Archive of Our Own

Colt’s head hurts.

He’s dimly aware of people around him. There’s a quiet, far-away sounding, “You good, Colt?” which he dutifully gives a thumbs-up in response to. Or, at least, he thinks he does. Vaguely, he’s aware something went a little wrong with the stunt, but he’s too busy sinking into the welcome embrace of the crash mat with half-closed eyes to think properly about it. Or about the fact that he’s likely very concussed.

Like after any stunt, Colt wheezes a little, the wind knocked out of him. There’s a small cut on his cheek, just deep enough that there’s some blood beading along his skin. God, he’s so tired. The sun is in his eyes. Everything aches.

A shadow falls over him. Colt struggles to drag his eyes properly back open to figure out what it is. At first, it’s hard to make out the details; a person, backlit by the sun in a way that makes them almost look like they’re glowing. Colt’s eyes adjust in time to see them remove their helmet, revealing, quite frankly, the most beautiful man Colt has laid eyes on.

“Wow,” he says. Or, tries to say, but he still hasn’t caught his breath yet, so it comes out as more of an elongated wuhhhhhh sort of sound.

The man standing over him raises an eyebrow. There’s a mild amount of concern to his expression, but it twists into something a little more amused when Colt squirms, fighting the crash mat as he tries to shimmy himself into a position to make it easier to prop himself partly upright.

“I’m alright,” he says, but it sounds like mmmmm rihhhh. The stranger jerks a little, and it takes Colt entirely too long to realise it’s a little silent laugh before he’s being extended a hand. It ends up taking him two tries to grasp it, misjudging the distance on the first pass to send his own hand careening off into the open air, and then he’s hauled to his feet. Honestly, the stranger is stronger than he looks.

“Careful,” says the man, his voice impossibly soft. Colt decidedly likes it — gentle and honeyed, invitingly kind.

“That’s my middle name,” Colt says, words considerably more comprehensible than they were mere moments before. “Colt Careful Seavers.”

There’s that little silent laugh again. Up closer, Colt can see now that the stranger is also part of the stunt crew, but they can’t have crossed paths on set before. Colt would have remembered someone like him.

“You hit your head.”

“Yeah, that…” He trails off for a second. Wipes at the bit of blood on his cheek and succeeds only in smearing it over his skin in a faint red stain. “That was meant to happen.”

The stranger gives him a Look, capital L because it reeks of I’m not buying your bullshit. He doesn’t say anything outright, but still, it’s kind of scathing.

A moment later, the stranger tilts his head. A little like a confused animal. Then he’s reaching out to wipe the smear of blood from Colt’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, and Colt’s head spins from the contact.

To deal with it, he starts to shimmy his way out of the more uncomfortable parts of the costume he’s in. The movie he’s filming for is nothing new, really — another massive blockbuster action thing, big heroic adventure, blah blah. There might be some romance in there too. He only ever skimmed the script, sue him.

The scene they’d just filmed for wasn’t groundbreaking, either. A fight on a rope bridge suspended between two canyons, which would then give out and the hero falls. He blames the stupid robe-cloak-whatever-the-fuck they’ve got him in for the fact he didn’t fall as cleanly as he was meant to.

“So. Haven’t seen you around before,” Colt says slowly, folding the offending fabric up clumsily so he’s left in just his shorts and undershirt. “What do you normally do?”

“I drive.”

“And your name?”

The man says nothing. Just gives him a small little smile, one without showing his teeth, eyes sparkling.

“Alright, I’ll just call you Driver, then.”

Driver’s smile widens. Almost imperceptibly so. Colt wonders what it would take to get it even wider, with teeth and crinkled eyes, maybe even an audible laugh. He resolutely makes it his goal to find out.

“Hey, um.” And Colt pauses, because what the hell is he doing. He’s asked plenty of people out, but hardly ever this fast, and almost never when they technically work together. But, well. Crews change between movies. If it goes south, he can keep his head down until filming wraps and, hopefully, never see Driver again.

