also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
You and Ryland pretend not to know each other at a bar. It goes exactly how you'd hoped.
~4.3k words; smut; roleplaying; almost public sex (it gets somewhat close); oral - f!receiving; doggy style; unprotected sex
a/n: inspired by me asking my fiance all the time how he would pick me up from a bar if we didn't know each other. also--who is the driver, you might ask? i'll never say....
The lights are dim as you lean against the bar top, tugging your skirt down self-consciously and sipping the last remnants of your drink. You let your mouth linger on the straw, because you know that he’s watching, and you are simply waiting for him to come over and make his move.
The move comes a few moments later, when he walks up to stand beside you. He pretends like he doesn’t see you for a moment. Then, as he rests his elbows on the already-sticky surface of the bar top, he looks sideways at you, once, and then does a practiced double-take.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” you reply, pushing your empty cup forward. You say nothing else, because this is all him.
He keeps looking forward for a moment before turning his body to face yours, resting his temple on his fist and peering at you over the top of his glasses. “Come here often?”
The line is incredibly cheesy, and you want to tell him so, but doing so would ruin the bit, so instead you mirror his stance and smile. “No, first time.”
He nods in understanding and grins. It’s cheeky, because he also knows the entire exchange is incredibly overdone. “By yourself? Or with friends?”
“By myself,” you reply. You are trying very hard not to giggle. “My friends ditched me.”
“That’s too bad,” he murmurs. His gazes drags down, and down, and down, taking in the cut of your top, the way the hem of your skirt rests on your upper thighs. “Not nice to leave such a pretty girl by herself.”
You simply shrug. “It’s not so bad.” You look up at him through your eyelashes. “As long as you can find the right company.”
His smile widens. “Buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” and your own grin grows to match his. “If I can get a name in return.”
He signals the bartender, then, still looking at you. “Ryland.”
You give him your name, and he doesn’t look away when the bartender comes over, when he gives his order and you give yours. “And are you here with anyone, Ryland?”
“Nope.” He takes both of the drinks when the bartender slides them over, muttering the name on his tab, still looking at you. You take the cup from him and playfully place your lips on the straw, still gazing up at him and waiting for the rest of his reply. “My friends ditched me, too.”
“Mm.” You take a sip, then, wondering what he will do next.
“I think,” he murmurs, glancing down again at the hem of your skirt, “you came here, dressed like this, because you want to dance.” His eyes flick up to yours again. You simply nod and shift your weight to your other leg, because you are already wet and desperate for any kind of friction. “Dance with me?”
“Didn’t take you for a dancer,” you reply coyly.
Ryland grins and extends a hand toward you. “I am with the right partner.”
You let him lead you onto the dance floor, weaving through the bodies swaying to the pulse of the music. Your skin is already beginning to gleam with sweat by the time the two of you stop somewhere near the center of the crowd, and he turns to face you. You drape your arms around his shoulders and press your body against his. “So, Ryland,” you purr into his ear. Your lips just barely graze the shell of it, and you can feel him shudder against you. The hand that isn’t holding his drink comes up to grip your waist, then, as your hips start to move in time to the deep, sultry bass of the song currently filling the hazy air of the room. “What made you come up to me?”
He squeezes your side. You can’t tell if it’s a reaction to the feeling of your mouth against his ear, the way your body is dragging across his already half-hard cock in his jeans, the game the two of you are playing, or a combination of all the above. “I—I had to, obviously.”
“Obviously?” You slide one of your hands up to play with the hair on the nape of his neck.
“Mm-hm,” he hums. “Knew I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
You smile at that. Goosebumps ripple across his skin at the feeling, because your mouth is still grazing against him, and you press a kiss against his fluttering pulse point. “I’m glad you did, then. I’d hate for you to have any regrets.”
“Well, I have to say, there are none to report. No regrets at all, nope.” His words are a little breathless and fast, and he sounds nervous, like he’s afraid to mess this all up.
You thread the fingers dancing on the back of neck further into his hair. “Good,” you whisper, and then to offer a little encouragement, you continue, “you’re doing so good.”
Ryland exhales shakily and swallows. You wonder if this is becoming a little too much for him, but then his hand shifts from your waist and slides across your back to rest at the base of your spine. You shiver and press your body even further against him, still swinging your hips with the music. “Good,” he repeats, and it’s your turn to feel his lips against your ear. “That’s all I want—want to show you a good time.”
Against your deepest, basest instinct to start dragging your lips and your teeth against his throat, you lean back to look at him. His pupils are wide in the low light, and there’s sweat gathering on his forehead. You watch a bead of it slide down his temple and get the sudden desire to lick it off, just to see what he would do. Instead, you take in the sight of him for a little longer, the way his lips part, how the slow, shifting lights illuminate his hair, his nostrils flaring as you stare at him with barely disguised lust in your half-lidded gaze. “Then show me.”
He nods, quickly, desperate to please, and takes a small step back to turn you around. You withdraw your arms from his shoulders and let out a small gasp when he pulls you flush against him again, his hand gripping your hip, fingers flexing into you. He groans softly when you arch into him. You can feel him, fully hard now, against the swell of your ass, and you grind your hips to the rhythm thrumming through your body.
You look down at his other hand, which is clutching his drink so tightly that the plastic cup is starting to bend inwards. “You know what, screw it, screw the drink, don’t need it,” Ryland groans in your ear, and then he downs as much as he can before dropping the cup onto the floor. You’re about to scold him for littering when his newly freed hand splays against your stomach, pulling you in even closer, and his head drops to press an open-mouthed kiss to your neck.
Your head tips back against his shoulder at the feeling, which grants him further access to your throat. Ryland sighs against your skin and then sucks, laving his tongue to soothe the tingling spot once he’s sure he’s left a mark. You lift your free hand behind you to grasp his hair again.
The world narrows until it’s just the two of you, his hands on your body, the feeling of his hips rutting against yours in time to your sway, and you close your eyes to soak in the heady desire washing through you. His palm leaves your stomach for a moment, and you whine at the absense, and then he’s grasping your hand, the one holding your drink.
You open your eyes and tilt your head to look at him, your eyebrows drawing up slightly in a silent question. He simply lifts your hand to bring the cup to your mouth, and you take the straw dutifully, staring up into his eyes as you drink. His eyes flick down to watch your lips around the straw, then down again to your throat as you swallow, before he nods and lets your arm return to your side. You have half a mind to drop your cup, too, but you grasp onto it tightly as his hand returns to your stomach.
His pinky dips beneath the waistband of your skirt. You don’t bother hiding your whimper, not when his other hand slides down your hip to play with the hem laying tight against your thigh, inches above where it was before you started dancing with him. Your cunt is throbbing so needily that you think you could come just from this, just from being pressed against him and feeling his fingers on your skin.
Your head is still lolled back; you’re still watching as he looks down at his hand on your thigh, at your hips stuttering against him, slowly drifting offbeat to match the hum beneath your skin instead. “Ryland.” You crane your head back even further, because you want him to hear what you’re about to say. “I think—I think I would let you fuck me, right here, in the middle of all of these people, if you wanted to.”
He groans and squeezes his eyes shut. “You can’t, you cannot just say that to me, how am I supposed to—I already can barely think like this,” and his hand grips your thigh for emphasis, causing the fabric to slide up even further.
“Then don’t think, just touch me, please.”
The finger beneath your waistband dips even lower at your whine, and you wonder if he’ll do it, if he’ll slide his fingers inside of you right there on the dance floor, because you hadn’t even bothered with underwear for this, and you have just been waiting for him to discover that fact this entire time.
Instead, Ryland pulls his hand back up—and you can tell, distantly, that this is taking him a lot of effort—and chokes out, “Not now, next time, we can do that next time, right now I just—” He pauses, remembering the game that the two of you are playing, and then continues, “Would you like to get out of here?”
You say nothing, instead nodding frantically, and he guides you out of the dance floor, never taking his hands off of you until you’re stepping outside. The bouncer says something about the drink in your hand, and you think you mutter some kind of apology and just hand the cup to him, because there are so many other, more pressing things on your mind at the moment.
The cool night air brushes against your damp skin as you stand in the alleyway. You’re not sure if it is possible for you to be any more lightheaded than you are right now without passing out. You watch as he fumbles for his phone to order a ride home, and then he mutters oh, right, before looking up at you. “Uh—your place, or mine?”
This is one of the things you love the most about him, you think: how he dedicates himself so entirely, that when he says he will do something, he will never do it halfway. “Either is fine,” you breathe, and his lips curl into a knowing smile.
“Five minutes.”
You nod and lean against the wall, squeezing your thighs together and breathing deeply. The night is not over, but you’re pretty sure this already counts as a success, particularly when Ryland steps forward and dips his face down to kiss you, finally, properly. Your hands fist into the front of his shirt as he licks into your mouth and swallows your moan.
This, apparently, lasts about five minutes, because suddenly there is a honking too your left, and he is drawing back reluctantly. “Oops,” he smiles, pushing up his glasses reflexively so he can take in your shining lips and heaving chest. “Ride’s here.”
He opens the door for you—he is nothing if not a gentleman—and you slide into the car as far as the middle seat, because you don’t think you can stand not touching him for even the seven minutes it will take to get home. The driver, thankfully, recognizes that this is not the time for small talk, and he turns the music up with a gloved hand before he pulls away.
Ryland’s hand is on your thigh, then, and you look up at him as his fingers inch upward, pushing yourself even closer to his side and angling your knees to press into his. You keep watching his face as his hand stops, because suddenly his fingers are not meeting what they expected to meet, and you cannot help the grin that blooms when his eyes widen and he sucks in a breath.
It is a very, very long drive home.
Then, finally, you are thanking the driver and stepping outside, following him to the door of your shared apartment, looking on while he fumbles with his keys before unlocking it and leading you inside. Suddenly, you feel a little hesitant, a little self-conscious, because you’re not sure if you should keep the bit going, and then he presses you up against the door and answers your question for you. “You are so—I was already thinking about the skirt the whole time, ever since you put it on earlier, and how did I not even realize you didn’t put on any underwear—”
There are a few things you think you might say in response, but he doesn’t give you the chance, because then he’s kissing you and groaning into your mouth, squeezing every inch of your body that he can. You grab his hair and tug, just a little, but enough to make him whine and drag his tongue against yours. It is starting to become unclear to you how long you will be able to remain standing upright against the door.
Ryland senses this, because he knows you, because he loves every piece of you and is so intimately familiar with how it all ticks, and he hoists you up, gripping the backs of your thighs and wedging you against the door. Your skirt hikes up at the movement; you are fairly certain that you are already starting to leave a wet spot on his clothes.
His head dips down to mouth at your neck, and his nose nudges against the already-blooming mark he left in your skin earlier. “You’re incredible, so beautiful, I cannot stop thinking about the way you move—I am so happy you suggested this, we should do this every week,” he gasps into you, squeezing your thighs and biting another mark into your throat. “So I can fall in love with you every single time.”
“Oh, god, you—you—” There are not a lot of words left in your mind, because his hips are pressing into your cunt, and the pressure is so good, so delicious, and your head feels hazy with pleasure. “Please,” you settle for, “please touch me, please make me feel good, Ryland, please, want you to fuck me—you can do it right here against the door, if you want, I don’t care, just—”
His forehead presses into your shoulder at that, and you can tell that he’s considering his options very, very carefully. “No,” he finally whispers. “I want—something else. Can you stand?”
The answer’s a little up in the air at the moment, but you’re willing to take your chances in order to find out what exactly it is that he wants, so you nod. He gently sets you down, moving his hands to your waist to steady you against the door. There are so many feelings swirling inside of you, all at once, and it’s difficult to pick them all apart; the one you manage to discern is how cared for you feel, how safe, how loved you are.
The two of you make it halfway down the hallway, your hand in his, when he stops and mutters, “Fuck it, don’t want to wait,” and you’re about to comment on his language, because usually he refrains from cursing even when he’s not at work, out of fear that he won’t be able to switch back and forth between the two modes of speaking and thus will accidentally swear in front of a child, but he turns around and steps forward until your back is against the wall before you can say anything, and then he drops to his knees and slowly rolls your skirt up.
One of his hands slides up the back of your leg and raises it to rest on his shoulder, while the other reaches up and splays against your stomach to steady you, just like it did when you were dancing at the bar, and then he just—stares, and stares, and you wonder if he can see how wet you are, even though the hallway light is off. You’re about to ask, or maybe you’re about to beg him not to tease you, but neither of those thoughts make it out of your mouth because he surges forward to press his face into your cunt, as if he simply cannot go another second without tasting you.
Your head falls back with a thud as you squeeze your eyes shut and thread your fingers into his hair. You think you can hear one of the picture frames on the wall rattle. That would be bad, an incredibly distant part of your mind thinks, because that frame was a gift from one of his cousins, but it doesn’t fall, and his tongue is lapping at your clit so feverishly that you don’t give it a second thought.
He mumbles into your slickness the entire time, praising how good you taste, telling you how much he loves you, promising that next time he’ll touch you while you’re dancing, or maybe he’ll take you to the bathroom and make you come there, or finger you in the car on the ride home, but you’ll have to promise that you can keep quiet so the driver doesn’t hear you; because Ryland is a talker, through and through. He wants, he needs you to know exactly what he’s feeling and thinking, even when his words start to fail him and he’s babbling nonsense.
