.” There’s not a hint of ego to his words, just a quiet, earned confidence.
“Are you sure?” Something tells you you don’t need to ask, but you do anyway. Habit, you suppose.
He looks at you, one brow raising a touch.
“Yes.” He closes the hood, nodding towards the driver's seat in what feels like an order, one that you follow quickly. You slide into place, shutting the door softly and turning your key. The engine roars to life, and you let out a small sigh of relief as you exit the car.
“Than-”
He’s walking away before you can finish the words.
Then again, you never did know how to leave well enough alone.
This is stupid, undoubtedly so.
You are not a baker. You have never been a baker. On the contrary, you’re fairly hopeless at anything that takes place within the confines of a kitchen. But you’ve read enough novels and watched enough movies to know that when boy meets girl and words won’t do, girl thanks boy with pastries. Cupcakes or bread loaves or some other shit you don’t know how to make.
Still, cookies struck you as the easiest option, so here you are. Outside his door with a plate of them in hand. Saran wrap covers the least appealing details–namely the burnt edges–but you truly, sincerely don’t think they’re that bad.
Then again, you don’t think Chip’s Ahoy are that bad, so you might not be the best source of culinary opinion.
Whatever. They’re edible, and you’d like to think it’s the thought that counts.
From what you’ve seen, the thought might just irritate him, but you couldn’t accept his help without thanking him. It just didn’t feel right, not then, and not now as you knock on his door. Three raps and you wait, listening as his footsteps descend upon the ground. They’re lighter than you’d expect for a man of his stature, though you don’t have long to dwell on the thought. The door opens a crack, just enough for him to see who might be waiting on the other side.
When he recognizes you, his shoulders loosen noticeably, and you swear, he reaches back to tuck something into the waistband of his jeans. The motion should put you on edge, especially coupled with the way he stares at you. He doesn’t just look, you’ve noticed. No polite glances cut short. No. Not with him. He stares. Blatantly. Analytically. As if he knows things about you that even you’ve yet to discover yourself.
It should intimidate you. He should intimidate you.
You stare right back and find that he doesn’t. Not at all. Something tells you he doesn't mean to, either.
“I never got to say thank you for yesterday.”
He blinks. For a moment, you think he might shut the door.
Instead, he opens it a little bit more, just enough for him to step fully into the doorway.
“You don’t need to.” He pauses, as if hesitant to speak any more than strictly necessarily. “It was an easy fix.” There’s an evenness to his tone that’s almost eerie in its consistency.
Almost.
You shrug, adjusting your grip on the plate. His gaze is unyieldingly focused on your eyes, and you’re beginning to think he’s purposefully ignoring the presence of the cookies. Like opening a card and pretending not to notice the money inside.
“I know. Still, I appreciate it, so…” You hold out the plate. Finally, his eyes flick down towards your extended hands.
“I made you cookies.”
No shit, Sherlock.
He doesn’t react in the slightest, just slowly wraps his fingers around the edge of the plate. His voice is flat as ever as he replies,
“...Thank you.”
You swallow thickly, looking down and picking at the hem of your sweater.
“Yeah…I mean, they’re not very good, but…”
He simply looks down, seemingly inspecting the cookies for a moment.
“Okay.”
You sigh, a little petulant, maybe.
“You’re supposed to disagree.”
He looks back up at you, quirking one brow ever so slightly.
“I haven’t tried one.”
“I-” You’re about to argue before you realize that the man has a point, though you still let out one more huff. “That’s…fair, I guess.” He doesn’t reply, and you can’t bring yourself to sit in the quiet, not with the way he’s staring at you. Intently. Examining.
“The edges are burnt.” You wonder why his presence makes you feel so inclined to point out your every wrongdoing. Maybe it’s the way he seems to study everything without missing a single detail. Maybe it’s just because you’re so nervous that you can feel sweat forming on your palms.
Maybe you have a thing for your neighbor that you’ve spoken to a total of two times, if you can even qualify those as conversations.
He glances down at the cookies, then back at you again.
“...A little.”
You swear, there’s a hint, an air of something to his voice that wasn’t there before. Humor, maybe? If he’s capable. You decide to lean into it,
“Oh, fuck off.”
Silence reigns, and for a moment, you think you might’ve gone too far. You’re about to apologize when you notice the subtle, upward tilt of his lips. Brief and barely discernible, but there all the same. You suddenly feel as if you’ve achieved something monumental by the minute reaction, something like pride straightening your stance.
Still, the expression drops as soon as it came, and he takes a step back into his apartment.
“I have work.”
