You both forget. Every time.
Everything within you clenches, shivering and coming down from your high, in time to hear Kento gasp behind you, drowning in euphoria.
Cursing under his breath, Kento's thrusts become slower and shallower; he barely pulls out, groaning as his cock jerks within you, filling you with sluggish, sticky stripes of his seed. He gasps, face contorted in bliss, his powerful body buckling under the force of his peak. You only wish you could see his face, eyes closing to imagine it instead.
You couldn't move if you wanted to; the primal breeding centre of his brain urges his fingers to grip your hips with stunning force, holding you back onto him. You're vulnerable, impaled as he fills you, balls clenched tight and pulsing.
You grin, face down and goofy with pleasure, that core part of you satisfied to feel him spill himself inside you. You can almost hear the sanctuary in your belly, calling him home, drinking him in.
Every time. Every time, you forget.
Your husband finally comes back, behind you, having been replaced by a beast for a moment. You call out to him, your voice sweet and dopey.
"Hi, Kento."
"...y-yeah...hi."
"Hi."
Kento chuckles, low and breathless, holding you back onto him as he threatens to slip out. He realises.
Every fucking time.
"Shit, have you-- have you got anything...anything to hand?"
"Err..."
You hear him huff behind you, turning into a laugh. A low rumbling reassurance.
"Alright...move with me."
You giggle, moving your arse with his hips to keep him plugged within you. Kento splays his hand over the bed, hunting, hunting--
"Every time," he grumbles, floundering as his softening cock begins to slip out of you, "every fucking time-- been years-- think we'd remember--"
"Clearly my pussy game is just too good--"
"You're fucking right, too good-- distractingly good pussy game-- a-ha!"
Kento's hand clasps his discarded shirt, and you squeak when he claps his hand between your legs. You're laughing as you crumple forwards, his cock slipping free and his shirt being squashed between your legs. A telltale trickle of cum soaks into the soft fabric, just in time.
Every time.
You feel a trail of lazy, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, your hips, your sacral curve, squealing and laughing as his teeth nip into your bottom. You wiggle, certain you're still alluring with his cum-stained shirt between your legs. You're right; you are. It earns you a gruff little slap to the arse and you laugh again.
"...hang on--" Kento groans, wobbling on cum-drunk legs, his cock still half-hard, as if he'll have any life left in him before he passes out, face down on your breasts. "Hang on...you deserve better...than a fucking shirt."
"Noooo!" You cry, grinning as you snuggle under the duvet, your eyes drooping. "I love ruining your shirts."
"That's because you're tacky. And classless."
You laugh again, knowing he's right. You're protesting without protest when Kento returns, smirking and battling your legs open to retrieve his shirt and replace it with a warm flannel.
He wouldn't have it any other way. Every fucking time.
865 notes
·
View notes
The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 3
Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader
Description: The third time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — the one that hurts the most.
Rating: T
Word Count: 2.4k
Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer
Author’s Note: It's part 3! The tension is heating up, the emotional stakes are rising, and my obsession is only getting worse / better. Let me know what you think! :)
Part 1 // Part 2
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You step into the darkened club at the height of the company’s weekend party, colorful lights flashing over the dozens of people dancing and chatting across the crowded room, but your eyes are sharpened on the lookout for just one person. Colt Seavers.
You can’t get him out of your head. You’ve spent the last three days doing everything in your power to avoid him on set, from locking yourself in the art trailer to conveniently arranging to work on the still-in-progress train station set. You had entertained the idea that if you could just keep from seeing him for a few days, you could stop replaying every moment of that night in your head.
But even when you’re knee-deep in epoxy or hyper-focused on scoring holes in iron beams, you’re envisioning the way the lamplight accentuated Colt’s features and reflected in his dark blue eyes that night. Try as you may, you can’t forget how absorbed he was in studying your face, or the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulders to escort you to your hotel, or the way he lingered at the doorway as if he wanted to say something.
And you especially can’t forget the way you thought he was going to kiss you.
But then, of course, you had to ruin it. You obviously came on too strong. You physically cringe every time you remember some of the things you said to Colt that night while you were so delirious you couldn’t even stand up straight.
“I bet the desk clerk thought I was drunk and bringing you home with me.”
“I couldn’t have made it without you.”
The fact that Colt has been avoiding you just as hard as you’ve been avoiding him only confirms your anxieties. In the past three days, you’ve only seen him twice, and both times he’s ducked away before you had to have a conversation. It’s not like anything shameful or immodest happened between you — it’s just that you made your crush on him so painfully obvious that you’re sure he’s trying to spare your feelings. The thought makes your heart ache, but it’s ultimately for the best. You’re not about to make a move when it’s so obvious that he’s not interested in anything serious with you.
However, the fact that you’ve been sleeping curled up with his jacket — the one that has his musky smell embedded into its very essence — has not helped matters in the slightest.