You are already so close, you’ve been close since he pulled you onto the dance floor and grasped you by the waist, since he turned you around and watched as you swallowed your drink, and you start to grind into his face. This just makes him keen and whine even more as he licks and sucks into you. “I’ve got you, so good, you’re so perfect—just want to show you a good time, just like I said I would, that’s it,” and your back arches as your first orgasm rolls through your body, and you pull his hair and keep using his face to chase the feeling.
He keeps his face there, even when you start to shudder and gasp from the overstimulation, until he finally pulls away. His glasses are slightly crooked, and you slowly reach your hand forward to set them right. He closes his eyes, then, leaning his face into your palm when it drops to rest against his cheek.
“Still good to stand?” Ryland looks up at you, and you find yourself distracted by the blue of his eyes, how striking the color is even in the dimness of the hallway. You nod, shakily, and he slowly draws your leg off of his shoulder, helping you find your footing as you follow him to the bedroom.
Part of your foggy mind begins to return to you, so you move to take your skirt off, and his hand honest-to-god slaps yours away from the fabric. Even he is surprised at this, and his eyes are a little wide. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “sorry, I just—keep it on?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” you whisper. “How do you want me?”
“Here, can you—” He guides you to the bed, helping you climb on and rest on your hands and knees. “That’s—that’s perfect, that’s exactly it, except, can you…?”
Ryland lays a hand between your shoulder blades and gently presses. You lay your face against the mattress, hips still lifted up, and fist your hands into the sheets. “Like this?”
You can’t see him, but if you could, you would see the way he looks at your body reverently, the way his hands slowly slide your skirt to bunch up at your waist. “Yes,” he breathes, “like that.”
The bed dips under his weight as he settles behind you. Somehow, he had managed to slide his pants down without you realizing it, because suddenly the head of his cock is brushing against you, gathering the wetness of your first orgasm and making you shiver.
“Please,” you whisper, and that’s all it takes for him to slowly press inside of you, and you grasp the sheets even tighter and moan raggedly. “Oh, fuck, Ryland, that’s—you feel so—oh my god.”
You—you can’t even put it into words, the way his hands grasp your hips, how he buries himself inside you and chokes out a groan. The rhythm is slow, at first, because he wants to relish the way he feels inside of you, the way your walls drag around him, but it soon deteriorates into something fast and desperate. You press your face into the mattress and gather the sheets into your mouth to muffle your cries, and the sound combined with the clenching of your cunt makes him grab one of your arms, resting it on your lower back so he can use it as leverage.
“I, I want you to—please touch yourself,” he groans, “because I don’t think—how could I, when you were moving like that and being so good, want you to come again, I don’t think I have ever wanted anything more.”
Your hips buck back into him as your free hand comes up to circle your clit, and then the only thing keeping you from collapsing against the mattress is Ryland’s hand grasping your forearm against the small of your back, on top of your bunched-up skirt. “Go—go a little slower, please, just a little, oh,” you gasp, because he does, just like you asked, because he promised you that he would show you a good time. “That’s, yes, just like that, you are so, doing so good, love the way you make me feel, love you so much.”
His hand grips your forearm a little tighter. You can tell that he’s already close, and the thought that you can make him come so quickly simply brings you that much closer to the edge again, and you drool onto the sheets until your teeth clench, until your fingers and his cock deep inside you cause all of your muscles to draw taut and then release. You cry out so loudly that you are fairly certain every other person in your apartment complex can hear it. You find that you simply do not care, just like you didn’t care when you told Ryland he could fuck you right there in the bar if he wanted to.
Your body goes limp, then, dropping down into the mattress, and he keeps fucking you, pressing his mouth against your spine and rolling his hips against yours. “Want you to come,” you sob into the bed, “want you to come inside me, want to feel it—want you to feel good, just like how you make me feel.”
He nods into your back, the frames of his glasses digging against your skin, because he refuses to take them off, because otherwise he can’t see how you look, how you writhe against him in pleasure. It does not take long; if only you could see how you look, face buried into the bed, your lower back arching just right to take him—then you would understand why he can finish so quickly, when you look the way you do beneath him.
You can feel his teeth graze against your shoulder blade when he comes, when he stills inside of you and whimpers into your skin, squeezing your hip and your arm. The two of you stay like that, just for a moment, savoring the sweat and the feeling and the euphoria, until he draws back and lays beside you, gently gathering you into his arms.
His glasses are crooked (again), so you fix them while you look up into his eyes. “So,” you whisper, “I’m guessing you liked my suggestion?”
Ryland simply laughs and hugs you a little closer. Soon, he’ll get up and get you a towel, help you clean up; for now, you relish the feeling of his skin against yours, the slickness between your thighs. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. If I had to rate it out of ten, I’d give it a solid fifteen.”
“Fifteen?” You tilt your face to look at him. “I feel like we can up those numbers.”
“Oh, sure. But that might require some extensive trial-and-error. And some very rigorous review. For quality control.”
You smile. “Mm. I see.” He presses a kiss into your hair and dances his fingers along the length of your upper arm. “Well, sounds like we have to test it all out. For science.”
ryland would be a competent partner. he’s a grown man who has lived on his own for years and doesn’t need to be told when to do the the things that are glaringly obvious and impossible to ignore. once he’s in a relationship, he doesn’t rely on his significant other to do the more mundane or tedious things that are required in day to day life. he just does them like he should. and he doesn’t expect praise for the meeting bare minimum requirements of being an adult and capable partner.
the trash is getting close to being full? he’s already tying it up and slipping on his shoes to take it outside without a word or making a fuss. he doesn’t leave the lid off and not replace the bag either, and when he notices the box is getting close to empty he makes a mental note to pick up another container of trash bags at the store.
every day at 3:15, like clockwork, your phone will buzz with a message from him asking if you need anything before he comes home. a sweet treat or a fun little drink from the store? something for dinner that you forgot to grab when you were out? and he knows you well, some days when you tell him that you don’t need anything, he still arrives home with your favorite candy and flowers “just because”.
he’s a planner, too. he takes the initiative to thoroughly plan and schedule dates. one outside date and one at home date every month, at least. it’s a requirement, he says, something for the two of you to look forward to. and it doesn’t just end after a few months of dating either. he keeps up with it, still going strong a few years into dating.
he helps cook dinner. then helps clean the dishes. the two of you are a unit that works together. you’ll rotate, some nights he’ll be doing the washing and you’ll be doing the drying, other nights you’ll be doing the washing and he’ll be doing the drying. he puts them back exactly where they belong too.
he doesn’t rely on you to remind him of deadlines or things going on that the two of you need to know about. he keeps a small pocket calendar in his backpack with important dates and messy scribbles of things he needs to remember. he writes down appointment dates and when bills are due as reminders for himself.
he knows how to do his laundry and doesn’t expect you to do it for him. he’ll even do yours too if he notices your basket piling up. he doesn’t have to ask which setting to use on the washer or where to put your clothes after they’ve dried. they’re folded and hung up exactly the same way you would do it yourself.
he’s emotionally mature. he doesn’t give you the silent treatment or make you wonder if there’s something wrong in your relationship. he talks through issues and he never raises his voice in anger towards you. he will give you space if you need it, but he’s always there at the end of the night to discuss problems and work through them.
he’s also competent in the bedroom, making sure to learn exactly how to work you up and where you like to be touched the most. he knows which words to whisper against your skin, when to give you praise, and when he needs to be a little more firm.
some nights he enjoys making you cum and expecting absolutely nothing in return. if you even mention that you’ve had a bad or stressful day to him, it’s not long before he’s got you spread open on the bed and he’s fucking into you with his fingers. he’ll do anything possible to alleviate any of your stress he can through pleasure.
he enjoys watching you fall apart for him, often times making you cum more than once before he’s even properly fucked you. he knows just how to angle his long fingers to reach that sensitive spot that you can’t reach yourself. he knows where to press his tongue and what parts of your skin to nip at with his teeth because it drives you insane.
he makes sure you’re ready for him, all wet and worked open before he finally does properly fuck you. and even then, he still makes sure to make you cum all over his cock before he lets himself release inside of you, or onto your stomach if you ask him not to cum inside.
that’s another thing, he never pressures you into things you don’t want to do, and he absolutely never makes you feel bad if you just aren’t feeling up to it some nights. he knows that he is more than capable to take care of himself on those nights.
ryland grace is a capable partner and he knows it, but it’s not something he thinks he should pride himself on, it’s just the default to him. in fact, he’s absolutely astonished at some of the man-child horror stories you’ve told him from past relationships, but while you’re with him, there won’t be any new stories to add to that list.
" x femreader, including ryland grace, holland march & colt seavers. ★ " –> mostly sfw, fluff, all that lovely sweet stuff. only brief suggestive comments.
tw : drinking & (colt only) puking
RYLAND GRACE ★ :
ryland would never really drink back on earth except back in his good old college days. but now, sat on the ship with just the two of you, a spider/rock alien, and ilyukhina's vodka stashed on the ship, things had changed.
he's unfortunately a lightweight. he can't handle even a few gulps of the stuff, and in around half an hour tops, he's slurring his words and getting slightly incoherent. you had to explain to rocky the concept of getting drunk, and that grace was in no way getting hurt. (not completely, anyway.)
he was never exactly subtle with his crush that he had formed on you while sober, either; cheeks turning pink at the way your hand would brush his own while helping him, his eyes growing stuck to the way your lips curled into a pretty grin, or even the way he'd stammer and trip up on his own words in response to you out-nerding him, he was clueless to how much you knew. and you knew quite a lot.
but now? drunk?
take "obvious" and times it by ten. even rocky, the ALIEN, felt second-hand embarrassment for you. grace would clumsily find his hand trying to hold yours, his sweet blue eyes glued to yours, desperate for you to meet his gaze. you might have even heard him call you "gorr-juss..." (gorgeous) under his breath, all slurred and sweet.
he'd get quite cuddly the more sleepier the alcohol made him, too. very delicately trying to slide the palms of his hands over your waist and holding it, his cheeks flushed from a mix of the alcohol in his blood stream and how much his heart would beat in his chest.
at the end of the night, or whatever time in space had seemed to pass, he'd end up curled right beside you in a very gentle but clingy embrace, right into your side. his cheek would press down to your shoulder as his head lolls with sleep, and his scruffy, blonde locks gently carress your cheek.
you knew he'd feel extremely embarrassed in the morning. worth it.
HOLLAND MARCH ✿ :
holland is the drunk. of course you've seen him drunk. so many times, in fact, you're used to his calls on the telephone, at a dark time of night, his raspy and slurred coo speaking gently into your ear, pleading for your presence. you knew yourself how lonely he gets after drinking one too many, and you're his source of affection.
it's not exactly subtle with holland, either. he definitely adores you, and in the most clumsiest, stupidest way possible. he'd almost die doing something and end up staring at you lovingly at the end of it. he just loves you so much.
he'd call the phone, you picking the device from where it had mounted on the wall, starting to slowly fiddle with the coiled wire. he'd whisper something stupid, then something sweet, a few silly pet names slipping out like “doll,” “angel” or “sweetheart.” of course it'd make you blush, but you'd never verbally admit that to him. not when he's drunk like this, anyway.
he'd also maybe let a few lewd things slip, embarrassingly; ask you what you're wearing, or even bolder and ask what panties you're wearing underneath. you'd have to lightly scold him, but part of you wishes he was sober so you could indulge his comments. you knew he'd be a little too awkward to ask those things sober, though.
the night would always end in one of two ways:
one, you end up going over to his house and giving him that oh so needed affection, him staring up at you and giggling awkwardly as he talks your ear off, holding your arm or leg as a way to just touch you, before slowly finding himself falling asleep beside you on the couch,
or two, he'd end up somehow falling asleep on the phone. you'd notice his silence immediately as it being a sudden change from all that talking, and repeatedly ask if he was alright. in response? you'd get a big, loud, dorky snore.
you'd always regret hanging the phone up as he sleeps, but you knew he'd forget about it in the morning anyway.
COLT SEAVERS ♡ :
while colt is the type to get drunk, you never thought he'd be so... hammered. it's a party, and he had a shot too many as he stumbles towards you, a lazy, big grin plastered on that rugged face. you could only expect trouble from colt, as you have to hold his arm in your palm to prevent him from completely toppling over. when you ask if he's okay, he looks up lovingly and gives that stupid thumbs up he always does.
of course, you did have to help him into the bathroom to puke. as much as the blonde tries to flaunt how well he can take his liquor, he definitely can't hold it. you gently push hair from his sweaty forehead as he retches down into the toilet, groaning softly.
despite the fact his body is forcing him to vomit up into the toilet violently and disgustingly, the only thing his drunken brain can fully focus on is your sweet, soft fingers brushing through his hair. it felt so gentle.
his cheeks flushed, and it wasn't from the alcohol. once he was done puking, he wiped his mouth and swallowed thickly, avoiding your eyes. he was slightly embarrassed to be so vulnerable, puking like this, in front of you. he always wants to be cool, confident, risk taking in front of you, to impress you. not... this.
when your voice sounds, he looks up and finally meets your eyes. his admiration, even when still drunk, is obvious. he's watching you with a gaze that's fascinated and somewhat loving. the sudden intensity of it takes you off guard, an awkward smile reaching your face. “maybe we should go home?” you offered.
he just gave a nod. a brief nod. he doesn't really want to speak right now, so instead, his hands did the talking. right in front of that gross toilet, he just held your face in between his palms, still staring at you. part of you is very worried the alcohol will cause him to kiss you, but he doesn't. instead, he lets a small exhale out. a laugh. he knows your nervous. even when hammered, he can read you like a book.
the rest of the night, he just simply followed you, letting you take him home with a lazy grin and love in his eyes. surprisingly, he didn't do much talking. he was just taking in your beauty the whole time.
ask box is open for prompts! ~
let me know if you guys want a part two with other characters!!
