bibigo lover ,, 🎣🥟

holland march is the type of guy to have a heart with wings drunk tattooed below his hip dip, medium-sized and a little risqué—and he is absolutely the most embarrassed about it. the first time you two hook up is fine, because you’re in his lap in the oldsmobile and it’s dark; neither of you can see a thing, so he really doesn’t have a problem. the second time though, you’re taking him to your low-lit apartment for “dinner” and holland is positively terrified. once you’ve got him past your front door and you’re reaching to undo his belt, nearly lowering down to your knees, holland has to hold you still by the shoulders.

this worst part for him is seeing that you’re embarrassed. you start apologizing, asking if you’ve read the situation wrong (really so polite, holland’s swooning), and he’s like “nonono, baby—i definitely want you to. jesus, i do—trust me.” and so you have to be like “…then what’s wrong?”

and holland has to fess up. he can either be intimate with you, or live in silence forever (and there’s really only one option). so, he slowly but surely lets go the fact that he may or may not have a tattoo below the belt that he doesn’t like so much. it’s a little laughable—you’re trying not to giggle. you’re telling holland “it cannot possibly be that bad” and a billion other tiny assurances, and he’s squeezing his eyes shut, blush-ridden. after a good minute of you cooing at him, he finally undoes his belt, and pulls his waistband down just a bit for you to see it. and there it is: heart with angel wings.

holland gets antsy at the sight of you staring—tries to crack a joke like, “somebody named candy should have this tattoo.” and it’s really a matter of filling the silence because you’re just looking at the tattoo. and when you’re finally like “it’s not even bigger than my pinky.” and “really, it’s kinda cute,” holland is bringing his boxers back up and groaning. just mortified. this is a worst-case scenario. until you’re tugging his waistband back down, dropping to your knees, and giving a soft, plush kiss to the little heart. a full shiver runs down holland’s spine, and you’re grinning like a cheshire cat. clearly—holland’s a little easy to convince. he doesn’t hate his little tattoo nearly as much as he did before.

You know you should be slowing down a bit, considering your options. You could easily return back to the hotel with Colt in an Uber, maybe watch Terminator (the usual). What he’s offering is a big jump. “Would you want to?”

“Would I?” he guffaws. “Would I? That’s like asking a fish if it would prefer water—” You’re pulling Colt in by the back of his neck and kissing him quiet. He can’t help but groan at the way you’re pressing your lips hard against his. Then, it’s his turn to push you back by the shoulders. “So, we’re on the same page.”

“You’re hard to work with. Did you know that?”

“Yeah. I also heard down the grapevine that I’m pretty good so—” Colt’s words die off the second your hands grab onto his jacket. It’s a good couple of steps for you to pull him off the lounge chair behind a bunch of hedges. The greenery provides a decent amount of privacy for you to bring your hands up beneath the hem of his shirt and feel away at his abs. You can feel Colt’s stomach tighten up under your fingertips. “Woah, hi,” he murmurs.

Your hands are cupping his face, beard scratching your palms. He’s thrilled. “You’re a dork,” you tell Colt, before reaching your hand into his back pocket. You make him type in his passcode, before fiddling away at the screen to request a ride back. You know in that brief ten minutes in the backyard—making out to pass the time—that you’re going to bring him back to your hotel room, that the two of you will have sex, and it’ll probably be very awkward in the morning.

—

You have one arm hanging over the side of your bed. You feel like you haven’t slept this well in ages, laying on your stomach with your legs stretched. The digital clock on the bedside reads 6:05, which gives you a decent amount of time to grab a coffee and make it over to set. You’ve got a good view of the carpeted floor of your hotel room and the trailing line of clothes across it. That wakes you up a little faster. Colt’s jacket is hanging on the desk chair, and… you whip around in a hurry to find Colt snoring quietly beside you. “Fuck.”

