God has abandoned this land

It most certainly is not a combination he’s unacquainted with, in fact quite the opposite: he knows not to question it and to instead welcome the wet, eager mouth sliding across his throat with clinging arms. His head meets the wall with a muted thump, the little ache there soon swallowed by the far more thrilling sting of teeth at his jugular.

The switch had been jarring, at first. You’d been so patient, so gentlemanly in those first days after he’d impulsively kissed you in the empty set of a hospital parking lot. Not the most romantic setting for your first kiss, sure, but you’d looked so damn handsome under the wan gleam of the moon, and he’d been buzzing with adrenaline from leaping out of a fifth story window an hour prior, so he just couldn’t help it.

Those following days had been mortifying for him—but he suspects merely amusing for you, as you waited for him not to panic whenever you tried bringing it up. He noticed the lingering touches, the hungry sweep of your eyes when you’d duck into his trailer to call him to set, the fleeting glances to his mouth while he spoke. Anyone could’ve read that as what it was. And Colt did, for the most part.

But despite his occupation consisting of being thrown off buildings and set on fire on a regular basis, Colt can be quite the coward. Especially when it comes to pretty, outrageously charming men.

It took him a week and some change to muster up the courage to properly ask you out, which only stepped into his reach upon realizing that if you hadn’t gone running for the hills yet, then you probably wouldn’t any time soon. And maybe after a particularly lewd dream involving you, too, though that he'll keep to himself.

“Colt,” he feels vibrate against the hollow of his throat. He hums absently, fumbling for the back of your shirt, only to shove it out of the way and slide his palms up your warm back. “Stop thinking.”

“Yep, right, sorry. No more thinking. All empty up here. Starting now.”

Your airy puff of laughter falls against his overheated skin, drawing up goosebumps in its wake. His fingers flex against the broad expanse of your back.

He’s half-hard already, though he’s certain it can’t have been more than a few minutes since you hauled him into this tiny bathroom, hidden away in the mansion rented out for the wrap party. Much to his embarrassment, you’re quick to take note of this, and reach down to drag your knuckles along the top of his belt, hooked underneath his shirt.

“Eager,” you hum, low as if to yourself. With a final kiss to his pulse point, you straighten back to eye level. You meet his gaze, steady and collected as ever, and Colt has the itching urge to shrivel under your quiet scrutiny, feeling heat bloom up his face, near feverish at the tips of his ears. He clutches you tighter, drawing you in closer in hopes of getting your mouth back on his, but you only smile—so tender it’s almost patronizing, and his cock gives a feeble throb in his jeans.

“You really want this, huh, angel?”

The pet name dunks him into a full-body warmth, pooling like slow-moving magma low in his belly. A frustrated sort of groan wobbles out of him, lunging forth in search of another kiss. Ever quick, you dodge him, sliding the hand in his hair down to his jaw, where it grips him steadily. You click your tongue a few times in soft reproach, but press a thigh to his aching crotch nonetheless.

“You look so pretty like this, you know that? I figured I’d appreciate the view for a minute, but it seems someone’s too needy.”

Your name falls from his lips in a ragged huff, unbalanced and more pathetic-sounding than he’d like to admit. His hips, driven by their own volition, roll in erratic grinds against the meat of your thigh, seeking far more than what the meager friction provides.

You smile at him once more before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his chin, and finally to his lips. Allowing him to part your own with his tongue, your second hand dutifully works on his belt and fly. His heart kicks out wildly, a jackrabbit against his breastbone, when you manage to shove his jeans halfway down his thighs with one hand.

A few seconds of nothing at all precedes the sensation of your hand cupping the tented front of his boxer briefs, and it’s in spite of himself that a wet moan cracks through his chest. You swallow the sound happily, thumb sweetly scrubbing across his bearded jawline while your palm follows the length of him, up and down.

“Hmmn—Jesus,” he manages, molars gritted to dust as he tries not to buck too desperately into your warm hand. Only grinds and chases after it when you teasingly withdraw.

There isn’t a single light on in the bathroom, but the moonlight pours in through the tiny overhead window and somehow you stand out in stark relief against the dim blue background. Your eyes, faintly narrowed and a far darker shade than usual, track his every movement, attention evenly split between his face and the rolling of his hips. You’re looking at him as though studying some fascinating experiment, drinking in every minute reaction at the smallest exploratory motions of your hand. Colt burns with arousal.