˚౨ৎ ⋆ love her even though i'm not supposed ta' - 2.3k words
s.six x fem!reader ⋮ nsfw, 16+ ⋮ bodyguard six ⋮ reader refers to her dad as 'daddy' in a very non-freaky way ⋮ reader being a tease ⋮ cocky!reader ⋮ six is big! ⋮ tittle from a nickelback song lmao ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed except for her being in a mini skirt ⋮ no use of y/n
req: he is your bodyguard and he has a massive crush on you, but can't do anything about it, you're the president's daughter. (22ish, he's late 30s)
There's a special place in hell for men like him.
It's right along the wall of flames, nice and hot to burn the skin off someone's back. It would lick burns into his skin and purify his sins. And punish him for them. The eternity of his afterlife would be filled with torturous hours. His cell would be next to all the other men who were disgusting. The very bottom of humanity.
His crimes were a laundry list. From murder to obstruction of justice.
But this? This was worse than anything he'd ever done.
Standing behind the daughter of the president, fighting the semi that was forming in his pants. He could feel himself hardening. The feeling brought his breathing to deepen, shift his weight slightly, and try not to stare down at you. Even if you look like the episode of temptation.
He was starting to understand Eve in that garden.
You were forbidden fruit— and gods, he wanted a taste.
You've got your elbows resting against the desk in the oval office. He can't see what you're doing with your hands, but he knows that you've got your fingers intertwined. It's something you do often. Especially when you're trying to argue something.
The last five minutes have been you begging your father to go to a party. Senator Hammond's daughter was turning twenty-four. The two of you had become friends when your father began his campaign for presidency. That was about a year before Six had come into his roll as your bodyguard.
So, you'd been friends with her for four years.
Melissa Hammond. She was a nice girl— always offering to get the butler to get him a drink even when he couldn't on shift. The sentiment was nice. But Six had a firm rule. He wouldn't be any sort of impaired while watching you. You're his to protect.
Six tries to force his gaze away. No avail.
You're leaning over the desk, back arching just a little. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. Pink lace adorns your skin. It's a corset. You'd told him on the way into the Oval Office, explaining the different parts of your outfit because he didn't understand.
"Daddy, please! Missy isn't gonna be in Washington for a while after tonight!" Your words are a plea, frustration squeaking around your tone.
Six lets his gaze wander. Only for a second. He couldn't take any chances of being caught. A white mini-skirt barely covers your body. The fabric stretches against the widest part of your bottom, soft and inviting his hand to grasp onto it. He didn't dare.
But he thought about it.
He could imagine the feeling of the silk bunching from his grip, fingertips digging into the clothed flesh of your ass. Maybe he'd squeeze once. Or he'd immediately pull his hand back to land a gentle love tap. There were so many fantasies to entertain.
The rock in his pants hardens. His length presses against the zipper in his pants, begging to be free from the confines. It feels like he's being suffocated.
Six tears his gaze from your ass. The floor. That's a good place to look.
"I've told you." Your father says, looking up from the papers he was signing. "You're not going."
"But—"
Your father holds up his hand. It's the hand of dismissals; for either a topic or person. The man had a knack for using it.
Six starts to count the little tufts of lint he could see on the blue carpet. Maybe the lady that vacuumed hadn't come by yet. There were a lot.
"Six, could you escort my girl to her room?" The president's voice holds an air of command. It makes Six jerk his head up to look at him. His gaze flickers between his daughter to him. "She's not to go to the party."
"Daddy!"
Your voice practically shatters glass. It's a high-pitched tone of offense, half dripping with anguish.
"Yes, sir." His voice comes out deep and rough, like water running over rock.
You spin on your heel. The look you land him is deadly. If he didn't know you hit like a child, he'd bristle. But he knows how your fists feel. Like tinny bunny kicks— it's rather cute, really.
Perhaps you did have a good left hook. Six has only ever been in combat with trained professionals. So anything less then felt minuscule.
Six has his arms crossed over his chest. Standing by the doorway with broad shoulders, looking like a boulder of muscle blocking the door. A black t-shirt stretches over his biceps.
If you weren't currently pissed off at him, you'd find him more attractive.
"Six!" Your body language shifts, arms crossing under your chest.
"Your father made his decision, miss." His voice roughens. It sounds like he's holding something back, something that's itching beneath his skin.
A huff leaves your lips. Sometimes you could get Six to offer his two senses, which got your father to change his mind. But not this time. Even after you'd told him how much tonight had meant.
Six follows after you as you stomp out of the office, taking off like a bat out of hell. His steps cover the distance you walk in three short strides.
You can feel his presence behind you. Smell his cologne.
It just made you more frustrated.
There's silence as you stomp down the halls. It's seeped in tension so thick even a surated knife couldn't cut through. The only sound being your heels. It's melodic, clicking like a clock with each step you take. They echo with the budding anger in your system. Something he'd surely hear about.
Taking the corner past the Green Room, the atmosphere shifts.
You slow to a stop. Turn to look at Six, gaze like stone.
"You're a jerk."
There's no change in his expression. Just the all too familiar blankness. You'd dubbed it 'bodyguard face'. That expression was one that showed up many times in your dreams— but now seeing it felt like adding water to a grease fire.
Six blinks.
"Nothing?" Your arms cross under your chest. A perfect brow cocks, your weight shifting onto the other foot to jut your hip out.
His gaze flickers over your face. Pausing at your lips for longer than necessary before reluctantly dragging back to your eyes. "I'm under orders."
"Bullshit." A huff pulls from your throat. Your arms fly up in the air, hands waving dismissively. "You could have stepped in— he trusts you, Six. You know it."
Silence.
Anger blooms. It unfurls through your system like a flower, it's poisonous leaves corrupting your blood.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." His voice is calm. The edges of his words are sharp, like he's refuting your words on a deeper level. There's still no change in his expression. "You're upset."
"Damn right I'm upset!" Your voice raises an octave, glaring at him. "I won't be able to see my friend for months— with no help from you."
"You're acting like a brat."
His words are rough. Like he's speaking to a toddler having a tantrum. You're stunned into silence, jaw falling open.
A beat passes.
It's like the whole world stops. The humming of air conditioning vents ceases to your senses, just the sound of silence drowning in your mind.
You turn on your heel and continue stomping down the hallway. "Don't follow me!"
He does. Just a few feet behind, steps methodical.
"Six!"
"My job to follow you." He quips.
He holds back a chuckle when you groan. Six follows you to your room slowly. Provoking you was like poking a bear— though that mouth was much better than your fists.
A disgusting thought enters his mind.
What else could your mouth do besides yelling at him?
He closes his eyes tightly. This was not the place for those thoughts. You were younger than him— and the damn reason he's employed. You're forbidden fruit. One he cannot take a bite of no matter how much he yearns to.
When he opens his eyes again he's met with a door. One that's slamming in his face. The mini shock-wave makes it rattle. So much rage for such a tiny thing— it was almost comical.
Six stands with his back to the door, arms crossed over his chest. He would stay here for the next two hours. Maybe three. It all depended on when he'd get tired or relieved of his duties for the night. But it was already eight.
He had a feeling he'd be there for a while.
And he was.
About an hour of just standing. Staring at the wall opposite of him as if something would come out of it. He was ready if something did, as much as it would pain him to say it.
He's been shifting his weight. The ache growing in his pants had lessened, yet it still was persistent. Not even the thought of your father stringing him up by the ears diverted him. There was an ache in his body that nothing but you could fix.
Six felt filthy.
Why couldn't a trained agent keep it in his pants?
It was like being a teenage boy again.
He'd push through it. Sure, he could do that. This was his job— his livelihood, he could get his thoughts about you pushed from his mind. He'd just have to think of nothing. Then he could submerge himself under cold water later.
Then, he hears it.
A gasp. Heavy breathing. His name.
Six was on high alert. You weren't supposed to say his name at night— that was only reserved for emergencies. If something was happening to you. He knew this because you'd spoken about it. If you needed something like water, you were adult enough to just slip through the door and alert him.
This was different.
Especially after the way you slammed that door in his face. There had to have been something going on.
He's turning and grasping onto the door knob, twisting it to open the door. A patch of light bleeds into the darkness. He pokes his head in, illuminating a shadow of him.
"Miss, are you alright?"
The sight before him isn't one he'd ever think to see.
Though it's dark, the combined moonlight and hallway light offered enough to see. You were laying in your bed beneath your blankets. Like usual. But there were two tents in the sheets, about a foot apart. Your knees. Only one arm was above the sheets, the other submerged beneath the silk.
He heard the heavier breathing. A soft, delicate sound that went straight down his spine.
He watched as you gasped, moving at the speed of light. What he now registered as your legs snapped closed. Your hand whips up from beneath the covers, shooting behind your back.
"What the hell?" Your voice is harsh, flustered to the ninth degree. "Wha-what are you doing?!"
The air in his lungs gets punched out of him.
"I—I'm, I heard my name." He tries to find better words, trying to piece together what just happened. If he'd even heard his name falls from your lips at all. "I thought you were hurt."
Daggers are being glared at him.
"Fuck, I'm fine." You groan, pulling the sheets closer to you. "I—I didn't say... you've gotta be, uh, hearing things."
There's hesitancy in your voice. The kind that twists your tone into something shameful; like you'd just gotten caught with your hand in the cookie jar.
It's best for Six to just leave it at that. Let the door shut, pretend this had never happened. But you'd gotten on his nerves. Slammed a door in his face when he was following orders— and here you were, obviously touching yourself. Saying his name.
He can't just leave.
"No, I don't think I was." His words are drawn out, allowing for silence to build tension between them.
He steps into the darkness of your room. The bedroom door shuts behind him, clicking softly.
"What the hell—"
Six steps into the moonlight streaming from your window. He's dressed in a pressed suit like always. The fabric stretches over his broad chest, squeezing his muscles.
He steps up to the foot of your bed. Then, softly. "What were you doing, babydoll?"
Something in your brain short circuits. He's standing before you like an immovable object— all broad shoulders, thick and beefy arms, and eyes that pierce your soul.
This is a government trained assassin. One who's looking down at you like a lion stalking it's prey, ready to pounce when it sees an opening. He's speaking to you so softly. You're about to just give him his opening.
"Dealing with my frustration." You say quietly, embarrassment biting at your words.
His head tilts to the side like a dog would. Expression still unmoving against his features.
"You're still mad?" He questions, voice gruff.
"Yes."
Your gaze follows him as he walks closer, rounding your bed. He doesn't stop prowling until his knee presses against your mattress.
God, help him.
Six takes your chin into his fingers, drawing you to look at him.
"Makin' yourself feel good?" There's something rooted deep in his words, something akin to a growl.
You're not sure what to say.
Butterflies flap around your abdomen.
He watches as your thighs squeeze together beneath the bedding.
A single nod.
There's a fine line here. One he's danced across for almost two years; but now he can't even fool himself. He's so far over the line that he's practically been cannon balled over it.
The words falling from his mouth are not the ones of someone trained. No, this is just him. The man he was before he killed his father, was sent to jail, and picked out of the gutter by the Sierra task force.
This was just Courtland Gentry. A man possessed by the allure of the first daughter.
"Show me." He whispers, voice turning you to putty.
join the taglist here! request something here or in my inbox!
(Part 2 of) Chubby/plus size Reader and Ryland Grace 🦋
part 1 is here.
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Summary: you were feeling insecure about your body and Ryland knows just the thing to distract you from spiraling.
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Tags: smut!! Oral sex (f receiving,) afab reader, ryland is obsessed with your belly, dry humping (but it's only ryland doing it,) ryland cums untouched, no use of y/n, fem reader, some fluff at the end?
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Notes from Jayden (me): This is my first time writing smut! (And my second fic ever) I have no clue what im doing lowkey.. so feel free to give advice!! I have been heavily inspired by others such as @ken-dom as well as many other authors. My requests are always open and you can ask me literally anything. ALSO I APOLOGISE IF THIS IS FAST PACED I GENUINELY CAN'T TELL
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You both moved into the bedroom. Ryland's hand fumbling at the clasp of your bra; he is incredibly flustered and especially hard.
Your lips are pressing against his, soft mewls falling onto soft lips from both ends. His hands slip your bra from your chest, the swell of your breasts falling free after you've sat down on the edge of the bed.
Ryland has to physically stop himself and admire you. As if he isn't always doing that.
"You're breathtaking.." He marvels.