With that, the door clicks shut. You’re fairly certain you should be offended by the abrupt end to the conversation, but all you feel as you walk to your car is a strange, newfound pit in your stomach. Not unpleasant, just…heavy. Demanding attention, much like the man lingering in 405.
Much like the plate waiting outside 406 when you return home, empty and cleaned.
After that, it became undoubtedly, increasingly difficult to maintain the belief that he disliked you at all.
Considering that you’re sandwiched right between him–he still hasn’t offered a name, and something tells you you shouldn’t ask–and an elderly woman in her 70s, you’ve become accustomed to relatively quiet neighbors. Not silent, there’s the occasional squeaky doorhinge, maybe the dull sound of a radio one wall over, but quiet.
Certainly not this.
The footsteps wake you first, heavy and a little haphazard. Your clock reads 1:24 in the morning, and you wearily blink yourself awake. Next, a muffled grunt. Another. A thud and the wince that follows. You stop outside your door, getting on your tip toes to look out of the peep hole. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the sight before you. He’s leaning against the wall opposite your door, hand clutched tightly to his abdomen. The moonlight from a nearby window catches on his jacket, and you can just barely make out the deep crimson staining it. His chest rises and falls more rapidly than you’ve seen it before, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he tilts his head against the wall. You open the door as quietly as you can, standing halfway behind it as you hiss,
“Are you okay?” It’s admittedly a dumb question, and he flinches at the sudden intrusion. His eyes lock on you, alarmingly focused despite his predicament.
“Get inside.”
“What?!” You whisper, stepping forward. He stands up straight, grimacing with the motion.
“Inside. Now.”
You plant your feet more firmly, “No.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re bleeding.” You say it as if it disregards his previous statement, and you swear, you can see his nostrils flare slightly at your stubborn refusal.
“I’m fine. G-”
“Give me your keys.”
He stares for a moment, seemingly considering his options. Argue with you, or get you both to safety.
He shoves his free hand in his pocket and tosses you the keys. When you catch them, there’s something noticeably slick coating the metal, and you make an effort to look as little as possible as you approach his door.
“Which one?”
“Not the car one.” He grits out, right as you realize there’s only two.
Idiot.
The moment you get the door open he’s shoving you inside, quickly shutting and locking it behind the both of you. He stands still for a moment, ear pressed to the wood.
“Wha-?”
“Quiet.”
For once, you do as you’re told.
He waits there a moment longer, listening, waiting. Finally, after what feels like minutes on end, he allows his shoulders to sag, though he looks no less imposing as he turns to face you.
“When I say get inside, you get inside.”
Your voice shakes slightly as you reply, “I…I don’t under-“
“You don’t need to.” He interrupts, grimacing slightly as he continues. “You need to listen.”
“I couldn’t just leave you there!” You find yourself still whispering as you gesture towards the hallway.
“You should’ve.” He begins walking towards the kitchen, limping slightly.
“What happened?”
Silence. He opens a cabinet under the sink, rummaging for a moment before reemerging with what looks like a small tool box.
“Will you please tell me what’s going on?” You sound increasingly panicked even to your own ears, but he doesn’t even turn around. Just opens the box with a small click. You walk forward, stopping beside him.
“What are you doing?”
Slowly, with a few winces along the way, he unzips his jacket, letting the fabric fall to the ground in a heap. Underneath, the black t-shirt he’s wearing is in even worse condition, thoroughly soaked and pierced by…
“You got stabbed?!”
“Can you sew?”
You blink.
“What? How did you-“
“Can you sew?” He repeats, a little more insistent this time. It briefly occurs to you that this is probably the most he’s ever spoken to you, but the thought is quickly swept away by the situation at hand.
“I…yes? Wh-?”
Your question is soon answered when he picks out a needle and what looks to be a spool of paper thin fishing wire. You can practically feel yourself go pale as he holds them out to you with one bloodied hand.
“I…no. No. I can’t-“
“You said you can sew.”
“Oh, fuck off, I did not know you meant you.” Maybe you should feel worse about telling the stabbing victim to fuck off, but he doesn’t seem particularly concerned by any of this. More irritated than anything.
“Look at me.”
You do. Obedience has never been your strong suit, and you can’t tell if it’s him or the crisis bringing it out in you.
“If you can’t do this, tell me now so I can take you back to your apartment.”
“You don’t need to-“
“I do.” There’s a resoluteness, a finality to his voice that drains any and all of your desire to argue. Your hands shake slightly as you take the needle and spool, threading it and trying to calm your breathing.
“Are you gonna tell me what happened?”