If it goes south. Which he hopes it doesn’t. God, he really hopes it doesn’t. “Wanna grab drinks later?”

Driver’s gaze flicks over him. A full up-and-down, but it’s hard to tell if he’s checking Colt out or sizing him up like one would an opponent. He reaches out, just to brush a bit of hair out of Colt’s face, and smiles again. “Sure.”

Colt punches the air. “Yes! Yessssss!” Then he catches himself, meets Driver’s — amused, maybe slightly fond — gaze and says, quieter, “I mean, uh. Cool. Awesome. After shooting, then?”

Driver nods. It’s a short, clipped little thing, taking only precisely as much effort as he needs and not a bit more. Just enough to make the gesture clear. It has no right being as attractive of him as it is.

“After shooting,” he confirms, still in that soft, gentle tone. God, Colt is so smitten with him.

“Okay,” Colt says, as the set’s medics carefully step their way in, reaching for him to check him over like always. “Okay, yeah. After shooting.”

Driver smiles and walks away. Colt watches him go, then turns to let himself be checked over.

Driver, as it turns out, is far more familiar with the country than Colt is.

The filming locations for the movie as a whole have been a little all over the place, but the current leg has them hopping back and forth between places in and around the city of Melbourne, which Colt has more or less enjoyed learning to navigate. It’s not the first time he’s been in Australia, but definitely his first time this far south.

In short, Driver had chosen the bar. Just before shooting ended for the day he’d brushed past Colt, slipping him a scrap of paper with a name and address scribbled onto it, and that was that. Now, Colt sits in his car, parked around the corner from it, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel out of sheer nerves.

It’s a nice spot, he supposes. A little outside of the city itself, just down the road from the train station, nestled inbetween the stores and takeout places in the suburb of Moonee Ponds. Honestly, it’s hard to focus on, because now all the anticipation of it has caught up with him and tumbled right over into that sort-of-not-quite dread brand of anxiety, because he hasn’t done this before.

Not the dating, or going to a bar. He’s done that plenty. But always with women. So, truly, Colt has no fucking clue how he’s meant to do this.

It’s not like he didn’t know men were on the table for him. It’s just… different. When it’s actually happening, that is. Or might be, at least. Hopefully. Well, at least he thinks he’s hoping for it.

God, he’s psyching himself out. Actively. Like, the sitting in his car as the evening chill filters in through the cracks, engine cooling, hands still on the steering wheel, thinking too hard about it sort of psyching himself out. Like an idiot.

Okay. Okay, he’s going to get out of the car. He’s going to get out of his goddamn left-hand drive rental 4WD, walk down the street, and into the Rooftop Deluxe Bar. Right now.

Right now ends up being almost four whole minutes later. He stuffs his hands into his pant pockets and hunches in on himself to stave off the cold. The bar will be warm, so he leaves his jacket in the car, and regrets every second of it until he’s through the doors and headed up the narrow stairs.

The light dips into something dimmer, interspersed with colour. There’s a DJ up at the booth, the music down semi-low, but still loud enough to drown out most of Colt’s thoughts. He slips his way past the few people milling around — it’s early enough into the night that the crowd is still sparse, but there enough that it takes him a few moments to make it over to the bar. He gets himself a lager and sips at it, letting his gaze drift over the people who are there.

At first, he thinks Driver isn’t here yet. A second glance tells him otherwise; tucked into a booth in the far corner, just right of the entrance, nestled along the back wall, already nursing a drink. He looks mostly content. And gorgeous. Colt feels jittery all over again.

Still, it’s a little late to chicken out. Moreso when Driver lifts his gaze and spots him across the room. Even though it’s dimly lit, Colt swears he can see Driver’s mouth quirk up into a small smile.

So, Colt makes his way over. He has to shimmy his way around people, holding his drink up above his head at times just to avoid spilling it. He slips into the booth next to Driver as quickly as possible, leaving a careful distance between them.

“Hey,” he says, a little louder than usual to be heard over the music and chatter.