You shake your head as you glance around the dark room and wave at your friend Holly across the bar. You’re honestly an embarrassment to yourself. All your life, you’ve had an iron will that bends to your intelligence, not your emotions. Why does that have to change now, all of a sudden?
Holly makes her way around the bar, a drink in her hand and the evidence of more on her breath. You reach out a hand to steady her before she spills her drink all over herself, and she giggles uncontrollably. She’s a talented cinematographer and a dedicated weekend partier.
“Where have you been the last few days?” Holly asks dramatically, as if you’ve committed an atrocity against your friendship. “I haven’t seen you anywhere.”
“Just working on getting the sets perfect,” you shrug, trying not to give anything away. “Besides, I’ve never been one to hang around the cameras too much anyway. That’s your department.”
Holly gives you a mischievous smile and takes another sip of her drink, peering over the edge of the glass at you knowingly. “You certainly seemed to find ways to be near the cameras when a certain stuntman was on set.”
You stiffen immediately, doing your best to paint an unaffected smile on your face and failing miserably. “That’s all over, Hol. Not a thing anymore.”
Holly raises her eyebrows skeptically, and you know she sees right through you. “What a shame,” she grins. “He certainly only had eyes for you.”
That comment sends a stab of pain through your heart, but you ignore it. “It’s fine. Nothing weird, I’m just keeping my distance. Just trying to avoid a heartbreak, that’s all.” The words are technically true.
“Got it,” Holly nods conspiratorially. She takes another sip of her drink and glances around the room. “Well, he didn’t show up here tonight, so you don’t have to worry about him. You can just have fun!”
The words have barely left Holly’s mouth before her eyes widen to a comical size at something behind you. Somehow, you already know who just walked in the door, and your heart gives another spectacular lurch.
Knowing you need to get this over with, you turn to face him, your heart in your throat. Sure enough, Colt slips through the club door, glancing around the room intently, as if he’s looking for something. Or someone, you can’t help thinking.
His eyes land on you, and he freezes in his tracks. A mixture of emotions — nervousness, embarrassment, surprise — crosses his face. You know it’s going to be awkward after all that’s happened, so you try to break the ice. “Hey, fall guy,” you greet him, instantly regretting it. Too flirtatious, stop it right now.
Colt smiles, something like relief crossing his tense features. “Hey, da Vinci,” he responds over the boom of the club’s music, closing the door behind him and taking a single step in your direction. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, and you suddenly notice that he’s not dressed for a company party.
“What brings you here?” you ask, trying to ignore the way Holly is pressing into your side and doing a horrible job of hiding her elbowing. “I thought you weren’t a fan of these company parties.”
Colt shrugs, looking past you into the crowd. “Yeah, not really. Just came to drop some stuff off with George for tomorrow’s session.” He swallows hard, as if he’s pondering something, then lets his eyes fall back on you. “What about you? I thought you didn’t like the company parties either.”
I don’t. I came to try to forget about you.
“Oh,” you say casually, “just dropping by. Holly asked me to come.” You squeeze Holly’s hand to signal her for backup, and, intoxicated as she is, she immediately jumps in to help.
“I did!” she exclaims, a little too enthusiastic. “We were actually just talking about — ah, we were just talking about…” Holly hesitates way too long, and you cringe inwardly. “Your stunt!” she recovers. “Your transfer truck stunt!”
“Your what?” Your curiosity is instantly piqued, along with your worry. “I don’t remember a transfer truck stunt in the script.”
Colt smiles a little, the first one you’ve seen since he walked in. “Gordon decided to try it out today. He thought it would spice up the car chase scene.”
Holly jumps in with gusto, clearly excited to have turned you onto a better topic. “Yeah! Gordon came up with it at the last minute. The stunt was originally supposed to just be VFX, but Colt said he could do it.”
“Do what?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Colt shrugs. “Just a jump. One transfer truck to another.”
“The top of one transfer truck to another!” Holly adds for emphasis, sloshing a bit of drink over the edge of her cup. “At top speed, while the trucks are rounding a hairpin turn in the canyon!”
Your eyes widen, and you turn your shocked expression on Colt. “Tell me you’re joking,” you manage.
“It wasn’t that bad,” he amends, obviously embarrassed by Holly’s dramatic retelling. “It’s not like Gordon forced me to do anything. I volunteered and said I could do it.”
“You could have gotten killed!” You’re not sure why you feel so passionately about this; he is a stuntman, after all. But something about knowing that you’ve been avoiding him for three days while he’s been performing death-defying stunts rattles you in a way you can’t ignore. While you’re gathering fire for a rant, Holly backs away into the crowd, an impish smile on her face.
Colt’s smile comes more easily this time, and he takes another step closer to you, ducking his head to look more squarely into your eyes. “Hey, calm down,” he reassures you. “No major injuries. No brushes with death. Just a cool shot.”