“Could you come like this?” You ask after an amount of time that is completely lost on him, and the sudden breathy quality of your voice sounds something like awe. Like you’ve made some big, beautiful breakthrough.

Colt, on the other hand, is clawing at your back in a way that’s sure to leave marks and too focused on the blissful angle he’s found, dragging his cock right up against the hollow of your palm. It takes a moment for your words to reach him, and an even longer one for him to piece together their meaning.

“Mhm,” he hums, forehead meeting your shoulder, suddenly feeling it very heavy.

In return, you hum as well, learning the rhythm of his pelvis and matching it, slower yet firmer. Colt’s never been one for this sort of stimulation—more often than not the texture of his boxers makes it all more uncomfortable than pleasurable, but the sheer, fiery want swarming him head to toe could make him come with you just uttering the order.

He’s brought back, fleeting but very vividly in the way drunken abstraction often is, to the dream he had of you—no more than a few nights back.

In it, your skin had been so warm under his fingers, your voice so low and wrecked and your eyes lit with such desire he’d woken up hard and panting and mournfully empty.

The memory alone draws a little surge of pleasure forth, twisting into your neck, sucking in your familiar scent with mounting desperation. His skin crawls with hot anticipation, rutting quicker, harder against your deft hand.

Pleasure rolls over itself, snowballing deep in his navel, sparking down his sweat-sticky thighs; he sucks in a shuddering breath and—

You pull away.

He moans in frustrated dismay, ass coming off the wall entirely, chasing after your retreating palm, but within seconds the building crescendo of his orgasm has wilted away, back to a low baseline of thrumming arousal.

You shush him when he makes another pitiful sound into your clothed shoulder, absentmindedly carding your fingers through the hair at his crown. He will admit, the feeling does somewhat soothe the ache of a denied orgasm. A little.

“We’ve got all night, no need to rush.”

Colt huffs. “We’re in a bathroom at a Hollywood party, if there was ever the need for a quickie, it’d be right now.”

Your answering laugh is quiet and deep in the chest, and it rumbles through his own and settles there, warm.

“Not like anyone will come looking for us. Besides…” You pull back, gripping onto his hair just enough to meet his eye. “You’d stay here all night if I asked you to, wouldn’t you?”

Colt blinks. Considers, quite seriously, the risk he must be at of spontaneously combusting. His cock throbs and throbs, and the way you’re looking at him, keeping a lovingly firm hold on his hair, only makes matters worse.

He doesn’t give you the satisfaction of answering that question; you both already know the answer, anyway.

Next your hands find his waistband, hooking two fingers into either side and sliding it down just enough to free his cock.

It isn’t the first time you’ve seen it, but the satisfied sound you make shoots a pulse of heat straight down into it. You reach down, encircle the base with your clever fingers, and Colt sags against the wall. He pulls one hand out from your shirt to latch on to your tricep, shoving out a shuddering exhale.

“Look at you,” you croon, beginning to languidly pump your fist, all loose and steady. Colt’s thighs quiver.

You’re gonna be the death of him. He just knows it, down to his bones.

“Please,” he grits out, hoping to meet your gaze and inspire some kindness but you keep your own low, fascinated by the ruddy, leaking image of his dick twitching in your fist.

You make an acknowledging sound, but Colt has a feeling you aren’t really getting it. The stimulation is somehow too much and not enough, all at once. He gives a few tentative rolls into the circle of your fist, and when you utter no word of dissent, he begins fucking into it in earnest.

His moan falls muffled into your throat, a place where he comes to realize he could stay forever, breathing you in, getting off on your clever hands and dizzying words.

“What would they all think out there, huh? Seeing you like this. So desperate to come.”

He’s close again already; his pace grows arrhythmic, shallow, sucking at the base of your throat when he isn’t tucking low moans into the skin there.

Your free hand smoothes down the back of his head in an almost petting gesture, thumbing his tip once before pulling away entirely.

Colt’s moan warps, halfway through, into a strained sob, bucking into empty space as his cock weeps pre onto the tile below. He cries out your name, a dragged-out sound of raw need.

“I know, I know,” you sigh into his hair, still stroking it with sure fingers.

“You’re being mean,” Colt whines against you, the arm still crossed over your back dropping to your hip and palming it insistently.

