Summary: The party’s over, the road’s wet, and he can’t get over what he saw. Are they friends? Something else? She didn’t ask for a ride, he takes her for one anyway.
Warnings: 18+ mdni, mentions of reckless driving, jealousy, arguing, emotional repression, oral sex (fem receiving), vaginal fingering, p in v, overstimulation, unprotected sex, fem!reader, porn with plot
Words: 1.4k
Tune: Heartbeat- Childish Gambino
Notes: thank you to mr donald glover for giving us this one, i swear i tried to keep it chill and then suddenly it was raining and they were in a car arguing about feelings. no use of y/n
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───
The party’s over, or close enough. Thunder Bay is a blur behind them, streetlights blurring across the wet glass. The road ahead is dark and winding, just the hum of tires on the road and the pulse of the bass leaking faintly from the radio.
Michael’s been driving too fast. He doesn’t look at her much, jaw locked, knuckles pale on the wheel. The air between them feels thick, charged.
When he finally pulls over, it’s abrupt, gravel spitting under the tires, headlights cutting through the trees, the engine ticking over. The world narrows to the sound of their breathing and rain tapping on the roof.
She watches him for a moment, the rigidness in his shoulders, the way his throat moves when he swallows down his words.
“You good?” she asks.
He exhales through his nose. “Do I look good?”
The question hangs there.
She leans back, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. “You look like you’re about to drive through a wall,” she says.
He huffs out a breath, half a laugh. “Feels about right.”
For a second, only the sound of the idling engine fills the car.
“You didn’t have to drive me home,” she breaks it, finally.
He shrugs, eyes still on the dark road. “Didn’t feel like leaving you there.”
“Still-”
He glances over, brief and sharp. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
She smiles a little, taken aback, the corner of her mouth twitching, fighting to keep the mood light. “Thanks. For the kidnapping.”
“Anytime.”
The silence stretches. It’s thick enough to choke on. She shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, pretending to check her phone just to fill the space.
Michael’s still staring straight ahead, fingers flexing on the wheel, jaw clenching tight enough to crack.
She glances at him, trying to ease the tension. “You always this quiet when you play chauffeur?”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh from somewhere deep in his chest. “You always this talkative after grinding on half the room?”
Her head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”
He turns now, hazel eyes dark in the low light. “You heard me.”
“I was dancing, Michael. That’s what people do at parties.”
He scoffs. “That what you call it?”
“You sound jealous.”
He laughs again, sharper this time. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“My problem,” he bites out, “is watching some guy I don’t fucking know put his hands on you like he’s allowed to.”
Her laugh comes out shaky, bitter. “You think you get to decide who’s allowed to touch me?”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “Maybe I do.”
She stares at him, chest tight with a mix of disbelief and yearning. She shakes her head, turning away. “You don’t even know what you want from me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then say it.”
He doesn’t. The rain fills the space where his answer should be.
“What are we, Michael?” She turns back to him now, eyes bright, caught between anger and exhaustion. “We fuck, sometimes. You text me when it’s late. We go out, we pretend it’s not a thing. But what is it? What am I supposed to call this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand flexes on the gearstick, then stills. “Why do we have to call it anything?”
“Because I’m tired of guessing,” she says, sharper now. “I need to know where I stand. You act like I matter, and then you act like I don’t. You show up, you disappear, and then you get pissed when someone else touches me-”
“Because they shouldn’t.”
“Then tell me why!” she snaps. “If this isn’t anything, why does it bother you?”
Michael’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The muscle in his jaw twitches once. He looks like he wants to hit the steering wheel or himself or both.
────────────
He exhales hard, suddenly flicking the engine off, turning to her, hand tangling in her hair, pulling her mouth to his. The kiss is brutal, tongues clashing, teeth catching. She gasps into it, fingers digging into his thigh.
He breaks away just long enough to throw his door open and haul her across the seat after him. The cold air hits her skin as he guides her into the backseat, rain pelting the roof like a warning.
The second the door slams shut, he’s on her. His mouth finds her throat, lips marking where a stranger’s hands had been earlier.
She arches against him, gasping when he palms her tits through her dress, thumbs rubbing her nipples to stiff peaks.
"You think anyone else gets to touch you like this?" His voice is low, dangerous. "You think they know how fucking wet you get just from me looking at you?"