Last night’s events aren’t difficult to recall. His calloused fingertips slipping gently under the band of your underwear. Colt’s lips dragging down your inner thigh, fingers splaying over your stomach. Colt pushing into you, eyebrows knitted, hand anchored soft on your jaw. You on top of Colt, hands steadying themselves on his chest. The two of you covered in a sheeny coat of sweat, heaving breaths. Busy night.

And now, with the early morning filtering in through the large curtains, you’re staring at the aftermath. You can’t complain much, considering how good Colt looks under the white sheets. You only ever get a good look at his large arms under whatever duplicate costume they have Ryder dressed in. So, you’re staring at the curve of his pecs, his big hands, the way his head tilts back against the pillows. You hardly want to wake him, but there’s work. “Colt,” you whisper sharply, “Colt, you have a seven o’clock call time.”

Almost immediately, he lets out a low whine. “Would you give it another ten minutes?”

“It’s six, and you need to get ready.” You’re never this strict, but you think maybe you have to be after being so all over the place last night.

Colt’s stubborn: “I’m all tapped after you—” You put a finger up to his lips. He hums, confused, eyes fluttering open to trace his eyes from your finger down your arm, and finally, to your bare body beneath the sheets. Then, he’s grinning. You pull your finger back, still holding it close to his face.

“Don’t.” It doesn’t matter what you say; he’s already itching to make a quick comment about last night, and you desperately need him to cool it. Colt grabs your finger and pushes it down with a tight grip.

“I was just going to say that you kept me up past my bedtime,” he retorts. His eyes are staring at your bare shoulders and as much chest that’s willing to peek out of the sheets you’re pulling over you. It’s sort of pointless. He’s seen everything. “Do you regret it?” Colt asks you, point-blank. There’s an ounce of desperation in the way he murmurs the words to you; he needs to know.

You choke out a laugh. “No—obviously not. Do you…?”

“No. So, we don’t have to dance around it. Buddy-seal is officially broken. We can do virtually whatever we want now.” Colt leans down to kiss your collarbone. “And what I want is to nap another ten minutes. And then, maybe see you into the shower.”

You’ve got to push down your blush. “We’re not showering. You can ‘walk of shame’ into the elevator and down to your room.” You’re still not budging, even if it does sound nice to round-two in a warm shower with your very jacked, stuntman best friend. 

You’re trying to run through this all pragmatically, like you did—or at least tried to—last night. Colt is your friend, really your best friend, and he’s also your coworker who you see everyday. With all of your other coworkers, the fellow writers and the crew, and you’d just die if you had one of those hookup rumors going around about you. It doesn’t do a lot for upward career mobility. And it’s Colt.

He murmurs, “Come on. You know, we could get all soapy. I’ll make sure you won’t slip.” And then, he’s making those puppy-like from last night, slithering his arm around your waist just beneath the sheets. You can already feel your stomach coiling at the thought of Colt coming onto you again, and you have a feeling you’re not going to be able to resist him for much longer.

Still, you feign a vehement tone as best as you can: “Oh my God. You’re sick—did you know that?” Completely ingenuine. As mean as the words are, they’re positively dripping with adoration. You just can’t help but view him with that usual infatuation; it was bad when you were just “buddies,” and it’s even worse now.

“Based on last night, I think you’re not much better,” he retorts. Colt’s already nipping at your neck now, hands gripped onto your midsection. You can already feel the smirk on him hovering over your jugular.

You huff, “Fine. Casual shower in five minutes, and then you’re going straight to set.” And Colt’s head collapses back down on the pillows triumphantly. He’s not lying—certainly intent on getting those last five minutes of sleep before that half-hour with you. While he’s shutting his eyes tightly, you can still see the lingering, self-satisfied grin dancing on his face. You twist and turn beneath the covers to face away from Colt, and he’s still sure to keep his forearm glued over your side.