"You say that everytime, Ry." You faintly laugh at his reaction.
"Because it's true! You're gorgeous."
And before you know it he's on his knees. Your gaze easily follows the bulge in his jeans. He's so big. Ryland leans forward to kiss a wet trail along the valley between your breasts.
Palms already gently grabbing at the soft mounds; you could never get tired of Ryland worshipping your boobs. He's (rightfully) obsessed.
"Ryland.." you whined. Impatient.
"What'd I say about rushing, hmh?" He cooed.
He allows you to lean back against the plush sheets, but not after making sure he has permission to take off your nightwear, revealing the glistening slit of your pussy, his mouth immediately watering.
"Honey, y-you're soaked.." He nearly chokes on a gasp.
"You kiss my belly a lot..." You pout.
"I didn't know you liked it this much..." He blinked bashfully, jaw hanging a little.
"You didn't?" You chuckled at his lack of awareness.
Ryland shook his head. He didn't know that him showing appreciation to your softness would cause you to get this turned on...
But Dr. Ryland Grace was not a man to complain. Mostly.
His hands held onto the roll of your belly, thumbs tracing the stretch marks dotted around. Just thinking of you like this made him twitch in his pants; you both knew he wouldn't last long, even though you hadn't even touched him. Yet.
Ryland dipped his head down, mouthing at your abdomen before trailing down, the stubble that adorned his jaw is ticklish against the delicate skin of your thighs, criss crossing with your pubes.
"Ryland.." Your breath hitched. "Mhm?" He kissed your thigh. "Stop teasing." "M'not teasing. I'm just.. appreciating."
But you could see the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips all the while he peppered small kisses to your thick thighs.
You physically cannot wait any longer.
Taking matters into your own hands, you threaded your fingers through his hair and pushed his head down between your legs, his tongue eagerly lapping at your clit despite the sudden movement, whines already spilling from your throat.
Ryland was very vocal; moaning as he licked the bundle of nerves, the taste of you on his tongue making his tip leak pre beneath his jeans. As well as his hips rolling against the bed.
"Mm, tastes so good.. so sweet." He groaned while you moaned.
Within seconds his mouth had your head back against the sheets. This wasn't just him eating you out–this was him relishing in your taste, in the way your thighs clenched near the sides of his head.
"Ohh- fuck, Ry, that's so good.."
Drunk on the pleasure your eyes rolled back when his tongue dragged through your folds, only slipping inside you just enough for your hips to roll, making him whimper against you.
A pair of hands gripped at your love handles, his enthusiasm always showed under the crescent marks that'd be indented afterwards.
Everytime you made a noise his hips fucked against the bed underneath, yet he always kept that to himself, always focusing on the way you melted on his tongue.
Ryland's movements grew more desperate as he pulled you closer, moaning when you pressed his head further between your legs.
He slipped one hand down, thumb tracing the wet slit before he slowly sunk his middle finger in, up to his knuckle, feeling you clench against him.
"Oh baby, that's it.." A wet kiss to your thigh.
"R-Ryland.."
Only at this moment you noticed he was still wearing his glasses (which now had some of your arousal shining on the lenses,) the thin frames askew across his nose. That sight was enough to tie that knot within you.
Your hips grinded faster against his face, desperate for release. You whined as his free hand reached up to fondle your breast, thumb teasing your nipple.
Ryland's head dipped down again and while he curled his finger just right he started lapping at your needy cunt again, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you.
The double-stimulation was enough to pull that rope inside you tighter, thighs trembling against the sides of his head, your hands now pulling at the sheets.
"Ry, I'm gonna-" You panted, not being able to get the words out as your back arched from the precise way he pressed his finger against that spot. Over and over again.
"I know, sweetheart, let me hear it.." He purred, still sucking at your clit.
He sounded too sexy for someone who was humping the bed; Ryland's hips rutting against the sheets, jeans pressing against his cock in just the right way that made him mewl against you more than usual.
"You're so pretty, baby, I love you.." You could've sworn he almost sobbed as he babbled that sentence.
As he lightly pinched your nipple, you whined. Your back arched and your walls trapped his finger as you came with a gorgeous cry.
And because you both have so much in common–Ryland Grace has to be your soulmate–you both split that knot at the same time, his briefs definitely filled as he spilled. (Dry humping is underrated.)
Ryland slowly pulls out his middle finger, only licking you a few more times just to extend that temporary bliss that lingered after an orgasm.
Now, you're both sweaty, panting messes.
"You okay? I did good?" He shuffles onto his knees, glancing you over as he caresses your tender thighs, unfolding them and placing them back onto the bed.
"You know you did good, Ryland.. I think a different part of you also knows that." You smirked, eyes trailing down his front and to his nether region, you could even see the faint wet spot on his jeans.
"That- that was- shut up." He coughed away the embarrassment, the tips of his ears red. Nonetheless he made sure to clean you up and then himself afterwards.
And to end the night he redressed in one of his silly science shirts and a clean pair of briefs, peppering his lips against your belly yet again because he just can't get enough of it. You are his pillow afterall.
"Do you actually like my body that much?" You mumbled quietly. You then feel like you stabbed him because he genuinely took personal offence.
"W-What? How can you ask me that? Of course I do! You're body is perfect. And warm. Very warm." He smiled lazily as you laughed.
You definitely weren't feeling insecure anymore.
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Extra notes: okay so.. I feel a little self concious about this part because of all the smut I've read in my life... I feel like this doesn't compare 😖 but I'm brave enough to post it!! (Im also worried Ryland doesn't sound or act like Ryland..)
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Special mentions: @stxrrrdusttt @cosmicyeehaw @fungateshortcakes
⤷ in honor of the summertime season, i thought i’d celebrate by posting some fic prompts to try and help get my writing skills back in tip-top shape. i’m very excited to see what comes of this :) don’t be afraid to send your favorite ones into my inbox!
currently taking requests from the following prompt lists: one | two | three
writing for the following geese: RYLAND GRACE 𖤓 COLT SEAVERS 𖤓 SIERRA SIX / COURTLAND GENTRY 𖤓 HOLLAND MARCH 𖤓 DRIVER 𖤓 LARS LINDSTROM
⤷ pls include the number and or dialogue prompt along with which character you want paired with it! i will write nsfw suggestions as well.
note: i know it’s been a bit since i posted this, but i’m determined to crank out these requests over the long weekend. no matter how shitty i think they are. i just happen to be the busiest person in the world apparently. it doesn’t help that i’m also the slowest writer ever. i hope you guys are all doing wonderful tho 🫂
rocky's crew died because of radiation poisoning, something humans have studied so extensively grace was able to recognize it in a second. grace's crew died because nobody was watching them sleep, something eridians do for each other naturally
summary: you're a seasoned hitman tasked with the job of killing off the two private detectives sticking their noses in other people's business. the only problems with that are your ever-growing doubt in who you're working for, and the very blue eyes combined with the charming, slightly dopey, grin of one of your targets; plus, he might also be unkillable? the jury was still out on that one.
pairing: fem!reader x holland march
word count: 4.6k
warnings: canon typical violence, gangs, mentions of drugs, alcohol + cigarettes, mentions of sex work, human trafficking, murder, sexism, sexual harassment, suggestive themes, period typical attitudes, English is not authors first language
a/n: I planned for this to be a oneshot but then I already wrote over 4k without even actually getting into the plot so I guess it'll be a mini-series
inspired by this request made by @laikas-chew-toy (hope this at least comes close to what you wanted <3<3)
The hot LA afternoon sun beat down brutally on your car, making sweat gather in the crook of your neck and turning your brain sluggish. How much longer could those two idiots possibly take?You thought, blinking against the harsh light reflecting from your side mirror.
You had been sitting in your car for well over an hour now, observing the flashy establishment, and trying not to fall asleep. Your thighs kept sticking to the leather seat, and if one more passerby looked at you weirdly, you were going to start shooting.
You had been irritated ever since your boss told you what your next job would entail. When he had called you into his office yesterday to inform you, you had nearly stormed back out.
“You’re kidding.” You narrowed your eyes and your fingers dug into the orange upholstery of the chair you were sitting in.
Tiger—a large man with the kind of arrogance needed to christen himself with such a moniker—looked unimpressed at your demanding tone. “Don’t go buggin’ out now, baby. ‘S nothing personal, the job just needs to be done.”
But it was personal, you were sure of it. Ever since you had turned Tiger down, he had been handing you only less than desirable work. You stared irritated at the cigar hanging half out of his mouth, and you hoped that some of its ash would fall onto his too-tight leather pants.
“I’m too good for this shit, and you know it,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
He shrugged. “Someone needs to do it.”
“Make Nail do it. Or Petrol, or hell, I’m sure Skinny would love the opportunity.” God, what stupid fucking handles these men could come up with. It’s not like it actually protects their identity—get two drinks in them and they’ll freely hand out their government name to any woman unlucky enough to be around them.
“Baby,” Tiger sighed, rolling his eyes. He had given you that name himself in a desperate attempt to get you into his bed. Like a sucky nickname would ever actually make you suck his dick. “Close the shades and listen.”
You hated the way he used slang. As if a couple of up-to-date phrases would make people look away from his bald spot or his saggy cheeks.
“The men gotta do some other stuff. Figured you’d love the opportunity, being a strong modern woman and all that.” Some malice seeped through his voice at the end of the sentence, and you wanted to throw the framed painting of Tiger stroking an actual tiger at his head. “C’mon baby, it’s an easy gig. Just find out whether these two private dicks got their nose in my business, and if they do, bump them off. That’s it.”
You sighed, knowing that you didn’t have an actual choice, anyway. While Tiger’s business wasn’t one the largest out there, he had enough leverage over you to make it so that you would stick around until the bitter end—whatever that would entail. Plus, killing people was kind of the only thing you were good at, ever since you shot your first victim at the age of seventeen.
“Knew you’d see my way.” Tiger pulled a manila folder from his desk, throwing it into your lap. “Here’s all we got on them.”
You opened the folder and looked up, unimpressed. “It’s empty.”
“Can’t make it too easy for you, now can I, babygirl?” You wanted to retch. “Stakeout’s part of the gig. If you wanna have fun with it, have fun, but just make it quick.”
You nodded, stuffing the folder into your purse, and got up. “I at least gotta know their names.”
“Jackson Healy and Holland April.”
It was Holland March. You genuinely didn’t know whether Tiger had been trying to fuck with you or just was that stupid.
Ever since you got the job, you had been doing your research, finding out whatever you could about those two possibly soon-to-be-dead bastards.
Jackson Healy, 53 years old, former enforcer-for-hire turned private eye. Divorced, two-bedroom apartment, owner of two handguns according to the DROS. (Even though you never relied on those records—trusting either paperwork or law enforcement was a sure way to get a bullet between your eyes.) His only known associate came in the form of his business partner:
Holland March, 36 years old, a semi-reliable private eye who worked alone until last year when he and Healy joined together and started The Nice Guys Agency. Widowed, teenage daughter, rental house, one registered handgun.
You had looked away quickly when you noticed the young blonde girl walking up the driveway and letting herself into the house. You didn’t like messing with people who had kids, especially considering the girl had already lost her mother, but business was business. Maybe you’d slip the girl—Holly—some cash once you had killed her father.
Right now, the two self-declared ‘Nice Guys’ were hunting for information in a shady strip club. It was a rundown building, with windows covered by black shades and a neon pink sign reading ‘Tinseltown’ mounted over the entrance. On either side of the name was a glowing breast equipped with a nipple tassel, lighting up rhythmically.
The sun was slowly setting behind the club, and the ultraviolet color palette painted the scene, turning it almost romantic. Then some man lurched out of the front door of the club, hurling on the sidewalk before stumbling back inside, and you let your eyes fall closed with a groan.
Either the two detectives were perverts and in the process of getting their rocks off while on duty, or they had actually found something interesting in the club. You didn’t care which one it was, you just wanted to not continue waiting here for them, so you made a decision: it was time for some close-up investigating.
You exited your car, stretched your stiff limbs, and then started striding over to the club. Steps confident, head held high. You were aware that establishments like Tinseltown weren’t the safest for women, but you were carrying two guns, and the ability to knock a man to the floor in less than three seconds.
The smell that greeted you when walking into the club was a delightful mixture of sweat, alcohol, and lube, so potent it stung your eyes. The air was filled with upbeat music and low chatter, interrupted by the occasional whistle or shout by one of the many men crowded around the stages and throughout the room. The overhead lights were so dim that most of the room was only visible because of the many glowing neon signs scattered along the walls or standing throughout the space. When you took a couple of steps forward, the floor was sticky under your boots, making you almost turn back around. The chestnut knee-high platform boots were one of your most treasured possessions, and no job in the world was worth ruining them over.
While you didn’t make bad money, there was not much you could do with it. You had your apartment—nicely furnished with everything you might need—and otherwise you invested in your wardrobe. Without a family to support, or a big social life outside of your job, there was not much else to do with the money, so clothes it was.
Lacy tops, suede suits, tight skirts, boots, sandals—whatever you wanted, you got. You didn’t have to work in a stuffy office, so there was no dress code to follow, and you could wear whatever you wanted. That was not just comfortable for you, but it also made it very easy for you to go undercover in places; however, sometimes it worked a little too well.