“I just wanna make you feel good,” you reply, the fan of your breath sending shivers down his sweaty back. “At least until I can get you in my bed and fuck you properly.”

Shit—Colt damn near comes from that alone. He whines and his hips jerk wildly, taken on life of their own. For the first time since he’s gotten to know you, he tries very hard not to think about you fucking him within an inch of his life, lest he comes untouched, and as much as he wants to release all the circling, built-up pleasure in him he wants to do it when you let him.

So, he just screws his eyes shut, and mumbles a weak, “okay.”

“Attaboy,” you tease, squeezing the nape of his neck once before returning your free hand to his dick.

A steady breath rolls over into a fractured hum, stretching on with your sparse, gentle touches—a thumb across his slit, a drag of knuckles down the underside, then a graze to his balls. Sweat slides down his heaving chest, longing to bury himself back into you but held back by your hand on his nape.

Observing his slow unspooling, you make a low sound, vaguely resembling a growl.

“God, I wish I could fuck you right now,” you lament, squeezing the head of his cock lightly. Colt yelps, skull knocking against the wallpaper. He eyes you through the narrowed slits of his eyes, draws up something he hopes looks like a smirk.

“You could.”

You shake your head. “No. I really want to take my time with that.”

Colt groans—more agitated than pleasured this time, and digs his thumb into the flesh right above the curve of your hip bone. Your ministrations on him are far more relaxed now, lax and distracted, like some absentminded reflex, and it should be frustrating, but he finds himself reluctantly enjoying it. Your collectedness before his shaky, desperate frame.

Your palm begins making these tight, quick circling motions against his tip, thumbing underneath the head with a pointedness so determined he's certain you'll let him come this time. His body responds in kind, kicking into high-gear and frantically chasing release. A very faint, very fleeting thought crosses his mind that you never even had to spit into your palm—he's damn near soaked your palm and fingers with a seemingly endless supply of precome, and the glide is so utterly frictionless, product of your clever motions and his overwhelming want that it makes his head spin.

He's hardly aware of how loud he's being, bucking like an animal into your hand, baring his throat for your nipping teeth, unraveling in your firm hold. You murmur into his skin, things that are completely lost on him amidst the roaring of blood in his ears, the deluge of pleasure bursting through him—so acute it makes his eyes prickle and his vision warp.

It builds quicker than ever, almost too intensely, his steady quivers deepening into involuntary, full-body jerks. His jaw falls open right as he feels himself approaching the summit, tensing in preparation.

Then you're gone again, and he's ripped right back down. With a wet sob, his tears finally spill over, searing against his warm cheeks. He knows better than to seek you out with his hips again—but they don't seem to get the memo and continue twitching, grinding into nothing.

His mind is empty, scraped hollow and reduced to its most basic instincts; he doesn't register his own frenzied weeping or the near bruising grip he has on you, only tightening as his pleasure slips away like a receding tide. All that he processes is his arousal, so trapped and pressurized it almost hurts, and you, brushing the hair out of his eyes and cooing, as though comforting a small, startled animal.

"Please, please," Colt manages, voice thick with tears, wet-cheeked and aching. You tut softly, and lean in to kiss each streak of salt on his face. It's so tender it makes Colt choke on a sad bleat, sniffling.

"You think you can do one more?" you ask, and maybe if he weren't so muddleheaded he'd catch the fond, facetious lilt of your tone, but panic rises before he can quell it, and his grip on you tightens abruptly. Tears threaten to gather again.

"No, no—I can't, please, I can't do it, I'm sorry—"

"Hey, hey." His teeth clamp shut, blinking hard so your warm expression comes into focus through his tears. "I was joking, angel. You've been so good, so patient. I think you deserve to come, hm?"

Colt's tongue, suddenly, feels stuck to his palate, thick like honey. He nods, though, quite fervently, and flushes warm all over at your sweet answering smile. You lean in to kiss him, closing the gap between your chests and caging him in with your forearm pressed to the wall behind him.

When you finally take him again, it's with a firm, committed grip and quick motions. You're crowded in so close to him he can barely fuck into your fist, pelvis trapped against the wall. He's completely at your mercy, subject to whatever you may decide as his bliss swells, even quicker this time around.

He trusts you, and the way you're looking at him, swiping rogue tears away with your free hand on his cheek, entranced by how he cries—it all makes him shudder.