—

After that first (and second) time, it isn’t difficult for you and Colt to be physical with each other. He’s always taking you by the hand and guiding you to his trailer during his twenty-minute breaks. And, whenever he’s off, he’s somehow still somewhere near set to take you out. Sometimes, you only have enough time for a bit of petting. Other times, on lunches, Colt’s on his knees. As much as you can act like you despise the work quickies, you love letting Colt have you, and he’s just the same. He gets a kick out of muffling your little reactive huffs and groans with his hand. And you find out that you’ve got a fixation tugging on his blonde-tipped hair. Colt makes you feel good, and you’re starting to get over his so-called “buddy-seal.”

You’re in the cramped bed in the back of Colt’s trailer, chin to his chest, and his arms are wrapped around your back. You’ve been cuddled together like this for the entirety of the night shoot, neither of you being needed. So, you’ve been chatting together like you always do. Friends or more. Colt has already shedded your button-up off you and tossed it onto a hanger. His shirt’s on the cushioned bench right by it, and the two of you are laying skin-to-skin. It’s practically silent until Colt is stirring beneath you. He mumbles,  “Are you okay?”

You murmur against him, “It’s just the rewrites. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, your shoulders feel like cement. Worse than mine,” Colt tells you, thumbs rubbing into your tensed shoulders. “You know you run miles around all of them, right? It isn’t even a question.” He’s so sweet, and you’re sure he means it because he’s always saying stuff like this whenever you hand him a script or sitting in on a table read. Colt’s basically your number-one fan.

So, you let yourself get a little bit worked up. “I wish they’d stop letting Ryder have all these creative liberties. It totally screws us when he thinks his character is, like, a really good guy. He wants to play hero, and suddenly very well-written lines are getting cut.”

“And he should be playing the guy morally gray at best,” Colt reasons.

You look up at Colt with a huff. “Yes! And he would get that if he just paid attention to the story. It’s right there in the script—God forbid he actually reads critically.” He’s biting back a laugh, so enthused by your tirade, and he’s shifting to brush your arms with his thumbs.

“If it makes you feel better, I will do the stunts with a moral grayness in mind,” Colt says. “That way, it’ll film at least a little more accurate.”

“How would a morally gray jump look? I’d love to know.”

“You know, I’d be going down with stoicism and… complexity.” Then, you’re both losing it, snickering away at the absurdity of it all. He’s warm, you’re warm, and you’re together. You hardly think it’s a good time to ask him if you could do this more often. That’d make it all a little bit more than friendly. Then, Colt’s pressing a soft kiss to your hairline, and you’re trying not to feel your breath stutter in your chest. Nowadays, he’s really good at making that happen.

—

This goes on for about a month until you switch sets. You’re still seeing Colt in between, less and less frequently as the weeks pass. He’s working on the next Ryder blockbuster and you’re doing an indie horror—and you’ve got less of a reason to be hooking up with each other. You text Colt like always, maybe a little risqué every now and then, but other than that, there’s been a foreseeable stall in your casual relationship.

You come back together on the next season of Ryder’s television series. The same crime thriller, higher stakes—terrible material as always. You’re back in L.A. earlier than Colt for a table read, but the second his plane touches down at LAX, you’re going out to dinner with the stunt crew and, for some odd reason, not ending the night together. The next week or so is fuzzy, workload leaving you little room for play. There’s lunch with Colt and Dan, logistics with the director, edits here and there. Everything feels just like usual, save for your and Colt’s failure to run off together.

It’s not difficult to deduce the reason why Colt’s been so standoffish since being back on set. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with you. You're on a fifteen minute break when you notice it. They’re resetting cameras for a stunt take, and you’ve made it out of the office for a little while to watch the magic. You’re just about to tell Colt how perfectly wrapped he looks in his harness, when you find him… preoccupied.