Michael’s lips trail down her throat, over her collarbone, then lower. His teeth graze the curve of her breast before he pulls the dress down, freeing her tits. He palms one while his mouth closes over the other, sucking hard enough to make her back arch.
He doesn’t stop there. His hands slide down her waist, gripping her hips as he drags her further into him. Then his mouth follows, slow and deliberate, kissing lower over her dress, until his breath ghosts over the damp fabric of her thong, peeling the soaked lace aside.
His tongue swipes her in one long, filthy stroke, lapping up the slick of her. She gasps, fingers knotting in his hair as he does it again, slower this time, savouring every second.
He doesn’t tease. His mouth seals over her clit, sucking gently as two fingers press inside, curling just right. She jerks against him, a ragged moan tearing from her throat.
The wet sounds of his tongue working her fill the car, mixing with the rain pounding the roof.
He fucks her with his mouth like he means it, rough licks, sharp nips, fingers pumping in time. Her thighs tremble, her breath coming in broken gasps.
“Close-” she manages, but he pulls back, leaving her shaking.
“Not yet,” he rasps, nudging her thighs wider. He doesn’t make her wait. His fingers disappear, replaced by the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She grits her teeth at the stretch as he pushes in, slow but relentless, filling her inch by inch.
His rhythm is punishing from the first thrust, driving the breath from her lungs as he fucks her deeper into the seat, the leather creaking under them. Every snap of his hips hits that spot that makes her vision blur, his grip on her thigh keeping her open, taking everything he gives.
"Who else fucks you like this?" he grits out, lips on her collarbone.
She can't answer coherently, shaking her head as her orgasm rips through her, body clamping down around him as she cries out his name.
Michael lets her ride the aftershocks, his fingertips tracing lazy circles up her thighs before settling at the heat of her. His thumb presses against her swollen clit, slow at first, just enough to make her jerk.
"Fuck- Michael," she gasps, but her hips tilt into his touch anyway. He smirks, watching her squirm as he rubs in slow, firm strokes, dragging the pleasure out.
The rain muffles her whimpers, but he catches every one, his grip tightening on her hip to keep her from bucking away. Her nails dig into his forearm as the tension inside him snaps, he cums with a groan, pulse throbbing inside her, hot and possessive.
The rain drums harder. Neither of them moves.
Michael exhales against her damp skin, his breath unsteady. "That," he says roughly, "is why."
The air inside the car is thick, windows fogged, raindrops still racing down the glass. Neither of them speaks for a while.
She shifts, voice soft but steady. “You going to drive me home now?”
He smirks faintly, eyes still on her. “Yeah. Unless you’ve got other plans.”
She tilts her head, meeting his gaze. “That depends, thought maybe we can see if round two’s any better on a bed.”
His laugh is low, the sound curling between them. “You planning on walking tomorrow?”
She grins, breath catching just a little. “Guess we’ll find out.”
He reaches for her hem, straightening the fabric of her dress where it’s bunched around her hips. The touch is careful, almost absentminded, but his fingers linger a second too long before he pulls back.
“Come on,” he says, voice rougher now, quieter.
They move back to the front, doors closing in near-perfect unison. The car smells like wet tarmac and sex. He doesn’t look at her when he starts the engine, just reaches over to turn down the radio. The silence that follows is almost gentle. Then, without looking, his hand finds hers beside the gearstick.
Why didn't PD wrote a scene where emory tells will everything, what happened to her, what Martin actually did? Why didn't they write a scene of will telling her everything, jail,what he did in the warehouse? This makes me so so mad.
and what if I said Penelope Douglas’ obsession with inculcating group sex scenes (threesomes, orgies, bjs and action between characters uncalled for) as a ‘metaphor for emotional intimacy and vulnerability’ in her books needs to stop because, and I ain’t even a prude but, it’s unnecessary, ineffective, stale, icky, and just ugly vibes in general, cause there’s a gazillion diff ways you can highlight the bond between your characters save dicks in pussys, just what the fuck honestly.
Pogłaskałem ją po głowie. Wreszcie jej dotykałem. Palce drżały mi na samą tę myśl. Jak to możliwe, że ktoś taki niewielki i delikatny miał tak niewyparzoną gębę i był tak uparty?