“No.” He lifts his shirt, grabbing a nearby rag and wetting it in the sink before bringing it to his skin. He doesn’t make a sound as the water touches the wound, though his jaw tightens a fraction.
“I can…will you give that to me?” You snap, taking over for him. He leans back against the counter, his knuckles white where he holds onto the fabric of his shirt.
“Do you want to sit?”
There’s a beat of silence before he replies, “No.”
A sigh. “Are you just gonna say no to everything I ask?”
“…Yes.”
You roll your eyes. “Funny.” Slowly, you extract the rag, setting it on the counter and lining up the needle with his wound.
“Are you sure you want me do-“
“Just do it.”
Slowly, you press the needle against his skin, grimacing as his flesh dips underneath the point. One deep breath, and…
“I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry. You…I at least need you sitting.”
He stares for a moment before pushing off the counter and limping towards the couch. He drops against the cushions with a dull thud.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper again as you sit on the edge of his coffee table, slotted between his knees.
“Stop apologizing.”
“You’re annoyed.” You line up the needle again, forcing your hand to stop shaking by sheer willpower alone. It does in fact occur to you how ridiculous it is that—out of the two of you in this situation—you’re the one needing reassurance.
And yet,
“Not at you.”
You look up to find him already staring at you. A beat passes, and then, firmly
“Keep going.”
You quickly refocus on the task at hand, taking a steadying breath.
“Okay, okay…” In one smooth motion you slide the needle through, hissing apology after apology as his whole body constricts at the sensation.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You keep going, trying to work as quickly as you can. Your stomach turns as you finish closing up the wound, and you pull your hands away as fast as you can after tying it off.
“Holy shit. Okay. Oh, fuck.” As you begin pacing the living room, he just drops his shirt back down, seemingly relaxing for the first time since getting inside.
“Thank you.”
“What the fuck happened? I know you said you wouldn’t tell me, but-“
“Where do you work?”
You blink, your footsteps coming to a screeching halt. He is—quite blatantly—trying to distract you. Some part of you knows you should demand answers, but the other wants nothing less than to consider the blood crusting on your hands. And so, you let him, and some part of you is grateful for it.
“I…a diner.”
“Where?”
“East 18th street.”
“When?”
“You going for the five W’s here?”
You swear, his lips tug into a smirk for a fraction of a second before he asks again,
“When?”
You sigh. “Two to eight most days. Why?”
He just nods, seemingly filing the information away for later.
“You should go. Get cleaned up.”
You hesitate, glancing between him and the door.
“I…Is it safe?”
He fixes you with a look that makes you feel equal parts safe and profoundly stupid.
“Yes.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room is your own breathing.
“Go.”
You never did get your answers, but you walked away knowing one thing.
He wouldn’t have sent you out there if it wasn’t.
The sun has long since set by the time you get out of work next Tuesday. Your uniform–consisting of an uncomfortably short pinstriped dress and apron–does little to protect you from the night’s air, and you can already feel goosebumps rising on your legs by the time you get to the sidewalk. Your car’s still on an “extended stay” at the autoshop, meaning you’re stuck taking the bus for at least the rest of the week. A lone vehicle sits parked along the sidewalk, silver and seemingly vintage, from what you can make out. As you pass by it, the engine starts up, its low growl halting your steps. You turn slowly, shoulders stiffening as you stare at the now glowing headlights
It could be him.
It could be someone else.
You’re about to turn right back around and walk faster when the car slowly backs up, coming to a stop alongside you.
Your shoulders loosen with a relieved sigh when you see the man sitting inside.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Get in.”
You cross your arms–a petulant attempt at demanding answers–and he quirks one brow ever so slightly. A silent, subtle reminder of his order from days ago.
When I say get inside, you get inside.
You get your ass inside.
Warmth washes over you as you settle into the passenger seat, and he doesn’t say a word as he pulls onto the main road.
“Are you gonna answer me?”
“...I’m picking you up.”
You roll your eyes, turning your head to look at him.
“No shit. Why?” Stubborn as you may be, there’s a distinct pit in your stomach at the knowledge that he’s thinking of you.
Worrying about you.
Protecting you.
He doesn’t answer, and you settle back against the leather, looking out towards the skyscrapers zipping by.
“Thank you.”
He nods. Maybe. You only saw it out of the corner of your eye, and every motion he makes is a hair shy of indistinguishable.
“You didn’t have to.”
He turns up the radio slightly.
“I know.”
Silence descends upon the vehicle, and you realize what it is you’re listening to. Not music. Not a sporting event.
Police chatter.
You should be afraid.
You should be, and you’re not.