Driver looks him up and down and raises an eyebrow. It takes Colt a second to realise why; then he’s hunching in on himself a little, embarrassed. He’d put on a tigher fitting shirt before heading out without thinking too much of it, but now he’s acutely aware of it, and the way his goddamn piercings show through it. God, he probably looks like an arrogant asshole.

“Oh. Um,” Colt pauses. Takes a sip of his lager and tries to come up with even the smallest shred of a reasonable explanation that doesn’t just amount to, well, I just thought why not, y’know? Instead, he just ends up lamely adding, “Yeah.”

A moment later, Driver let outs a quiet little huff. It’s the first proper flash of teeth Colt has gotten from the other man, mouth curved and amusement clear on his features. It’s enough to knock the breath out of him, but then he notices that Driver’s canines are sharper than most people’s and he suddenly feels a little dizzy about it.

“You look nice,” he says, because Driver does. He’s not in anything that fancy, really; neat casual, if anything. A simple shirt and slacks, spritzed with a cologne that Colt very quickly decides he likes. Honestly, he thinks Driver would look good in anything. “Handsome. You look handsome.”

“You too.” Driver’s voice is still soft, but he’s raised it just enough to still be heard clearly. Colt fiddles with his lager and tries not to look away, cheeks warm.

“Probably better than earlier,” Colt says. “I mean, uh. Yeah. Stunts don’t… Usually go like that for me.”

Driver smiles over his glass — Colt’s worked out that it’s whiskey — and says, “I figured.”

“I, uh, I’m used to better costuming. Like, more flexible?” Colt sips at his lager, wincing at his own words. “The cloak-robe-whatever. Not the greatest for a fall scene. But, hey, it looked good for the cameras.”

Driver’s smile widens a little. Colt’s rewarded with another glimpse of those sharp canines before he’s taking a sip of whiskey to obscure it. Colt almost wants to reach out and take the glass, to ask to be allowed to see them, but that’s definitely too much too fast.

So, instead, he asks, “You’re part of the big scenes, right? For stunts.”

“Yep,” Driver says. Colt finds himself trying to spot his canines when he speaks. “Or when they need extras.”

“The scene-makers,” he says wisely. Or, he thinks it comes off like that. “I mean, without enemies, there’s no hero, right? It’s like that, uh, that two colour thing, the black and white—”

“Yin and yang.”

“That!” Colt points at him a little excitedly. “Yeah. Gotta work together to make the thing happen, y’know? Worked with a lot of people like that, on, God, how many movies? Ryder’s done, like, a gazillion. And what he’s done, I’ve done. For the last uh, like, what, three years?”

Driver’s watching him with something a little like interest. Not quite leaning in, but something like it, his attention firmly on Colt.

“Before that, too. But that’s when I was… Y’know.” He makes a vague gesture. “Part of it. Crowd shots and all that shit. At least Ryder wasn’t up my ass about falling like he would or whatever, but God it was hard work either way.”

Colt pauses to take another sip of his drink. Now, Driver is leaning into his space a little, propped up with his forearm on the table.

“You work on a lot of movies before this one, though?” Colt asks, because he suddenly feels like he’s been talking a lot. “Any big hits?”

Driver shrugs. “A few.”

“Any good stories?” he presses.

“Not much to tell.”

“I dunno,” Colt says, leaning back against the plush cushion of the booth. “I just… Y’know. Don’t wanna talk too much.”

“I’m not that interesting,” Driver says, and Colt gets the distinct impression that he’s lying. “And I like listening to you.”

Colt stares at him for a long moment. “Okay.”

Driver smiles. Bright and with teeth. Colt smiles back, and tries not to lose his mind.

“Oh! Speaking of stunt work…”

He fumbles around a little in the dark. Finally, he stretches his right arm out and points to a spot just above his elbow. “Got a scar right here, from the first fall I ever did. Caught it on the edge of the window going down.”

Driver tilts his head, then reaches out to run his fingertips lightly over it. A small little shiver runs through Colt at the contact.