 You’ve got your eye on Colt, and he has his eye on Jody. It’s difficult to reckon with the idea of them together when the most recent memory you have of him alone is the seam of his jeans rutting against your work slacks. (You’d made out one last time before he had to take that flight out to Ohio.) But there he is, and there she is, and he’s staring at her like she’s already won the Emmy. You don’t know Jody well at all, but you can see objectively that she’s very pretty—even more so in her set clothes. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail, headset half off her ear, adjusting the lens on the ARRI.

You want to punch yourself for even bringing it up, but it’s almost compulsive. It’s killing you just watching him stare. You want—or, need—to know where Colt’s head is at. “She seems pretty cool,” you say, nodding your head across the way.

“Jody?” he asks. Colt gives you a nod. “Yeah, she’s got this great idea for a reboot of Tomb Raider.” Of course she does—super cool. “Dan likes her, too. She’s got a steady hand on the camera.” It’s difficult for him to hide that lovelorn swoon in the description. You know Colt too well to know what it means.

“Are you guys—?”

“No! Not… yet.” That hesitation in his voice makes you dig your nails into your palm—but you plaster up a smile. Operative word: yet. You can feel your heart drop at Colt’s delicate hesitation. He probably doesn’t want to hurt your feelings with this whole thing—he’s interested in Jody! That’s great for him. It’s about time he gets something serious, and you should, too. It’s not like you want to hold him back from that. You would never want to hold him back.

“That’s awesome,” you grit out. It’s just the name of the game, and as Colt’s very good friend, you should be nothing but ecstatic.

He turns to you with a raised brow, pockets shoved into his hoodie pockets. “You think so?”

You shrug. “Yeah. I think you guys would be a great fit. I’m sure you got to know each other a bit on the last movie, too. Bond reboot, right?” It’s not like you don’t know where he’s been spending his time. You have each other’s locations shared from the last billion projects you’ve been on together.

“Yeah.” Colt continues. “Since I’ve been chatting with Jody, I was thinking it might be better if we—”

“Sure,” you blurt out, “I was thinking the same thing.” You have the urge to look over your shoulder, trying to assure full privacy. There’s a couple of golf carts driving around, a couple of trucks dragging up backdrops. No straggler assistants. 

“I didn’t even finish,” Colt laughs.

“Yeah—I mean, I’ve been getting so loaded up with projects. You are, too. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of room for… quality time.” Casual sex. You can’t even say it aloud, considering how silly it feels now. “We might as well call it here.”

“Might as well,” he murmurs after you. He seems a little skeptical about the briskness of your decision. Colt’s better than you in that way. He wants to talk, and you want to run. He’s good enough to you to keep quiet when you give him a tight-lipped smile and a jovial pat on the back.

You point towards his belt. “I think they’re calling you on your walkie,” you say, already stepping by him to retreat back to your car, “Good talk.” And suddenly, you’re making a break for your car in the backlot and seating yourself in the passengers with your forehead thudding against your dash. You wish that you’d kept your mind on why you and Colt started hooking up in the first place; it was just a matter of wasting time.

—

You’ve started avoiding Colt like the plague. It’s completely your doing. You’ve gotten in the bad habit of being everywhere he’s not, making sure that you’re busy on the opposite side of set. You’re a little bit guilty to be icing him out like this; you’ve never done it before. But, all things considered, he seems fine enough. You’d heard from one PA to another that Colt’s been around Jody a lot more lately. It’s all a little predictable, really. He asked her to the movies, and she said yes. You’re quite sure they’ll be going steady anytime now.

Now, you have to take stock of the situation. Colt may or may not be in love with Jody. You may or may not be in love with Colt. And in the middle of it all, you’re wondering if you should’ve done more. You could’ve told him how you were feeling sometime in that month of hookups. It could’ve even happened after that very first time—but you were just so worried about something going wrong. It was supposed to be fun, it was, and then you lost track. You should have seen this coming. It’s the definitive nature of casual: on-and-off and not at all serious.