You press your lips together, still bubbling over with an emotion you can’t name. “Risking your life for a cool shot isn’t something to laugh about,” you tell him, though there’s no real edge to your voice. You glance down at his hand that’s resting on the bar beside you. “What happened to your hands?” you demand.
Both Colt’s hands are wrapped in bandages that you hadn’t even noticed until he pulled them out of his pockets. His expression shifts again, this time to a kind of bemused concern. “Just a little friction burn, that’s all,” he assures you. He brings one of his hands up to rest on your right shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze that makes your stomach flip in response. “Don’t waste your worries on me, Picasso. I’m a stuntman, remember? Taking risks is what I do.”
Colt’s laid-back tone does calm you a little, and you fight the urge to shake your head at yourself again. What are you thinking? Why are you getting so emotional about this in front of him? Play it cool, explain it logically, don’t make the same mistake you did before.
“Yeah, I know,” you admit, shrugging. “It just seems like Gordon is pushing you harder than he was before. It’s like he’s getting too comfortable putting you in more and more danger for the sake of impressive shots.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Colt tells you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he cocks his head as his gaze flits over your face. “And it’s no different than you going without sleep for three days to finish a setpiece.”
“It is not the same thing,” you begin, but he shakes his head, leaning one elbow on the bar to tilt his head closer to you. You despise yourself for weakening your resolve, but you can’t resist leaning closer to him, too — so close you can feel yourself getting lost in the dark blue of his eyes.
“Sure it is,” he said softly, his husky voice carrying over the short space between you even with the loud music playing in the background. “I do stunts because it’s what I love to do, even if they’re dangerous. You make the sets look amazing because it’s your passion, even when it means you have to go without sleep. I guess we’re both just too dedicated to our crafts, huh?”
You’re finding it difficult to think of a response, your eyes locked on his. All the resolve you’ve been building for the last three days melts under the heat of his gaze. Something like a magnet is pulling you even closer to him. Your mind unhelpfully flashes back to the night you were wrapped under his arm while walking to your hotel room, his warmth enveloping you.
“Well,” you murmur, trying desperately not to look at his lips, “my dedication won’t result in a broken neck.”
Colt lifts one eyebrow in response, leaning a hairsbreadth forward. “Neither will mine,” he whispers.
You mirror his quirked eyebrow, lowering your voice to match his. “How do you know?”
Colt keeps his eyes locked on yours, but one of his hands reaches up to the side of your face unnoticed. His palms are bandaged, but he uses his fingertips to twirl a strand of your hair. Your breath catches when he tucks the strand behind your ear, his touch searing your skin even in the brief contact, his gaze never leaving yours.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m the best in the business,” he tells you as he finally pulls his hand away from your temple.
You smile at his teasing tone. The distance between you keeps closing, a quarter of an inch at a time, and you can feel the burning heat of his skin the closer you get. His eyes don’t drift from yours, but the tension is so potent that you can barely take a breath.
“The best in the business,” you repeat, a coy smile edging the corners of your lips. “Haven’t you heard that pride comes before the fall?”
“Mmm hmm,” Colt hums, and you feel the sound reverberate in your very bones. Your faces are only a few inches apart now. Everything — the music, the crowd, the flashing lights — is forgotten, consumed by the fire blazing in his eyes. His gaze finally tears off your eyes and slowly, so slowly, steals down to your lips. His own lips part slightly, as if he’s finally about to lean forward and close the tantalizing distance between you.
Suddenly you couldn’t care less about all the reasons why you shouldn’t.
But then, your heart still hammering against your ribs, your skin prickling, your lungs strangled into stillness, Colt pulls away from you.
The abrupt distance feels like a cold bucket of water on your head after the heat of what you just shared. Colt seems to feel the shock too, rubbing both hands over his face and letting out a shaky breath before his casual smirk returns.
“Wow,” he half laughs, shaking out his arms and shoulders dramatically. “Nothing like a club’s vibe to muddy the waters, right?”
His careless comment stuns you even more than his quick withdrawal did. You suddenly realize how much every moment with him means to you, and the stinging pain of rejection is amplified a thousand times by his casual attitude.
He doesn’t care. He seriously doesn’t care at all.
You try to recover some dignity, but you know you’ve already blown that more times than you can count. All you can choke out is, “Yeah,” and then a listless, “See you around,” before you slip past his shoulder and head for the door. You can already feel the hot tears threatening to spill down your cheeks, and you’re not going to embarrass yourself further by letting him see you cry. You throw up a hand at Holly as you hurry out the club door into the chilly evening air, barely registering her questioning look.
What you don’t notice is the way Colt clenches his hands into fists against the pain of his burns, or the way he squeezes his eyes shut to block out the memory of your devastated expression.
All you know is the pain of the rejection, the bitterness of your tears, and the smell of his jacket as you fall asleep that night.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Part 4
194 notes
·
View notes