Pleasure becomes greater than him, so all-encompassing he can't keep his eyes open, rolling so fiercely through his limbs like a ceaseless electric current he briefly fears his legs giving out. It's sharp and blunt and sweltering all at once, crowding into every inch of him, throbbing in his cock, pouring out into your fist.

You watch him unblinkingly.

His own orgasm takes him by surprise. Strikes all at once, so intense he's silent through most of it, shaking and spurting over your hand, onto the floor below. He pulses with it, wave after wave of devastating pleasure, and you pump him through and whisper candied praise into the shell of his ear, coaxing every last drop of come and shudder of bliss out of him, until he sinks against you with a high moan, spent.

His cock continues to twitch through the aftershocks, softening in your still palm, which you're kind enough not to move anymore. His head feels stuffed full of cotton and air, though terribly heavy against your shoulder. Your arm comes off the wall, running a hand along his firm upper arm.

"I love watching you come," you chirp, all warm and lighthearted like you've just won the lottery. Colt grumbles incomprehensibly against your collarbone, letting his eyes slide shut as the world drifts back to him in chunks. You soon release his arm to make him decent, keeping your dirtied hand hovering off to the side.

"Okay," you say, wrapping an arm around his mid back. You pull him off the wall, and turn him over—he goes like a ragdoll in your grip. "There you go, good?" you ask once plopped him down on the toilet seat lid.

Colt manages an inelegant nod, humming his confirmation for good measure. He's better than good—better than great, in fact, but no such word is really coming to mind at the moment and he doesn't feel like speaking, anyway.

You nudge his legs apart in order to crouch down between them. With your elbows perched atop his knees, you peer up at him, eyeing him thoughtfully to make sure he's being honest.

He leans into your hand when you reach for his cheek like a purring cat, certain that were he able, he absolutely would be doing so. Your thumb stretches out, delicately tracing the slightly puffy skin under his right eye, and he watches, then, as your gaze falls to your other hand, still bearing some pale streaks of his come. You quietly regard it, look at him thoughtfully, and then bring your knuckles to your mouth.

His crotch throbs when you lick the come right off your skin, holding his eye with something like a challenge gleaming in your own. You move to your thumb next, sweeping your tongue across the webbing at the base of it. You peer up at him through the fan of your eyelashes and Colt thinks he could almost get hard again, just by watching you. He doesn't think he's ever watched something more erotic, and it's in a stranger's bathroom at a wrap party after the most intense orgasm he's ever had.

Once satisfied, you lower your hand, and reach out with both to zip his fly and do up his button. You lightly smack the outside of his thighs and rise to your feet.

"You with me?" you ask, reaching out, palms upward. He makes haste in taking them, letting you pull him to his feet. He can't help but kiss you again, holding on to either side of your face like you might duck away. You don't; you simply indulge him.

his hands are shaking when he cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you’re made of glass.

is this okay?

tell me if it’s too much, please

we dont have to if you dont want

he kisses you so soft it makes your chest ache, slow rolls of his hips. you can feel every tremble in his arms where they’re braced beside your head, the way his breath stutters hot against your ear.

you feel… god, you feel incredible.

all sweet, pressing these tiny little kisses along your jaw while he pushes in slowly, letting you adjust, forehead dropped to yours as he tells you how well you are doing.

but the second you moan and roll your hips up to meet him?

ask him for more?

tell him that you want to feel him tomorrow?

it's game over.

he blames it on biology taking over, his eyes squeezing shut as he processes what youre asking, that sweet boyish expression twisting into something desperate. he lets out this broken, wrecked sound and suddenly he’s driving into you hard, hips snapping forward with zero warning

he’s fucking you like he’s starving for it now, deep and rough, the slap of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. he feels bad for how little control he has, it's been far too long since he has touched someone like this.

touched someone, and loved them like this.

sweetheart—god, l'm sorry, you just—

it makes his movements sloppy as he can't get enough, he needs to take you over and over and over til neither of you can forget this feeling

shaky hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he folds you practically in half. he’s panting into your neck, sweat dripping from his messy hair onto your skin, every thrust punching the air out of you as he apologises against your skin, but he needs this, he needs you.

eyes wet and wild, his cock is so deep and he’s hitting that spot over and over like he was made for it. the gentle boy from five minutes ago is gone; now it’s just him completely lost in you, muttering filthy broken praises between gritted teeth:

baby—i'm sorry, god—just feel so good—