With your high-waisted tight sitting jeans shorts and orange blouse knotted over your navel, you fit in a little too well in the strip club. Then again, you were sure that any woman unlucky enough to stumble into this joint would get the same kind of looks you were currently receiving, after all while your clothes were on the shorter side, anyone with half a brain should understand that you weren’t one of the workers here.
But to the kind of men frequenting this place, a pretty girl was a pretty girl—whether she wore a bikini or a winter coat—therefore flesh to be consumed.
“Heya dolly,” a slurred voice came from your right. A man was leering up at you from the red leather couch he was half sprawled over it. His eyes were glazed and teeth stained yellow. “Don’t you look pretty?”
“If you say so.” You shrugged, eyes searching the many faces for your two targets. You thought you spotted one of them near the bar, but when you tried to get a closer look, a hand wrapped itself around your wrist.
“Now, wait a second.” The man hiccupped, and you wrinkled your nose at the smell permeating from him. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”
You sighed, “Not really.” You tried to shake him off. It would be easy for you to knock his drunk ass to the floor, and while you certainly weren’t above hurting men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves—in fact that might be one of your favorite parts of your life—you didn’t want to risk drawing too much attention on you.
“Just… c’mon, baby. Gimme a chance.”
You froze, now focusing on the man who seemed to perk up at your sudden attention.
“Baby?”
The man frowned but quickly shook it off, grinning widely. “Yeah, baby. You like that? You wanna be my baby, hm?”
“Oh, god.” You rolled your eyes. “Fuck off.”
Secretly, you were relieved, though. Tiger liked to sometimes send one of his men after you, just to ‘check in’. It was condescending, irritating, and on several occasions almost screwed up gigs for you. Plus, if he had men stationed here, it would mean that the club was one of his, or at least one he operated out of, and that thought didn’t sit right with you.
Sure, Tiger and his men did bad shit, you weren’t stupid, you knew that. Hell, you regularly killed people, a lot of whom didn’t really deserve it. But looking around you at the girls hanging off the poles or strutting around the room, with glassy eyes and worn-out smiles, you felt something burn in your chest. That wasn’t the look of women who were living out their dream lives, or at least who found some enjoyment in their work—those were the slumped shoulders and weary faces of women pushed to their limit.
And with a couple of those, the term ‘women’ might be an exaggeration; girls seemed more fitting.
The man was still holding on to your wrist, looking more hopeful by the second, as if ‘fuck off’ wasn’t enough of a hint. You twisted your hand in his grasp and were about to break his fingers—fuck the extra attention, he was starting to piss you off—when another voice spoke up from behind you.
“Hey man, she doesn’t seem interested.”
You turned, surprised, and came face to face with none other than Holland March. He wore a nice-looking maroon suit with a mustard-yellow tie, a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He was looking at the grip the other man had on you, and while he didn’t have a very threatening aura, he stood close enough to signal that he wouldn’t leave before he was satisfied.
The other man did a quick once-over of March and then scoffed, “Fuck off.”
Funny, that's what I just said, too. Is what you wanted to say, but you bit back the retort, a plan forming in your head.
Every man loved a Damsel in Distress, whether because they want to put her in the aforementioned ‘Distress’ or because they want to save her from it didn’t really matter, as long as a woman was looking at them doe-eyed and trembling, they got their kicks from it. And if March was the kind of man who’d rather protect than threaten, then that was only the better for you; he was handsome after all, there was no reason in denying that.
“You fuck off,” March retorted, sounding genuinely offended.
“What’s your issue, pal? Just wanna relax for a bit and spend some time with this pretty thing,” he said, voice thick with annoyance and intoxication. He got off the couch, swaying a bit. March was a tall man, but the other man stood a couple of inches taller.
“I’m not your pal, pal. And she’s not an object,” March said, and his words landed somewhere they shouldn’t for you. Then he went and pushed the man.
That came as a surprise not just to the man who stumbled over his feet, tripping over the flank of the couch, but also to you. He still held you, so when he went down, he took you with him.
You hit the ground hard. Half catching yourself on the cushions of the couch, which, considering the kind of establishment you were in, wasn’t that much of a relief. At least the hold on your wrist was finally broken.
“Oh, fuck,” March yelped, threw his cigarette in the closest ashtray, and knelt down next to you, hands fluttering over your back. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t—that didn’t go the way I hoped.”
While you did feel a twinge of annoyance, mainly because you were sure you had to burn these clothes now, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re fine. Got him off me at least.”
At that, you both looked up to where the man stood up from behind the couch. His gaze landed on you before he scoffed, muttering something about ‘teasing sluts’ before trailing over to the bar.
“That’s not—hey,” March yelled after the man before turning back to you with a dopey smile. “If you want, I’ll get someone to beat him up.”
“You’ll get someone to beat him up?”
“Yeah, I know someone. Actually, wait here a second, I’ll do that now.” March stood up, but you stopped him before he could walk away.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I—” you noticed you were still perched on the ground.
“Here.” March offered his hand, and you took it, getting up.
“Thank you.” You brushed off the crumbs from your clothes, trying not to shudder with disgust. “Seriously, though, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” he said and nodded as if trying to convince you of just how serious he was being. “Any time, any day. Just give me a call and I’ll be there.”
You laughed. “I don’t have your number.”
Yes, you did.
He started frantically searching his pockets but came up empty. “I swear I had one here. Healy always tells me to…” he mumbled, more to himself than you, before looking up with wide, regretful eyes. “I’ll ask Healy for a card quickly. Healy is my partner—business partner! He is my business partner.”
“Nothing wrong with the one kind, too.” You grinned.
“Of course!” March basically tripped over himself to agree with you. “Nothing wrong with it. Love is… love is beautiful, no matter who with whom, right?”
You nodded. Fuck, he was endearing.
“But we are private detectives. Worked with the DOJ last year. Well, kinda, but… anyway, lemme just get that card for you.”
You stopped him again. While you were certain he’d come back to you as quickly as humanly possible, you didn’t want Healy to get involved right now. From your prior research, it became clear that Healy was the more serious and reliable one of the two—if one of them was going to spill their secrets, it wasn’t going to be him.
“Do you have a pen?” You asked.
March started patting his jacket before taking out a silver pen.
“Perfect, just write your number on my arm,” you said, holding out your right arm toward him.
March first turned a shade paler and then three shades darker. A rosy flush spread over his cheeks. “You want me to… yeah, yeah, that works. It’s actually perfect!”
He gently took hold of your elbow with his left hand, holding it steady while he started to write with his other hand . His hand was warm on your arm, and he was lightly moving his thumb back and forth, seemingly subconsciously. He had large hands, and you—you have to get your mind out of the gutter.
“Your skin is so soft,” March whispered and then flinched, smudging some of his writing. “Oh, Jesus, that wasn’t—” He grimaced. “Sorry, I’m not usually this…”
“You’re fine.” You smiled, and then, as if just getting an idea, bit your lip, looking away coyly.
“What?” March asked. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you to make up for all of this?”
“No, it’s nothing.” You almost started dragging your foot across the floor, but then figured that’d be a bit overkill. “Really, it’s—whatever.”
“No, c’mon. Now you've gotta tell me.” He was grinning widely now.
Hook, line and sinker. It’s so easy.
“I, um, well, the reason why I’m even in here is that my car kind of broke down,” you said. “And I was just going to ask to use a phone to call… well, someone—I wouldn’t even know who to call, to be honest. But it’s already getting late and it’ll be dark soon, so maybe you could—”
“Yes!” he said, nodding vigorously. “This is not a good place for a woman to be stuck, believe me. I’ll do what I can to help.”
“That’s really kind, thank you.” You smiled bashfully up at him, and he practically started swooning.
“Oh, it’s—it’s nothing, really.” He waved you off and then held out his hand as if to say, ‘Lead the way’.
When the sweaty evening air hit your face, you took a deep breath. LA air was passable on its best days, and while today definitely wasn’t one of those, everything beat the stench of desperation wafting out of the men present in Tinseltown—present company mostly excluded.
You walked over to your car, March hot on your heels.
“This really isn’t the best place to get stuck for a beautiful woman. I mean, this whole side of town, honestly.”
“I should pick a better one next time, I know.”
“Probably. I mean, it worked out great this time, but who knows who’ll be around if it happens again.”
You hold out your arm. “I figured you’d be, now that I have your number.”
He chuckled. “I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t have to under those circumstances. But, sure, call me and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You turned and winked at him. He winked right back, and you had the sudden urge to grab him by the tie and pull him closer.
But luckily, at that moment you reached your car, and now had to focus on the bigger issue, which was that you had to fake a car emergency with him right there, watching you closely. You opened the hood of your car, and he stepped up next to you.
“Can I be honest for a second?” March asked, looking between the car and you.
“Sure.”
“I don’t know anything about cars,” he admitted and patted the hood lightly.
Perfect, you thought.
“You can’t be any worse than me.” You noticed a square shape in the pocket of his pants. “You got a cigarette?”
He pulled the packet out of his pocket, and while he was occupied, you quickly pulled one of the wires from its place, tearing it. Fuck, I hope I didn’t just ruin my car.
“Here.” He handed you a cigarette, also taking one for himself. He lit up his first and then motioned for you to get closer to him so that he could light yours. You inhaled, relishing the slight burn of the nicotine.
“Alright,” March said, and clapped his hands. “Let’s see what we can do here.”
────────
Nothing; you couldn’t do anything there, and neither could he, as it turned out. March even dragged Healy out of the club to take a look at your car, but when he saw the torn wire, he just shook his head and explained to you with narrowed eyes that in whatever way that happened, it couldn’t simply be reversed.
Healy had left to call AAA and hadn’t returned yet, which left you and March sitting in your car, talking. Sure, you had ruined your car for it, but this was the ideal situation you had hoped for.
“—and then we just handed over the por—the film, and our job was done.” March looked proud detailing the gig that had led him and Healy to start their own business. It all sounded rather chaotic, and more like they had a bunch of dumb luck instead of actual investigative prowess, but who were you to judge?
“Wow, that sounds dangerous.” Your voice was thickly sweet, and you almost couldn’t believe that March was buying the act—Healy certainly hadn’t. But March was eating up every one of your honeyed words; you could almost see his ego growing by the second.
The worst part, however, was that it worked in reverse, too. With every heavy-handed but delightful brag, all the little grins, and his seemingly real and well-intended attentiveness for your safety, you could feel yourself melt into the seat of your car. Every now and then you had to pinch yourself to remind yourself that it wasn’t unlikely that you had to kill him soon.
“Ah,” he shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal and then continued talking in a voice that made it clear that actually it really was, “Sure, but we’re professionals.”
With that, he shot you a grin that made you glad you were already sitting. You needed to get back to your original topic, and quickly!
“Is that what you were doing in there?” You tilted your head toward the club. “Working on a case?”
He nodded, brushing nonexistent dust off his jacket. “Been working on this case for quite a while.”
“What’s it about?”
The answer to his question would either lead him to your bed or his coffin, and you tried not to show how that affected you.
“I probably shouldn’t talk about it,” he said, chuckling.
“Oh, come on. Who am I gonna tell?”
“Alright,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There is this semi-successful gang running business through this side of the town. At first, it was just drugs and booze, that sorta thing. Then last month we were approached by a woman who swore up and down that her daughter had been taken, and guess who some of the last known associates of the girl were?”
Your stomach turned a bit, and you looked away from March’s eyes to gaze out at the night sky. Before you could answer him, he continued talking, which you were more than okay with.
Yeah, take a fucking guess with whom, baby.
“The Stripes—that’s the name of the gang.” God, I hate that fucking name. “Apparently, she hung around them quite a lot. Healy and I then did some of our own investigating, and it seems like The Stripes progressed from drugs to ladies rather quickly. Turns out she’s not the only young pretty girl gone missing in the last couple of months.”
“Yeah, but it’s LA,” you said weakly, not knowing what you were trying to prove, and to whom.
“Sure, but four of the seven girls had ties to at least one member of The Stripes that we know of. Now, we’re mainly trying to find the girls and get them home safe. If we take down the gang while we’re at it, that’s a bonus, of course, but mainly there are a lot of mothers missing their daughters,” March said.
The atmosphere in the car was heavy, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Shame was gnawing at your insides, to the point where you were sure that if you were to open your mouth, you were going to start spewing blood all over his nice suit.
He seemed to notice the tense mood as well and shrugged playfully. “And grateful people pay well, so there’s that.”
You could only nod, lips pressed together.
“Oh, shit,” March groaned. “That was probably a lot for you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just… you asked, and most of the time there are only two people who I talk with about this stuff, and they love all the horrible parts.” He grimaced, hand coming to pat your shoulder. “You good, sweetheart? Deep breaths, that’s it. You don’t gotta worry though, me and Healy will get this under control. Just maybe avoid this side of town for a while, yeah?”
Headlights suddenly blinded you. It was AAA pulling up in a truck, and you gritted your jaw. Get it the fuck together; it’s a job, nothing more.
You turned to him, trying to ignore how good his hand on your shoulder felt. “Why are you here, though? At the club, I mean.”