“Got a big one over my left rib, too,” he says, somewhat breathlessly. Driver’s gaze dips, as if he’s trying to approximate where it might lie under his too-tight shirt. Colt shuffles in his seat, turning himself somewhat sideways, and lifts his arm a little to feel for the scarring with his right hand. “There. You can, uh, you can feel it.”

Driver reaches out. It’s a slow, hesitant sort of thing, as if making sure he’s allowed; but Colt just shifts to accomodate it easier, moving his hand out of the way when Driver’s fingers brush his.

The way Driver touches him is gentle. His hand is smaller than Colt’s, thinner and slimmer fingers that he’s gingerly running over the scar tissue through Colt’s shirt. Colt barely dares to breathe.

“Was meant to be a prop weapon,” Colt says, just to fill the silence. “Wasn’t. I mean, obviously.”

“Does it still hurt?” Driver asks, eyes flicking up to meet Colt’s.

“Sometimes. You know how scars are.” He pauses. “I mean, you do stunts too — you have some scars, right?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

Driver withdraws his hand. Clumsily, because his hand brushes over Colt’s nipple, and he lets out a sort of half-startled moan at the contact.

“Some,” he answers, then, entirely too insincerely, tacks on, “Sorry.”

He’s looking at Colt a little like a predator would size up prey; like he’s a piece of meat. Colt feels hot under the collar, and chugs the rest of his drink about it. It doesn’t help.

It’s early into the night, far too early, but Colt finds himself saying, “Hey, wanna go outside for a bit?”

Driver’s gaze flicks downwards for a moment, lingering on Colt’s mouth, then up again. “Sure.”

When they leave the booth, Driver doesn’t finish his drink; he leaves it there, three-quarters empty, without a second glance.

They spend a while outside, just around the corner from the bar. Colt talks about all manner of things — movies, music, hobbies, his childhood — and Driver listens. He chimes in sometimes, but mostly keeps quiet, content just to let Colt talk.

The night air chill seeps in slow. At first, it’s a welcome thing, grounding him. Soon, though, Colt is hunching in on himself a little and regretting his choice to leave his jacket in his car. Finally, he finds himself speaking up about it.

“It’s cold. Wanna head back in?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar.

Driver’s gaze follows the gesture almost idly. He looks back at Colt and gives a small little shrug.

“Okay.” Colt was kind of hoping for a more conclusive reply. Whatever. He can work with what he’s given. “Y’know what, we’ll go to my car. It’s just down the road.”

Driver keeps pace with him the entire way. Colt fumbles in his pocket for a little too long to be cool to find his key fob, making a little triumphant noise when he finds it and then catches sight of the way Driver’s expression both softens, and grows a little amused.

Colt pulls open the back door and holds it there, with a dramatic little bow. Driver ducks his head, failing to hide his smile, and gets in. Colt follows after him, tugging the door shut behind him. He is, suddenly, very glad he parked right by a streetlight.

“Hang on—” Colt shimmies his way awkwardly inbetween the two front seats, stretching a little in order to reach the ignition. He slots the key in and turns it, hearing the engine come to life and shifting to switch the heating on. It’s going to kill his battery for sure, but he doesn’t really care about that right now.

His shirt rides up a little with the movement. Something cold presses to his skin a second later; Colt yelps, jerking in place and damn near pulling a muscle with the force of his flinch.

“Sorry.” Driver’s voice, soft as always.

Colt eases his way back into the cold backseat, just able to catch the tail end of Driver retracting his hand, and wills the warmth to circulate through the car faster. “There,” he says, maybe a little too triumphantly. “Should warm up in no time.”

Driver promptly takes his jacket off. Colt pointedly does not let his gaze linger entirely too long on Driver’s arms, or the patchwork of scars along them. Mostly small, little remnants of cuts, but some larger, more jagged and prominent.

Driver catches his eye and smiles, a light teasing little thing. Colt draws in a breath and finally works up the courage. He sets his hand — lightly, gently — onto Driver’s knee, leaning in a little to accomodate.

Driver’s expression changes to something even more bemused. He leans back into the seats and Colt’s almost worried he’s moved too fast. Then Driver’s hand is over his, gently urging him to move it, until it’s slid upwards to rest on his thigh instead, and Colt feels a little like he can’t think at all. Not fast enough, then.

