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drivinmeinsane · 9 months ago

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Colt Seavers x AFAB!Reader ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: On unsteady feet and with linked arms, you and Colt stumble along in the sand. You’re hanging onto each other. The warmth of the man at your side is almost more intoxicating than the beer you’ve been sipping all night long. The ocean is refreshingly cool against your ankles as you trail through the lapping waves, shoes and socks clasped firmly in your hands. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: AFAB Language Used for Reader's Genitalia, Anal Fingering, Bottom Colt Seavers, Mentions of Alcohol Consumption, Frottage, No use of Y/N, No Pronouns Given for Reader ※ Word count: 2,955 ※ Status: One-shot ※ Author's note: To be honest, I wasn't going to go full smut before the movie came out, but Colt crying in that second trailer sure changed my mind real fast. ※ Song inspiration: Moves - Suki Waterhouse

Night has placed its rich veil over the beach. This far out, the reaching fingers of the city’s light pollution do not dig into the sky over the blue-black waves. It would be rather tranquil, you think, if you weren’t surrounded by the majority of your fellow crew mates. They’re hell bent on thoroughly enjoying themselves tonight. The film that you have all spent the last four months working on finally came to close this afternoon. For a group of people that have been up since the sun broke the horizon and proceeded to move equipment around and push their bodies to the limits, this after party is showing no signs of slowing down as it crawls steadily into the predawn hours.

At your side, one of your coworkers jostles your shoulder as he tries vying for your attention. He nearly knocks your drink out of your hand with his drunken playfulness. You automatically laugh in response to the joke he says, but you don’t process what actually comes out of his leering mouth. You’ve only had eyes for one individual in particular since the very beginning of this job.

Across the way, awash in firelight, is Colt. He keeps looking at you with those blue eyes of his as he takes long pulls of beer. The bob of his throat catches the light with each swallow. It’s almost as though he knows where your mind has been focused.

You look away from him for a moment to acknowledge your admittedly unappreciated companion. He had just nudged you again, this time without the same playfulness as before. He looks sweaty and is wobbling as if he’s standing in a boat being tossed around by an angry sea. He opens his mouth with a smile that turns into a sudden grimace.

“Excuse me,” he groans, sounding tortured, and stumbles away to go throw up. Before you can resume your patient observation, you feel sudden warmth at your side and hear a slightly hoarse voice rise over the deep bass of the music.

“He sure left in a hurry.”

There’s no mistaking the voice. You know exactly who the speaker is, but you’re still pleased to turn and see that it’s Colt at your side. You lean against an equipment case, letting him stand too close. Everyone else is too distracted with their own enjoyment to bother calling out the way he moves to crowd into your space. His knees almost knock into your thighs.

“He overindulged,” you respond, doing some overindulging yourself. The stunt man’s plaid shirt is unbuttoned so much so that it’s almost obscene the way that his chest is put on display. It’s all golden skin, freckles for miles. The dusting of pale hair on top of it all feels like a reward for your eyes.

“Easy to do. You happy to be finished?” he asks, eyes flickering to your lips before darting back up to meet your distracted gaze.

“And miss seeing your face every morning when you and your bestie play fight over the coffee pot? Or maybe not ‘play’...” you pause contemplatively, “Some of those altercations looked a little too real.”

Colt shrugs easily and smiles. “Coffee is serious business.”

He’s leaned impossibly closer, enough now that you can see the fine lines around his eyes. In your slightly tipsy state, you muse that his hair looks so pettable. He laughs, flushed with his own buzz, and you realize you must have said your thoughts out loud.

“I was going to go take a walk along the tide line and then go crash in the bed of my truck to sleep,” he gestures to himself with a broad hand, “all this off. Do you want to…?”

“Why not, it beats trying to get a Lyft back to the hotel,” you say. Enthusiasm has you eagerly pressing into his personal space in return. His smile is blinding, addictive as a drug.

The two of you slip away from the after party. You doubt that you will be missed on account of the alcohol driven fun that everyone else is having. The crew is used to drifting together and then apart, scattered across the world to preform. It’s the nature of the business. You know you will not see some of them again for months or for years, if at all.

On unsteady feet and with linked arms, you and Colt stumble along in the sand. You’re hanging onto each other. The warmth of the man at your side is almost more intoxicating than the beer you’ve been sipping all night long. The ocean is refreshingly cool against your ankles as you trail through the lapping waves, shoes and socks clasped firmly in your hands.

You’re caught by complete when Colt trips and fully lands face first in the sand. He accidentally pulls you down with him, arm in arm. You both roll over onto your backs and laugh.

Colt puts on a petulant voice and between bouts of laughter manages to get out, “’I don't like sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere.’”

“Nooooo!” you groan back, drunk enough to play along with his Star Wars bit. It sends him into further hysterics.