March looked surprised at the sudden shift in your mood, but went along with it happily enough. “Oh, that’s one of theirs. You see that orange wriggle over there on the side of the club? That’s their calling card. An S for Stripes but also a tiger’s tail. Creative bunch, those guys.” He chuckled again, but you couldn’t join him, gaze frozen on the all too familiar signal.
This seedy, bottom of the barrel club, where the women looked dead and the men all too ready to indulge in that, was part of the same group of associates as you were. Well, kind of. Sure, you were a contractor but then again, Tiger had given you a name, a contract that couldn’t possibly be legal in any way, and tried to make you get the tattoo all members of the gang shared—and when was the last time you worked for anyone outside of The Stripes?
The next couple of minutes happened, but you couldn’t really say what transpired. March talked with the mechanic while you stood quietly next to him, eyes continuously trailing back to Tinseltown. While your car was getting hooked up, March led you to the passenger side of the tow truck, a soothing hand on your back.
“I mean it, I can give you a ride home. Don’t need to get into any cars with strangers if you don’t wanna.”
“You’re a stranger,” you mumbled.
“Well, not really.” He pointed to your arm. “You got my number.” He said it in a way that made it clear that he wasn’t just joking, you could call him if you needed anything. That fact only made you feel more nauseous. Because as you got in the truck, and watched March close the door for you, you knew two things for sure: firstly, The Stripes were partaking in the kind of illicit behavior where it was almost impossible to turn a blind eye to, and secondly, you now knew for sure that you had to kill March and Healy.
March grinned at you through the open window, tilting his head toward your arm. “Call me, and stay out of trouble, yeah, sweetheart?”
lights, camera, action! (colt seavers x afab!reader)
summary: tom ryder backs out of acting in a sex scene at the last minute. colt, tom's stuntman, graciously takes his place as a body double. the line between faked pleasure and real intimacy get a little blurry in the heat of the moment
wc: 5.8k
cw: kissing, grinding, lots of sex talk but no actual sex, faking sex while like 20 people are watching
a/n: I couldn’t get this stupid idea out of my head so yeah here’s a full fic for this little imagine. I’m sure parts of this are inaccurate as to how this kind of situation would actually play out on a real film set, so lets all just close our eyes if we notice those discrepancies
“We have a Code Red!”
Charlie was a good friend of yours and a brilliant creative genius when it came to directing films. His eye for action, romance and then weaving the two genres together to make a gripping movie was what drew you to auditioning for one of his projects in the first place. Currently, he was the director of the film you were part of- a sequel to the blockbuster hit that you’d starred in a couple years prior (that Charlie had also directed) as the love interest of the main character.
Charlie was also terrible at knocking apparently, shoving your trailer door open and looking purely panicked in the soft lamplight. If it was anybody else, the sudden intrusion of your privacy would’ve irked you, but Charlie was one of the only exceptions. Besides, he would only do it if he had a good reason. Usually upbeat and happy-go-lucky, it was concerning to see him look so worried about something.
You gave Charlie your undivided attention, scooting over on your plush couch to give him room so he could sit, setting down the script you had been meticulously going over. It was late, you were freshly showered and nearly ready to call it a night until his interruption. Sleep would have to wait, it seemed.
“What’s a Code Red?”
“A problem! A horrible, terrible, awful problem.”
It definitely must’ve been bad if he was this worked up. “Ok… and that would be?”
Charlie fell onto your couch and put his head in his hands. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Tom’s out.”
“Out? Of the movie?”
Tom Ryder- your co-star and the man with the leading role. After the first movie had been a booming success, he was quick to accept the offer to come back for the sequel. You didn’t doubt it was for the large paycheck and the added fame. Given the publicity of this movie and the attention he would get when it released, it was hard to believe he would just dump the whole thing, especially since you were already more than halfway through filming. Then again, Tom was an interesting individual and you wouldn’t put it past him to quit if he suddenly didn’t feel like doing it. But Tom quitting the job would mean the whole project was doomed and the whole team was screwed. You couldn’t go on without the leading role and it was too late to find a new actor to fill his spot this deep into production.
“Not the whole movie,” Charlie shook his head. Your chest deflated a fraction at that somewhat good news. “Just the sex scene we’re supposed to be filming in three days.”
That was another surprise. “Tom Ryder- the Tom Ryder- doesn’t want to film a sex scene?!”
Charlie flung his arms into the air. “Apparently not! He called me an hour ago and just said he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t give me any explanation beyond that.” Charlie kicked his feet up on the coffee table with a groan and shrugged. “Maybe he’s nervous?”
You crossed your arms and shook your head. “I find that hard to believe. He’s filmed sex scenes before so this wouldn’t be any different. It’s not even that intense of a scene, just a little kissing and action below the sheets you can barely see. I’ll be more naked than Tom is!”
“I know! That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”
This was a conundrum. Charlie was obviously flustered and frantically trying to figure out how to fix this issue with his movie. Next time you saw Tom, you’d give him a passive aggressive piece of your mind (you still have a third of a movie to film, you didn’t want to make it completely impossible to be around each other just yet. You could do that once filming wrapped and hope the audience didn’t want a third movie).
“Shit,” you breathe. “Shit. Ok. So what does this mean? We just cut the whole scene?”
Charlie immediately shook his head. “No. No no no. We can’t cut it. It’s a pinnacle moment in the character’s relationship. All of their tension has been building up and up and up to this moment! The fans will riot if we don’t deliver. The audience score will plummet and we won’t break even in the box office and poof! My career is up in smoke. They were already upset the two didn’t get together in the last movie so they’ll be expecting it in this one. We can’t cut it."
He wasn’t being dramatic. The die hard fans of the series weren’t above sending death threats if their favorite characters didn’t get the ball rolling. “Alright so we can’t cut the scene. What now? Without Tom, what options do we even have? CGI a fake Tom over a mannequin?”
“We have to get a stand-in,” Charlie sighed, carding his hands through his hair. “That’s the only option I can think of. If it’s even possible to find a body double who can act out a sex scene in less than three days, that is. Or maybe I just beg Tom to do it and offer him more money that we don’t have. But, we’re already over budget. The studio will tear me a new one if I offer a bigger salary than he’s already getting. Fuck!”
You flinched and leaned over to put a hand on his arm in a manner that you hoped would help soothe him. He needed a calm, rational anchor. “Ok so we’ll get a stand-in. You don’t need to find a perfect physical match Charlie, just someone who has the same body type and hair, right? Once you find someone and we shoot the scene, do shots from above so you only see my face and the back of the body double’s head. Shots from the side might need to be digitally altered a little; you’d have to put Tom’s face over the stand-in’s during post-production but you’re already doing that for his stunts so this won’t really be any different-”
“That’s it!” Charlie flew up from the couch, whirling to face you. Your jaw dropped a little in shock at the sudden change of mood.
“What’s what?”
“Colt!”
Oh.
Colt Seavers. Tom’s stuntman.
You knew Colt of course. This was the second movie you’d been in with the action actor who played Tom’s stuntman, so you’d seen him around set and basecamp. He was friendly, charming and naturally funny. He was also unfairly attractive.
Colt didn’t go out of his way to demand attention from the rooms he was in, choosing to stay in the background until it was his time to shine on set. And God was he good at what he did. You didn’t know how his body took those beatings, but you applauded him for it. It wasn’t too hard for you to admit that your heart raced a little faster when you saw him, especially since he always looked ruffled and dirty.
“It’s not a bad idea but would he agree to it? Has he ever done scenes like this before? He’s usually running around explosives and pulling off impossible feats, not kissing another actor and faking sex. It might be out of his comfort zone.”
“I don’t know but it doesn’t hurt to try! I’ll get on my knees and beg him if I have to. I’ll text you. Goodnight!”
Charlie was out of your trailer in less than 5 seconds and disappearing into the dark, the crunch of gravel following him as he ran away leaving you alone in the quiet.
-
Colt was in.
Charlie texted you only an hour after he’d left with the good news and a slew of extremely elated emojis.
You had a hard time sleeping that night.
You weren’t new to the sex scene game, you’d been in many movies before with much more explicit content. As this was a PG-13 movie, the scene wasn’t going to be anything crazy and easily something you could handle. So why was your heart in your throat?
Tom was not your most favorite person. You were friendly on set and apparently had enough chemistry on screen that the fans of the first movie couldn’t tell that you had a sour taste in your mouth when you had to act with him. He was brash and rude- a bit of a spoiled brat in the movie industry and got jobs he maybe wasn’t qualified for just because of his large following. He had some talent and a nice face, but a personality that was hard for you to be around.
Colt was the complete opposite of Tom. Besides, of course, general physical appearance.
The first time you’d met Colt had been during the filming of the last movie. It was snowy and freezing outside the warehouse where most of the set was. With the terrible weather, all you wanted was a hot cup of coffee. During a break between shoots, you seeked refuge in the craft services tent to find a drink.
The tent was packed with people you didn’t know trying to stay warm but thankfully the coffee cart was mostly empty besides one, broad shouldered man. If you were being honest, you actually thought it was Tom at first glance. He had the same dirty blond mop of hair on his head that Tom did, and was treating the poor coffee dispenser like Tom would- beating on the lever to try to squeeze a drop out of the obviously empty container.
Then you remembered that you’d just seen Tom not two minutes earlier on set in the warehouse and unless he’d sprinted past you unseen, there was no way Tom had beat you to the tent.
So it wasn’t Tom but someone who looked eerily similar to the actor, at least from behind. The red and black leather bomber jacket he wore wasn’t familiar at all to you, but given the big ‘Miami Vice Stunt Team’ printed on the back, you figured he was one of the dozens of stuntmen hired for the film.
Despite not being Tom, you still sort of expected someone with Tom's personality as you carefully moved to stand next to the stranger to quietly try your shot at getting a cup of coffee.
Colt had been surprised at your sudden appearance, shifting over half a step to give you room at the cart. When you went to try to get coffee out of a different dispenser than the one he’d been abusing, he shook his head sadly.
“They’re all out.” He had a nice voice. Smooth and low.
“Already?” You frown, tapping your cup against the metal. This stranger did sort of resemble Tom, but he was much nicer to look at.
“Right? Three hours into filming and all of the coffee is gone. You’d think this was the set for a high school film project, huh?” Funnier than Tom too.
“No, a high school production would definitely have hot coffee readily available.”
Colt threw his head back with a laugh at your quip and nodded his agreement. He was charming in a way that Tom could only dream of.
Despite the absence of your preferred beverage, the pair of you stayed at the coffee cart as Colt made two cups of hot chocolate. There was no coffee but there was a thermos of hot water and little hot chocolate packets. It wasn’t ideal, but when Colt brandished the warm styrofoam cups and told you to prepare yourself because you were about to have the tastiest hot chocolate of your life (because he’d made it with love), you realised you didn’t care that there was no coffee. You would swear off coffee entirely if it meant Colt Seavers would serve you a cup of cocoa every morning.
You didn’t interact too often after that, only occasionally saying hi when you passed each other between shoots or talking briefly once filming wrapped up for the day. Generally, if he was on set filming, you weren’t. Colt was a stuntman doing action scenes (as Tom’s body double, you'd found out). If your character was in the scene too, you had your own stunt double for that. So, for the most part, you admired him from afar.
Even though you barely knew him, that didn’t stop your itty bitty crush on the guy.
So now, knowing that you’d not only get to act in a scene with him, but a scene where you’d get to kiss and touch him? A dream come true.
-
Colt had never planned on filming a sex scene, no matter how tame.
He didn’t even kiss during films, since they usually wanted the actual actors to do that.
When the director came knocking down his door at 11pm one night, spewing the tragic tale of Tom’s betrayal (not surprising), Colt was suddenly presented with the hard decision. Does he step out of his comfort zone and try something he had yet to do in his film career, or does he decline and tell Charlie to find someone else?
He considered saying no. In fact, he was seconds away from saying no. His sex prowess was not something he had ever planned on sharing with the whole world, no matter the fact that the general audience wouldn’t know it was actually him performing. Plus, pretending to fuck in a room full of people didn’t sound very appealing. Then, he remembered who he’d be acting the scene with.
“I’ll do it.”
-
The intimacy coordinator on set, Tammy, met with you the day before the shoot to go over your boundaries- what you were comfortable with and where you drew the line.
You knew the script like the back of your hand and knew exactly how the scene was supposed to play out. It was simple- passionate kissing until you made it to the bed, Colt would be on top and perform general foreplay until you fake intercourse. It was nice and easy, not too intense.
Tammy went over the stoplight system and your meeting wrapped up in a clean 20 minutes. You didn’t have any worries about acting the scene. You worried about Colt and how he would react to the new challenge more than anything.
If you were doing the shoot with Tom, you might’ve been able to think of boundaries to set up (i.e. no extra groping than what was necessary, because Tom probably would try to cross a line), but with Colt? You realized you didn’t care at all if he got a little too excited and handsy. You would allow it for the 'authenticity of the scene', to make it look real. That and you just wouldn’t mind if things went a little deeper than superficial if it was Colt doing it. You assumed Tammy went to speak to Colt after she’d spoken to you and since she didn’t come back to tell you any of his boundaries, he must’ve not had any either.