At any given moment, you can picture Colt in bed. The way his eyebrows furrow together in deep focus, the way he rolls his hips with a bit of a stutter when he’s close. You can picture him resting right in between your legs, fluttering kisses on your jaw. Holding you steady with his thick arms. These were all good things—and Colt was good to you—but the intimacy wasn’t everything. It was him. How he’d always bring you water after, maybe give your legs a bit of a massage and brush your hair back with his fingers. How he’d let you vent on about work—or really whatever was on your mind. It felt smooth. Perfect.

You know Colt cares about you. That hasn’t changed. But there’s that terrible thought festering in your brain that Colt just didn’t like you enough. And so, maybe it makes a little more sense for him to graduate to Jody. She might have a little bit more substance than you do. A really good film gal for Colt, maybe a workaholic like you, but more candid. That’s what he needs. You hate to admit that she’s exactly the kind of person you’d expect him to settle down with.

—

He’s shot you three in the past week you’ve been too nervous to answer. First: Catering’s here. Better grab a bite before HE gets to it. Second: Dan wants you to come out drinking with stunt crew. And, finally: Coffee? After that, it was radio silence. Colt took the hint and let you be. Now, you haven’t been needed on set for a couple days now, getting closer and closer to the end of production. It’s been a relief to get away and not feel like you’re tiptoeing around set. With a bit of downtime in your apartment, and heavy rain over Downtown LA, you’ve decided on a night in. You’ve got a kettle on the stove, DVDs spread across the coffee table, movie still unpicked. In a tight top and boxers, ready to fall asleep on your couch, you’re hoping to spend the night unaffected by any other unwanted thoughts about Colt.

It doesn’t last for very long. You’re about to grab a mug from the cupboard when you can hear the revving of a pickup truck just over the pattering rain. It sounds eerily similar to Colt’s, which you think is paranoid for you to deduce from the sound alone. It could be virtually anyone, the friend of a neighbor or something of the sort. A few good minutes pass with no signs of life. You’re about to grab for that mug again, then find a good bag of tea.

Before you’re able to have any more hope, a loud couple of knocks on your door cause you to flinch. You’ve got to turn the stove off before coming over to answer it. You look through the eyehole, and with a tight chest, see your only likely visitor. Colt’s on the other side, soaking wet. In a rush, you unlock your door and pull him inside by the arm of his jacket. Rainwater splatters onto your sweatshirt as he steps forward to match your tugging. Colt grumbles, “You’re upset with me.”

You let go off his sleeve with a huff, shutting the door behind him. “It’s really late and it’s raining. You’re literally soaking my welcome mat,” you grimace. “Were you just sitting out there? Jesus, Colt.” The image plays of your mind: him parking the truck, storming up to your door, and severely hesitating to knock.

“I would be upset with me, too,” he nods. He’s not even attempting to dry up. Colt only stands in front of you with the same troubled look he came in with. Small droplets come down from his blonde bangs onto the floor in front of your feet.

“I’m not upset at you,” you correct him softly. You’re upset at yourself—at the circumstances, maybe—but not Colt. “But you really should get going. Let me just grab you a towel or something, so you’re not damaging your car seats.” You’re already backing up your heels, trying to make a break for the closet in your hallway.

“Please slow down,” Colt groans, hand coming up to hold your wrist. He loosens his grip in a matter of seconds, jaw gritted. It’s only then that you’re willing to stay still; you’ve never seen him this serious.

“Is this because I didn’t answer your texts? I was going to.” A complete and utter lie.

“I was a little offended, but no. I came to apologize for sleeping with you.” You’re about to scoff, when Colt rushes out a raspy: “I got greedy.”

“Colt—” you murmur. You’re barely able to look him in the eyes.