Sides aching, your giggling and rough housing fades away until you’re both lying side by side, just above the tide line. Your hands rest so that just the tips of your fingers brush. It’s suddenly real. Intimate. The rush of the waves echos your own heartbeat.

Colt breaks the moment first. He rises on to his elbow and shifts over to close the already small distance between your bodies. You look up at him in wonder as his hand cups your jaw. His face looks so serious, so intense, all of a sudden. The sensation of his thumb rubbing over your bottom lip causes you to swallow, mouth suddenly dry. He licks his own lips in anticipation and before he can lean down to kiss you, you rise up to press your mouths together first. His lips are soft on yours and he tastes like affordable beer.

When you tangle your hands into the bleached waves of his hair, you can feel the grit of sand against your grasping fingers. You feel like you’ve been waiting a lifetime for this moment. From the very first time you watched him fling himself off a five-story high set piece and come crashing down like Lucifer cast from Heaven, you’ve wanted him.

The stunt man diverts his attention from your mouth to your neck. He’s busy teasing the skin over your collarbone when you give his hair a sharp tug in a silent warning for him not to leave any marks. Colt whines, a breathy noise that cuts above the steady roar of the ocean. That sound knocks any sensible thought you had right of your mind. You had all the intentions in the world to tell him that you’d rather be doing this someplace where the sand isn’t going to end up where it shouldn’t, but his furrowed brow and heavy breathing sucks any protest from your lungs.

You give his hair another yank to see if his whine had been a fluke. It hadn’t been. He whimpers and shudders again as you tug at the strands of hair grasped in your hands. He moves to fully cover you with his body, sudden desperation written on his features. Your legs automatically open to accommodate him, wanting the proximity just as much as he does. His breath stutters in his chest when his own movements causes your grip to catch in his hair.

Sand be damned, you need him. You work your way impossibly closer to him. The distance between your bodies is completely erased until your pelvises are nestled together. You can already tell from the increased contact that he’s beginning to get hard. You’re sure that you both feel it when you throb in interest, starting to get properly slick with arousal in response.

“On top. Get on top, please,” he suddenly begs.

The moment you release him, he rolls onto his back. You’re pulled along with him in a messy tangle of limbs and sand until you’re seated astride him, positioned directly over his crotch. The change in position makes it abundantly clear how big he is. Eager to get your hands on him, you bypass your own pants and fumble open the button and zipper of his jeans. Shoving his underwear down just enough, you ease his growing erection free from its confines. He shudders at your touch, fingers grasping at the sand in the effort to restrain himself. You could consume him whole.

You grind down on his newly exposed cock. He pants at the feeling of denim against sensitive, skin and bucks upward to chase the friction. Lit by the moonlight, you admire the heaving of his chest and the arc of his neck as he tosses his head back in the sand to bare his throat. If only it wouldn’t be crass to mark it.

Barely able to believe that this moment is real, you touch the bare skin that’s been haunting you for far longer than even the thought of his cock has. His chest is warm against your fingers, flushed with the joy of being aroused and buzzed. You trace the space between his pecs and down towards the scant amount of buttons that are still secured. He doesn’t protest, only watches you with lidded eyes as you start undoing them to fully expose him.

He’s given up trying to hold himself back and has surrendered to the idea of putting his hands all over you. His touch is like a brand against your still clothed body. Colt’s fingers skim over your sides before he is forced to grab onto your thighs to anchor himself when you resume your exploration of his chest.

His shirt falls open under your wandering touch, revealing something you hadn’t expected. A pair of matching bars through his nipples greets you, nearly gleaming in the moonlight. He shivers at breeze skating over his chest and rolls his hips against you.

“Don’t these get in the way of stunts?” you question, mouth nearly hanging open. They’re wildly impractical, but at the same time, they’re so Colt.

Voice slurred, he gathers himself just enough to respond. “I just put a couple of those big band-aids on ‘em so they don't get snagged.”

“Huh,” you utter, wonderingly.

You run your finger over one of his nipples. It immediately reacts to your touch by growing plump and firm under your coaxing fingertip. You’re sure it must be flushed a rosy pink. Colt squirms, another whine making its way from his throat. He uses his grip on your thighs to drag you over his leaking cock. He’s fully hard now. You’re not sure if it's your pulse or his that you feel in your cunt.

You lean down and take one of his nipples into your mouth in a gesture born of impulsivity. He twists underneath you like he’s been shot as you suck hard, teasing the nub with the barest hint of teeth. The metal adorning it is cool against your tongue.

“Yeah. C’mon,” he says, breathless.

Encouraged, you start grinding against him in earnest. The friction borders on uncomfortable but you’re drunk and chasing a high. Colt certainly has no complaints. You’re starting to think he might like a little pain. He’s guiding your body against his, coaxing you into a steady rhythm. His firm grip has you feeling like a toy in his eager hands.