The day of the shoot, after hair, makeup and wardrobe where you stripped into practically nothing and shrugged on a robe, you walked into the fake bedroom set amidst a hoard of bustling crew members. Colt was already there, observing the room before turning to smile at you when you approached.
“Hey!” Colt ran a hand through his mussed hair and gestured to your body. “You look nice.”
You snorted. “So do you.”
You were both wearing the same exact robe.
While Colt glanced at a lighting technician that brushed past to adjust one of the warm lights shining towards the bed, you nodded your head at him. “Thank you for being willing to step in for Tom, by the way. You’re saving all of our asses; especially Charlie’s. We owe this movie to you at this point.”
Colt shook his head immediately. “No, no. Please, I'm happy to help.”
“Have you ever done a scene like this before?” You questioned, adjusting your loose robe to make sure your chest stayed covered. Colt’s eyebrow twitched like he wanted to glance down to watch the movement but he didn’t and shook his head instead.
“Nope.” You weren’t surprised. You assumed he hadn’t. “But, I can't imagine it’s any different than the real thing though, right? Just a little more orchestrated and,” Colt gestured to the crowd of people behind cameras, boom mics and monitors a step away. “a little less private. I don’t know about you but I don't usually have this many people watching me perform in the bedroom.”
Your cheeks hurt from your smile. “Neither do I. Not in the privacy of my home, at least. I have done this kind of thing a couple times, though.”
Colt snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah! In that one film uh- Rain? The one with the cowboy? Big fan of your work in that one.”
You quirked a brow and Colt backtracked. “Not just the sex scene obviously, the whole movie. Your whole character. Really likeable.”
Tammy interrupted before you could tease him. Charlie also approached and clapped his hands together so everyone around would listen.
“Alright, everyone! We’re all familiar with the script so you should know how this scene will play out but just in case, we’ll just go over it and walk through the shots we’re looking for.”
Charlie was animated, as he always was when describing the scene he was envisioning.
“Everything we’re recording today takes place after their huge fight.” He gestures to you and Colt. “We’ll film the fight later with Tom, but they’ve been arguing in the kitchen and the tension builds up and up and up until it snaps! The start of the scene will be the two of you bursting through the bedroom door, already kissing. I want passion! You’ve been pining for each other for years and it’s all coming to fruition today so let it show.”
You nod with a smile and Colt does the same.
“Since I want to obscure Colt’s face as much as possible, we’re going to have the camera follow you into the room from behind so Colt’s back is the only thing we can see. (Y/n), I want your hands in his hair, on his neck and shoulders, anywhere that can be seen by the camera.”
Charlie continued to walk through the open space, describing what he wanted from the two of you as he went. You would fall back onto the bed and Colt would follow. The actual scene in the movie was going to be a montage of tiny blips of footage instead of one, continuous shot so you didn’t have to be perfect- you just had to give the editors enough to work with. To keep the PG-13 rating, the two of you were going to be under a thin bedsheet to hide everything from the hips down and most of the camera work was going to stay above the waist anyway, focused on your faces instead of your bodies.
From there, you just had to pretend to have sex with Colt Seavers.
That should be easy enough. You certainly felt more confident faking with him than you would’ve with Tom.
Once Charlie was done going through the scene, some of the crew asked questions and everyone took their positions. It took a second for the crew to be ready, so Colt and yourself went out into the fake hallway to wait. Still in your robes, you got a little worried at the slightly bugged out look in Colt’s eyes.
“Are you alright, Colt? The intimacy coordinator went through the stoplight system with you, didn’t she? If you ever feel uncomfortable and need to stop you just say red and we’ll take a break or switch up the scene a little so it’s easier-”
A warm hand rested against your bicep. “I’m not uncomfortable, I promise. This is all just very different from what I'm used to. I’m usually outside, throwing myself through a window or driving a huge truck over jumps. This is… much quieter and enclosed. Intimate. But I guess that’s the point, huh?”
Colt’s voice was so warm and assuring- it slid down your spine like honey. You were suddenly worried that you wouldn’t be able to handle the scene. Not because you would get uncomfortable, but that you would enjoy it a little too much.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
Tammy interrupted once again and gestured to your robes with a gentle smile. “Ready?”
Apparently, your characters had shed all of their clothing in their passionate journey from their argument in the kitchen to the bedroom door because you're both almost completely bare under the robes. Since everything below the waist was going to be covered by a sheet, instead of a normal modesty garment, you both wore a skintight, skin-colored version of what were essentially biker shorts. Colt had no shirt on, as his torso was going to be one of the main stars of the shoot, and neither did you. Since some shots were going to be from the side, meaning your ribcage would be visible and maybe a hint of breast, you couldn’t wear a bra. To keep a little bit of modesty, you had pasties keeping your nipples covered.
Colt kept his gaze respectful, only looking you in the eye as Tammy scurried off set and was instantly replaced by a gaggle of camera operators. You weren’t shy about your body, not after acting in similar scenes dozens of times previous, but for some odd reason, doing this with Colt felt different. All of the actors you’d acted with in the past were people you respected and had no attraction to. But Colt? You kept your eyes on his face just like he had with you, but it was maybe the hardest thing you’d done thus far in your career.
Once Charlie deemed the dim lighting was perfect and the crew was ready to go, you turned your back to the shut door and looked up at Colt when he stepped closer so your bodies were just barely brushing. The heat of his eyes as they looked back and forth between yours had you grateful you were wearing shorts because you instantly became wet.
The set became silent as you waited for the go-ahead from Charlie. And once he yelled action? You experienced what you were convinced was the greatest onscreen kiss you’d ever get to experience in your career.
Colt’s lips were searing- passionate in every sense of the word. While his mouth rhythmically moved against yours, he reached behind you to open the door, shoving it out of your way and leading you backwards into the room as the camera crew followed. Colt knew just how deeply to tilt his head for your lips to entwine as firmly as possible and just where to place his hands on your spine so you didn’t stumble over your own feet as he blindly led you towards the bed.
His scruff felt wonderful against your face, scratching but not painfully so. You absentmindedly decided that you wouldn’t mind a bit of a beard burn. Your hands were eager to feel the parts of him you were allowed to touch, brushing over the broad planes of his shoulders and sliding up his neck to tangle into his hair. His chest rumbled against you when you fisted your fingers into the blond strands. It had been an accident, you didn’t mean to tug on his hair, but Colt didn’t seem bothered at all.
Colt’s torso was pressed firmly to yours, keeping your breasts hidden from view which had your heart warming in gratitude and had you kissing him harder, this time running your tongue over his. The only sounds in the room were your footsteps and the wet smack of your lips against Colt’s before your knees hit the bed and you fell back onto the mattress. The sheets were already perfectly rumpled thanks to the set design team who’d meticulously staged it beforehand and the material was surprisingly soft against your bare back. Apparently, there had been room in the budget for silk sheets.
You weren’t acting when you watched Colt stand at the foot of the bed, all 6 feet of him tanned and muscled and delicious. The camera crew stood behind him, only capturing his profile from the waist up and the ruffled mess on the back of his head thanks to your handiwork. Your ogling at his body was real but you forced yourself to keep your eyes above the belt, no matter how badly you wanted to look and see if the shorts he wore would leave anything to the imagination on what was hidden underneath.
Colt seemed to be enjoying his view too, pausing for a millisecond too long to hold your gaze. He still kept his eyes professional, as much as you wished he would let them wander now that the camera wouldn’t catch him doing so, and let out a silent steadying breath.
There was no dialogue for the scene, as it would cause a hassle replacing Colt’s voice with Tom’s or dubbing Tom’s voice over the shoot later. Besides, with two perfectly good actors, words weren’t necessary if the scene was done right.
For only being a stuntman, Colt was an expert at expressing emotion through body language.
The way he crawled onto the bed after you- twisting the sheets around his hips to hide both of your lower halves from view, the way his hands slid up your ribcage, then moved to your arms to trail up until his hands planted on the mattress to cage your head- all conveyed the intense hunger of someone immensely in love. His eye contact was red hot. He looked at you the whole time, even glancing down at your parted lips though he didn’t need to.
Colt smelled tantalizing. There was a tiny hint of what you guessed was the spicy smell of his body wash, but other than that, you just smelled, what you assumed was, his natural scent. Most actors you’d worked with (Tom especially) drowned themselves in cologne, especially for scenes like this. You understood why, wanting to smell good when up close and personal with another person, but Colt hadn’t done that. He’d probably showered and gone straight to hair and makeup, meaning what you were smelling was purely him. There was something about that fact that had your eyes almost rolling back into your skull.
Your brain barely registered the camera over Colt’s shoulder that peered down at you to capture every expression you made, the boom mic that loomed overhead or the 20 other people in the room that sat not 30 feet away. Everything you could see and feel and hear was centered around the man straddling you.
While Colt busied himself with trailing his mouth up the valley of your breasts and keeping his face close to your skin, you threw your head back and your fingers found purchase in his hair once again. There was nothing fake about the squeaky gasps that escaped you.
A hot tongue laved over your throat, moistening the skin and pausing to feel your larynx bob with every sound you made. A cameraman now positioned at the side of the bed captured everything. Eventually, Colt moved to tuck his face into your neck opposite of the camera to nose at your jaw, pointedly keeping most of his face hidden from view. That was your queue to wrap your legs around his waist, which you happily did.
Despite having a broad torso, Colt’s waist was slim and muscular underneath your calves. It almost felt like he had no clothes on at all. There was a thicker layer of fabric and padding along the crotch of both of your shorts to keep any contact or stimulation between your bodies at a minimum. Or that’s what they were supposed to do anyway.
Colt’s cock was straining against the shorts so much you could still feel him against your own covered pussy. You couldn’t feel him as much as you wished- couldn’t feel the heat of his skin or the veins along the shaft or the brush of hair at the base- but it gave you enough of an idea to have your hips moving up to tease him for more contact.
No one in the room knew what was happening under the sheet besides you and Colt, and that made it all the more fun. Colt nibbled your skin between his teeth, breath huffing over his drying saliva and began moving his hips. He started slow and steady, gentle gyrations that only gave you a fraction of what you wanted.
The camera above you kept its lens trained at Colt’s back and nothing below the waist besides the tiniest hint of the white sheet. The movement of his hips would be able to be seen but not explicitly so, just the tension in his back as he moved.
You were surprised when Colt let out a groan in response to your legs tightening around him, eyelashes fluttering over the shell of your ear. His thrusts started to get more confident. Not faster, since Charlie wanted the scene to be tender and heartfelt, but he started to press firmly into your heat, grinding when he did. You could barely feel him along your clit, only a fleeting pressure every time he drove forward, but despite the faintest trace of stimulation, you started to worry that you were about to be edged in front of a room of people. Colt didn’t seem to be faring any better.
Since everything was covered with a sheet, Colt wasn’t supposed to actually make contact between your hips if he could help it. As long as he made it look believable, he could thrust into the air and make a decent show. He’d either forgotten that bit of instruction from Tammy or didn’t care to follow it. You weren’t about to stop him- not when it felt this good.
There was something exhilarating about knowing how aroused Colt really was- something no one in the room would know but you. If Charlie, Tammy or anyone else for that matter noticed how much the two of you were doing under the sheet, no one said a word. In fact, you were 100% sure they hadn't noticed because you were 90% sure that what you and Colt were doing was illegal. Some safety guideline was in place in the movie industry to prohibit such contact, no matter how eager and willing the two parties were to save from lawsuits or something. Surely someone would've put a stop to the shoot by now to save the production from a hoard of legal problems once they realized both of you were actually getting off. Oh well, you didn't care to think about that.
You brushed your lips over Colt’s cheek as his face hid in your neck, massaging the solid muscles of his neck under the pads of your fingers. He was tense, but not from stage fright. The arms caging your body that kept him somewhat upright were trembling against the mattress, the tiniest, most indiscreet tremors that you could feel against your back through the padding. He was having a hard time keeping himself in control too.
Truly, you could’ve laid there for hours. Part of you hoped Charlie wanted to rerun the whole scene several times so you could do it over and over again. However, you feared you were doing too good of a job and were about to pull it off in one take.
Colt must’ve brushed off the fog that clouded his mind and remembered where he was when his hips punched forward one final time and stilled. You made a show of your whimpers, faking an orgasm while Colt groaned in your ear, voice melding with yours. Hopefully that wasn’t going to be a problem for the audio team if Colt sounded a little too much like himself.
The room fell silent once the ruffling of sheets stopped, the sound of your shared breathing the only noise on set.
You blinked when the quietness was suddenly broken with a burst of applause and remarks of awe, quickly remembering where you were and just how many people you were surrounded by. Colt seemed surprised too, lifting his face to look at you in shock and then looking over at the hoard of people coming your way.
“That was amazing, you two! A perfect take! Fantastic job, Colt!” Charlie exclaimed, giving a firm smack to the stuntman’s bare back in approval. Colt groaned at the sting and gave you a humorous smirk in response. Tammy rushed over with your robes and a thousand watt smile.
Colt slid off of you, albeit a bit hesitantly if your observation was correct, and quickly took the robe Tammy offered, tying it around himself with great intensity. You realized immediately it was an attempt to hide his erection from any prying eyes. His cheeks colored when you quietly laughed at him, a silent indication to him that you knew exactly what he was doing.