"I thought I would be okay enough having some part of you. And I wasn’t. Like, at all,” he emphasizes. “I want all of you. Not just the bed stuff. I want you around all the time. I knew it the first time we slept together and the second time—” Your eyes are narrowing at Colt’s counting, so he’s reeling it back. “And I knew it before then, too.” You can feel heat spiking across your face. He can’t possibly be confessing now. “But I’d die if you put any less time working on your scripts. You work so hard,” he says, all too selfless. He doesn’t give you the chance to tell him that you’d want him to take up your time. “When Gail signed me on for Bond, Jody was there. It made more sense in my head to abandon ship, and I shouldn’t have.”

The dazed expression on your face cracks at the realization. Jody. There’s still Jody. “You need to go! This is bad, Colt. Really, really bad.” Decidedly, the towels are no longer necessary. You’re trying to push Colt back towards your front door, but your shoving is no match for his planted feet. He’s too solid and just too strong. Your hands fall limply to your sides, and he’s trying to reason with you with a soft chuckle and a shake of his head. 

“We couldn’t even make it to a second date. I realized it was pointless to even try, and Jody could tell I wasn’t all in. Then, you’re unhappy with me—I can always tell—and Dan’s been pissed, ‘cause I haven’t been sleeping. You should be getting at least seven hours if you’re going to do crash stunts, and—whatever,” Colt huffs, “You live in my head, and I’m sorry I set us up for failure.” His chest is rising and falling, and you’re both dead quiet. You’re trying your best to process his very charged confessions, and the only thing you can think of is how sorry you are, too.

“I went along with it. We were having fun, and I thought pushing it off would save us the trouble,” you tell him. “I’m in love with you, Colt. We wouldn’t be in this situation if I wasn’t.”

“And I am very in love with you, too. Perfect. Same page.” He points between the two of you, “This is a good talk.”

You’re not done: “I shouldn’t have given you the cold shoulder. Jody was just so cool, and you know I want the best for you, too. It got to my head seeing you two together, and I’ve been shelling myself indoors when I could’ve just told the truth.”

“You even could’ve been a little more territorial,” Colt says, “I wouldn’t have minded it. In fact—” He would’ve been a little into it. You lean up to kiss him soft, just once—the gentle, celebratory kind, and also an effective means of shutting him up. You’re both winning at the end of this. Then, he kisses you once softly, too. Then, again, with a little more heftiness. 

Before you know it, he’s walking you back against the front door, hand cupping your jaw as he kisses you. It’s hard, needy—you’re barely able to take a breath like this. What you’ve seen of Colt—in your hotel room, in his trailer, in his truck parked in the back lot—has never been this desperate. You let out a short gasp as he nips at your bottom lip. You can feel his growing hard-on press against your leg as he captures your lips with his own. Then, you’re both getting a little more impatient with one another, Colt’s hips rutting up into you.

He groans, “Missed this.” He’s dragging his thumb down your abdomen and trailing it straight towards the waistband of your boxers. The second he’s dipping his fingers beneath the elastic band, and finding his way between your thighs, you’re done for. You take one hand to grasp onto the muscle of his forearm, letting out a shuddered moan. Colt hums. He pulls his hand back out and anchors it on your hip. “Feels like you missed me, too.” His sudden withdrawal makes you hang your head just slightly.

He lets out a chuckle. “Guess we could fuck like friends one last time,” Colt murmurs, “If you want.” You’re really starting to feel that deep ache between your legs from the way he’s speaking to you. It's reactive, the way your whole body is relapsing for him. You’re slurring out a bit of an “mhm,” and Colt’s taking it as a sign to drag his teeth against your neck.

He’s about to scoop you with one arm, when you raise your hands up against him: “We’re not going to my bedroom like this.” There’s a small puddle beneath the both of you, and you desperately want to keep it contained to the living room. By this point, the entire front of your shirt is soaked, not leaving very much to the imagination, and Colt’s giddy at the sight. His hands are brushing softly over the wet fabric over your chest, and the sensation is sending goosebumps across your arms and legs.

At the sight of you trembling, Colt blinks. “It’s fine,” he says, “We can take it all off and leave it here to dry.”