Your underwear is slick and you hiss at how stiff your clit is against the sodden material. It’s hard to tell how much of the precum is from you and how much is from the man frantically rutting against you. The stunt performer is leaking all over his belly and soaking the fabric of your jeans.

He’s so wet for me, you think dizzily.

“Can I put my fingers in you?” you ask, the thought out of your mouth before you can even process the need fully.

“Yes.” He has the relief in his voice of a dehydrating man finally given a drink of water.

Barely hanging onto enough sense to do so, you help him out of his plaid shirt and rise up onto your knees just enough to slide it under his bare ass when he manages to fumble around your thighs to get his pants down to his calves. It’s barely enough room to work with, but your body is burning with sheer want. With your fingers halfway to your mouth, you pause. The look in his eyes changes your mind and you make a split decision.

Pressing the pads of your fingers against his lips, you give him an order that’s bordering on a moan. “Suck.”

Colt obeys without a hint of hesitation. He envelops them into the wet heat of his mouth. His tongue laves over them. If you weren’t so focused on opening him up, you might be tempted to mount his face instead and put his mouth to another use.

With a wet noise, you withdraw your fingers from his mouth. They glisten wetly in the low light. A string of saliva trails after them, gossamer thin, before snapping under the tension. You shift, pinning his cock tighter against his lower belly and your still clothed crotch. He pants in anticipation of what he knows must be coming next and spreads his legs as wide as he’s able without his pants entirely off. You reach behind you and twist enough to slide your spit-slicked fingers between his cheeks.

A whimpering groan accompanies the barest intrusion. His lip ends up pinned between his teeth as you circle his hole, teasing. You slip one finger in, meeting minimal resistance. His hands find your thighs again and you feel his cock twitch and spurt. He’s so worked up that you don’t think he’ll last long. In a haze, you find that a second and third finger are swallowed up easily. The way he clenches down around them makes you wish you could stuff him full, get him drunk off your strap rather than mid-range beer. That thought drives you to cup the head of his cock in your other hand and rub the head of it with your thumb, caressing the dripping slit.

“You’re such a good boy, Colt,” you murmur, losing yourself in the pleasure of it all.

A breathy moan is all he can manage. Any semblance of words have have fled the scene the moment you started working him open.

The darkness is hiding the pleasant blush of his body that you know must be there. If only you could get him under a spotlight and frame him like the main character for once. You crook your fingers inside of him, seeking his prostate and Colt drags you down against him in just the right way in response to the attention to tip you over the edge. You cum hard, jerking in his hold and clamping your legs tight around his hips. Your noises and the way your body spasms on top of his pushes him over the finish line mere seconds after you hit the tape.

He groans your name. His entire body shudders as he orgasms. If it were possible, he’d have milked your fingers dry with each pulse of his cock. Hole still fluttering around your digits, you ease them free and shift enough to dismount. Colt mumbles a shaky thank you as you gently help him back into his jeans and redo the button and zip. Your own underwear is uncomfortably soaked, but you can’t bring muster up the will to care. Not when you’ve managed to wring such noises out of the man still trying to draw you back to him.

Pressing a kiss against his sternum, you make your way up between the channel of his pectorals, to his collarbone, his neck, his jaw, and finally to his mouth. He smiles into the kiss, satisfied and thoroughly spent. You separate from him and he nuzzles his nose against yours before you get too far. His breath ghosts over your kiss-swollen lips.

“Want to try to find the truck?” he asks, sounding on the verge of falling asleep.

“I’m comfortable here.”

You’re doubtful you could stand. Your legs feel as though they’re made of jelly. The journey to whatever parking lot Colt stashed his truck in feels far too daunting.

“Okay, baby.”

Heart leaping into your throat at the endearment, you tuck yourself against his side. The stunt man wraps his arm around you and coaxes you into laying your head on his wide shoulder. It’s a comforting anchor as the two of you make your bed in the sand.

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up to the sun cresting the horizon and the sound of crashing waves accompanied by throaty snoring. You’re laying with your head on Colt’s chest, having migrated in your sleep. The stunt man’s thick arm is still curled around you, his hand on your hip. His other arm is thrown across his eyes.

Patchy memories of the night before flash in your mind, but you cannot find it in yourself to be embarrassed. You’d bend him over in front of all your coworkers if that’s what it took to for you to get your hands on his tanned skin again.

Colt senses your movement and peels his arm off his face with a groan. He looks exhausted but perks up at the sight of you. His smile is brighter than the early dawn light. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” you say with a smile of your own.

#The fall guy #the fall guy (2024)#the fall guy fanfiction #colt seavers #colt seavers fanfiction #colt seavers x reader #ryan gosling x reader #ryan gosling fanfiction #.my work #.my posts

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