Charlie was elated, letting you put on your robe before throwing an arm around your shoulders and leading you over to the flustered stuntman so Charlie could throw his other arm around him. “Your on-screen chemistry is palpable! Just what we needed for the scene. I was worried we’d have to reshoot several times before we got everything we needed, especially since you’re not familiar with acting in these types of scenes, Colt, but you’re a natural!”
You couldn’t help but smile over at the blond, drinking up his bashful smile. “Thanks, Charlie. It was easy, really. Not too different from my average Friday night,” he joked, until his smile suddenly dropped and he tilted forward to look at you a little panicked. “I mean, not recently. I'm not seeing anyone right now, so my Friday nights are super free. If anyone was wondering.”
Charlie didn’t bat an eye at Colt's words but you did, heart warming at his attempt to correct himself and make it clear to you that he was single and also not currently sleeping around. The cheery director led you off of the set towards wardrobe, still spewing his praises. Only after one specific comment did you feel your face really light up in a blush.
“I know you’re just a stuntman, Colt, but you should really consider taking up other forms of acting because that almost looked real!”
a/n: ngl I felt colt’s spirit possess me for this one, I cranked this bitch out in a couple of hours. I LOVE finding a prompt that I’m super eager to write, it feels so satisfying putting my thoughts into words (even though they sound much better in my head)
divider by @/strangergraphics
million dollar manɞ ༘⋆⊹⋆ | “stay away from lightning’s girl.” [hcs]
bodyguard!courtland gentry x singer!fem!reader
—colleagues to lovers, age gap (40/27).
𖥔 the assignment begins exactly how most of court’s assignments begin. professionally. efficiently. with absolutely no intention of becoming emotionally attached. he’s given a file, a schedule and a photograph. the photograph doesn’t really prepare him. photographs rarely do. they flatten people into something two-dimensional. so when court first sees you in person, standing backstage before a rehearsal for a concert while somebody fusses with your microphone pack and somebody else chases after a missing wardrobe assistant, he finds himself briefly caught off guard.
𖥔 their first proper conversation lasts less than two minutes. “you’re my new bodyguard?” your voice carries a note of surprise, courtland nods. “court.” he says, and you smile then offer your hand. “it’s nice to meet you, court.” he hesitates for half a second before shaking it. your hand is warm and soft. small compared to his calloused, work withered hand. he immediately hates that he notices. because noticing things like that is how problems start.
𖥔 you’re just so beautiful, and he notices that immediately. even when you’re a little sweaty from practicing choreography, even while wearing a smile tank top and sweatpants where one leg is rolled up to your knee. you still looked good. then he just kept noticing more things about you, you’re kind, you thank every crew member by name, you stop to help somebody carrying equipment, you compliment a nervous intern’s outfit, you ask security guards how their day is going. you treat people like people.
court has spent enough years around celebrities, politicians and wealthy clients to know how unusual that is. most people stop seeing others as human once they become famous enough. you somehow haven’t, which is exactly the sort of thing that slips past his defences before he realises it.
𖥔 for the first few weeks, court remains determinedly professional. he walks three steps behind, scans exits, checks hotel rooms, and monitors crowds. he speaks when necessary and not much beyond that. meanwhile you spend those same weeks trying to figure him out because he’s unlike anybody you’ve ever met. he doesn’t seem impressed by fame, doesn’t care about award shows, doesn’t seem remotely interested in the fact that billions of people know your name.
𖥔 sometimes you catch him reading, sometimes you catch him watching old films on flights, sometimes you catch him staring out windows with a distant look that makes him seem older than forty. sad somehow, maybe a little lonely. you don’t know why that bothers you, only that it does.
𖥔 the real problem begins when you discover that beneath all that stoicism, court is kind of funny. not intentionally, he has the driest sense of humour imaginable. one evening you’re trapped in traffic after an event. the car isn’t moving, you’re exhausted, and your manager is asleep, even the driver is frustrated. you sigh dramatically, then look over at him. “court, can you do .. like .. ninja stuff?” court slowly looks up from his phone. “…do i look like i can do ninja stuff..?” you tilt your head slightly, “well–”
“hey. don’t answer that.” you laugh at him, and court immediately looks away, but not before you catch the smallest hint of a smile.
𖥔 after that, conversations become easier, then longer, then frequent. you start sitting beside him on flights. you save him coffee. you tell him stories. he listens, really listens, but never really says much. he remembers things; your favourite tea. the fact that you hate award shows, the book you’ve been meaning to finish, the restaurant you mentioned liking three months ago. he remembers all of it.
𖥔 the age difference never feels strange exactly. but it does become something you occasionally notice, mostly because your lives have been so different. you tease him about being old. he mentions a film from the eighties, “court.”
“what?”
“that film came out before i could form memories, before i was born actually.”
he looks mildly offended, “you’re twenty-seven, not twelve.”
“compared to you? same thing.”
“it absolutely isn’t.”
“okay, old man.”
he spends the next ten minutes refusing to speak to you which only makes you laugh harder. the truth is that court secretly enjoys it, he enjoys all of it. the teasing, the conversations, the way you somehow make ordinary moments feel lighter.
𖥔 you become one of the few people in the world around whom he doesn’t feel the need to constantly carry the weight of everything, and that’s new for him because court isn’t supposed to need people. he’s certainly not supposed to need you. yet somewhere along the way, he starts looking for you first when entering a room. he notices your absence immediately, he finds himself listening for your laugh.
𖥔 there’s one particular night that changes everything. you’ve finished a concert, the venue is emptying, everyone is exhausted, the adrenaline has faded. you’re sitting backstage in an oversized hoodie with your makeup half removed, looking significantly less like an international superstar and significantly more like a tired woman who desperately needs sleep.
court is nearby completing final security checks.
when he returns, he finds you sitting alone. quieter than usual. “everything okay?” you look up and smile faintly. “just tired.” court nods. for some reason the idea of you sitting there alone bothers him.
without really thinking, he sits down beside you, not close enough to touch, just close enough. for several minutes neither of you speaks, but the silence isn’t awkward. that’s the strange part. it never is with you. eventually you lean your head against his shoulder, completely absent-mindedly. court freezes, people don’t ever touch him, not like this. not gently. you seem unaware of the effect you’re having on him, too tired to notice. court doesn’t move for nearly twenty minutes, partly because he doesn’t want to wake you. mostly because some selfish part of him doesn’t want the moment to end.
𖥔 after that, things become a little impossible. everything changes. the affection begins appearing in small ways, you start stealing his jackets, he stops pretending to mind, he starts carrying your favourite snacks without mentioning it, you start seeking him out first after events. everybody notices except you two. or rather, everybody notices before either of you is willing to admit it.
𖥔 your team sees it, his colleagues see it, even random crew members see it. because apparently there’s something very obvious about the way court watches you. the attentiveness, the protectiveness, the softness that appears whenever you’re around.
𖥔 the “relationship” develops through hundreds of tiny moments before either of them fully acknowledge what’s happening. the hand-holding starts because of crowds, that’s literally it. it’s practical. you’re leaving an awards show and there’s a sea of photographers outside. people pushing forward. shouting your name. security trying to maintain order. court reaches back without looking and says, “hand.” you automatically place your hand in his. nothing romantic, except he doesn’t let go immediately afterwards. for a second longer than necessary, his fingers remain wrapped around yours, for two seconds, then three. until eventually both of you realise you’re still holding hands halfway down the corridor.
court releases it immediately, you pretend not to notice his ears turning slightly red. after that it becomes strangely normal. at airports, crowds, concert venues, busy streets. all it takes is one outstretched hand, and your hand always finds his. eventually you stop waiting for him to ask, you just reach. court never comments on it, he simply closes his fingers around yours automatically. like that’s where they’re supposed to be.
𖥔 it happens a lot, especially when you’re trying to sleep. you’ve begun looking for him subconsciously. and he can’t stop it, because court has absolutely no defence against sleepy affection. it’s over for him, you’re half asleep on a flight, head in his lap, hoodie pulled over your face. court is reading, or trying to. suddenly your hand appears from beneath the hoodie, grabbing at the air. he looks down, “what are you doing?” you mumble something unintelligible. “what?” more mumbling. finally he realises that you’re looking for his hand. without a word he places his hand in yours. you immediately settle still asleep, just holding onto him. court stares for a second, then goes back to reading, except he’s smiling now. a small smile hidden behind the book he doesn’t really care about. the kind of smile nobody gets except you.
𖥔 you’re sitting together in the back of an suv after a concert. you’re heading to an event, curled up with your head resting on his shoulder. court is scrolling through security updates on his phone. you peek at the screen, “you’re working.”
“yes.”
“that’s boring.”
“it’s my job.”
“i’m your job.”
court doesn’t even look up, “you’re one of my jobs.”
you gasp, dramatically. offended.
“one of?”
“you know what i mean.”
“i don’t think i do.”
finally he glances down, you’re pretending to look genuinely heartbroken. “you’re my favourite job.” you immediately smile, “there it is.” court sighs. “every time.”
𖥔 you realise something changed an ordinary tuesday. you’re signing records at a meet and greet. a queue stretches out of the building, the fans are excited, but respectful. one little girl, no older than seven, nervously approaches the table. instead of asking for your autograph first, she points at court. “mister big guy. is he your husband?” the room gets quieter, your manager coughs into his sleeve, and court looks like somebody had caught him stealing. “no,” you laugh, cheeks warming. “he’s my bodyguard.”
the little girl frowns, “he looks at you like my daddy looks at my mommy.” nobody knows what to say, least of all court. you glance towards him. for the first time, you really look, the way he’s already watching you. the way his attention instinctively returns to you every few seconds, no matter what’s happening around him. the way his expression softens almost imperceptibly whenever you smile.
and suddenly everything slots into place. all the little things, the quiet gestures, the habits neither of you had questioned. you feel your heart jump a little, because maybe the little girl onto something.
𖥔 the confession doesn’t happen dramatically, it happens the way everything important between the two of you happens. quietly. after a concert, long after midnight, the arena is empty except for a handful of crew packing equipment away. you’re sitting on the edge of the stage with your legs swinging. court stands nearby, hands in his pockets. for several minutes neither of you speaks, comfortable silence has become your favourite language. finally, you look over.
“can i ask you something?”
“always.”
“why do you look after me the way you do?”
he doesn’t answer immediately. when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost thoughtful.
“it stopped feeling like a job.” he continues looking out across the empty arena. “it’s just…” he exhales softly. “you became the person i wanted to get home safely.” you don’t say anything. you simply reach across the small space between you and hold out your hand. he looks at it for a long moment. then, with surprising care, threads his fingers through yours. though his hands are strong and calloused, his grip is gentle, like he’s handling something precious. it feels like coming home. court isn’t built for sweeping speeches or extravagant romance, he loves in quieter ways. in remembered coffee orders, in opened doors, in jackets draped over cold shoulders, in standing just close enough that you always know he’s there. and as your fingers remain entwined beneath the stage lights, you realise those quiet ways have somehow become the loudest declaration of love you’ve ever known.
𖥔 your fans start shipping you long before anything actually happens, mostly because they’re frighteningly observant. it starts with photographs, court appearing in the background of everything, always nearby, always looking very concerned about your wellbeing. the internet immediately latches onto it. there are compilation videos, edits, thousands of comments.
“ok but he’s literally in love with her.”
“i’m gonna start a rumour.”
“they way he looks at her omg i’m sick to my stomach.”
“courtland vs. 100 women because i want her too”
“he’s so fucking fine bro.”
that comment becomes particularly popular. court has absolutely no idea any of this exists. you discover it first, and nearly choke laughing, especially because the fans aren’t particularly wrong. one video consists entirely of court carrying you around on set because you’re half asleep after filming a music video for 18 hours straight. somebody adds romantic music and the video gets three million views. you show it to him, court watches for approximately thirty seconds, then hands the phone back. “people have too much free time.”
𖥔 the relationship itself remains hidden for months after you finally start dating, mostly because neither of you particularly wants public attention on something that feels private. for the first time in his life, court has something he doesn’t want the world touching. so it stays yours. the secret relationship period becomes your favourite era, because there’s something ridiculously fun about it. the stolen smiles across crowded rooms, secret dinners, shared hotel rooms nobody knows about, the way you can be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel like you’re sharing a private joke.
𖥔 in public, court is the protective one. then you get home and suddenly you’re finding him asleep on the sofa with a book on his chest. you’re stealing his hoodies, you’re making fun of his movie choices, you’re convincing him to watch drag race. court discovers, to his surprise, that he actually enjoys these shows. one evening you’re curled up beside him watching some absurd dating show. the queens are arguing, the snatch game is terrible, and you are completely invested. court glances over, you’re tucked against his side, wearing one of his jumpers, holding his hand absent-mindedly while laughing at strangers on television, and for a moment he just looks at you, really looks at you. this woman who accidentally turned his life upside down, who somehow found all the lonely corners of him and filled them with warmth. who made airports and hotels and temporary apartments start feeling like home.
you notice him staring, “what?” court shakes his head. that small smile appearing, “nothing.” but what he means is: everything.because somewhere along the way, the bodyguard stopped being the job, and you became the thing worth protecting most.
gummygunk
tangentwithtanner
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