Dumb girl. Your parents might have an aneurysm if they saw you now.
“...What’s this?” Your voice comes out quiet, and you’re not exactly sure why you’re asking. It’s not like you’re going to get an answer out of him.
“Nothing.”
“Sounds like something to me.”
“It’s nothing.”
You sigh, looking out the passenger window.
“You’re a terrible conversationalist.”
Your eyes flick towards him just in time to see his lips quirk up. Just a touch.
“I’m aware.”
You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, shaking your head as you turn to face him once again.
“What will you tell me, then?”
He waits a moment, seemingly considering, before replying,
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything. You’re very mysterious, if you can’t tell.”
Another smile. Fleeting and barely there, but a smile nonetheless
“I work at an autoshop.”
“Shocking.”
He glances at you for a second–less than that, really–and you immediately fall silent.
“I drive.”
You snort, “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”
“Stunt driving.”
You tilt your head, your interest piqued. Though, to be fair, he’s had it in the palm of his hand since you met. His hands, which are notably, distractingly clad in a pair of brown, leather gloves.
“Like for movies?”
“For movies.” He murmurs back quietly. His brows furrow for a moment, and he turns the police chatter up slightly.
“What, they catch you?”
He looks at you in a way that makes your joke suddenly feel uncomfortably plausible. You shrink back into your seat, glancing at your lap.
“Sorry.”
Once satisfied he dials the volume down once again, letting his hand come to rest on the stick shift.
“...What else?” Your voice comes out uncharacteristically uncertain as you bridge the quiet.
“There is nothing else.”
He’s lying. You know he’s lying. He knows that you know he’s lying. And yet, there’s an agreement, unspoken nor acknowledged, that you won’t press for the truth. There’s a part of you that thinks you’d rather not know. That the reality of the man beside you might shatter whatever it is building between you.
“I meant anything. Not…that.” Whatever that is. He seems to relax, his hand loosening ever so slightly on the wheel. For a moment there’s silence, and it stretches long enough that you begin to wonder if he’ll speak again, or if you’ve crossed some invisible boundary with your curiosity. Finally, his voice hits your ears, low and barely audible over the sound of his tires against the pavement.
“Casey.”
-
He doesn’t speak for the rest of the ride home, and you don’t ask any more of him. Simple as it may seem, some part of you understands that, by allowing you access to himself, his identity, something as small as a name, he’s trusted you.
The weight hangs heavily, yet comfortably on your shoulders as you make your way to the fourth floor. Every creak and shudder of the elevator is audible in the silence surrounding you, and you pause for a moment outside your front door. He’s already unlocking his own, eyes firmly steered away from yours.
“...Goodnight, Casey.”
His hand freezes around the doorhandle, and you’re suddenly humiliated at the possibility of him ignoring you outright. His jaw works, tensing and relaxing before tightening up once again. You’re about to accept defeat and retreat into your apartment when you hear him.
“Goodnight.”
He doesn’t say your name, and you realize all at once that you’ve never told him.
Then again, he doesn’t seem to mind.
That was six months ago, and you’ve–miraculously–learned a lot more about him. There’s secrets, and you have a feeling there always will be. When he comes home late and slips into bed, you don’t question the metallic tang that occasionally clings to his clothes.
Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
Men who put your comfort before their ego. Men who ask what you need and actually do it. Men who don’t sulk when you need space. Men who defend you in rooms you’re not in. Men who hype you up to their friends without making it about sex. Men who remember the small shit you said months ago. Men who plan around your schedule instead of expecting you to rearrange yours. Men who don’t get insecure when you're better than them at something. Men who check in after an arguments. Men who take accountability the same day, not three days later after they’ve cooled off. Men who don’t punish you with silence. Men who are soft with you even when they’re stressed. Men who don’t need you to mother them. Men who don’t joke about your insecurities. Men who are fine with you leading in bed and outside of it. Men who don’t need to be the main character in your life. Men who take “no” for an answer the first time. Men who are proud of you in public and gentle with you in private. Men who don’t keep score of every nice thing they do. Men who would rather lose the argument than lose you. Men who stay consistent even when things are messy. Men who know it's just the bare minimum.
Idc, normalize kink shaming. Cause y'all be using “don’t kink shame” and “it’s fiction” to excuse being into incest, pedophilia, cannibalism, etc. Like, be so fr, you ship a 14 year old with a 30 year, want to get railed by your dad and want to see two brothers f*ck each other. I don’t engage with things fictionally that I don’t like/wouldn’t want to do in real life. Yes, I’m judging you.
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
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prguitarman
blakekathryn