Closer in, Colt can see a small smear of dirt on Driver’s cheek. Or maybe blood. He’s choosing to believe it’s dirt.

“You’ve got a little…” he gestures limply.

Driver raises a hand and entirely misses the spot.

“Hang on,” Colt’s voice dips into a murmur as he reaches for Driver, running his thumb over the other man’s cheek and says, “I got it.”

He applies a bit of pressure, but it’s hard to get the right leverage, so without really thinking about it he brings his other hand up to hold Driver’s face steady. Finally, he’s successful in wiping the small smear of dirt away.

It then occurs to Colt that he doesn’t really know what to do, now that he’s got Driver’s face in his hands. Probably withdraw — but Driver doesn’t seem to mind too much, tilting his head a little to press his cheek ever-so-slightly into Colt’s palm, so maybe not, actually.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly.

Driver tries to duck his head. Tries, because his face is in Colt’s hands, so it just sort of presses him into them more. Colt can still see the way his mouth twitches upwards at the corners, the way he tries to suppress it but that small little smile makes its way onto his face regardless. He is, decidedly, even more beautiful with it.

It’s hardly even a decision, really. To lean in slow, give Driver enough time to stop him if he doesn’t want it, then their lips meet and Colt is kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t. He’s crowding Driver against the door, pressing him firmer into the backseat, and everything is him, him, him.

And Driver is pulling him in. Fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, curling and pressing into the muscle of his back, dragging him down, urging him closer. Colt is all too willing to comply.

He swings a leg over Driver, effectively setting him in the other man’s lap. Driver nips at his lower lip with those blissfully sharp canines and Colt’s head spins. Colt slides a hand down to tug at the hem of Driver’s shirt, pulling it free from where it had gotten a little caught in his belt, then slips his hand underneath, and—

“Holy shit.” Colt pulls back, breaking the kiss while simultaneously pushing Driver’s shirt up with his hand to get a glimpse of the massive amounts of raised goddamn scar tissue on Driver’s stomach.

It’s ugly. Jagged and ripping right through pretty swirls of black and red ink that seems to stretch infinitely up Driver’s side. Colt fucking salivates.

“You have a tattoo,” he says stupidly, then meets Driver’s gaze again. “Do you have any more?”

“Yes.”

Holy shit. “How many? Total, I mean.”

“Four.”

Colt pushes at Driver’s shirt to follow the ink up, up, up. It stretches over his rib and almost intersects with the second that spans over his chest. It’s a skull of some variety; Colt takes a moment to recognise it as belonging to a deer.

“That’s two,” he says. “Where are the other ones?”

Driver pushes at him slightly. “Move.”

Colt slips halfway off of Driver’s lap, in time to see him kick up his leg left and pull his pant leg up a little, exposing a small scorpion inked by his ankle.

“And the last one?”

Driver unbuckles his belt. Colt blinks, mouth suddenly dry, as the other man shimmies his pants down to his knees and gestures at his inner thigh. The tattoo there is something Colt doesn’t quite recognise — a car engine part, maybe? Either way, he’s doing his best not to let his gaze wander from it. Or his mind. He’s really, really not thinking about how he can see the shape of Driver’s — fucking hell, he’s half-hard — dick through his boxers —

Okay, yeah, no. He’s definitely thinking about it.

Tentatively, Colt reaches out to trail his fingers over the tattoo. Lightly at first, but with a little more intent on a second pass, grazing along the line of Driver’s underwear. It earns him a soft little sound, something like a sigh, and Colt suddenly feels a little stupid.

He has an attractive man. In his car. Pants pulled down. With every indication that he wants Colt to be moving far faster than he is. So why is he hesitating? Because, as stated before, he is stupid.

So it’s only with mild hesitation that Colt slides his hand up to palm Driver’s cock through his boxers. This time, he’s rewarded with a groan and Driver dropping his head back against the seat.

And, yeah, Colt’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but, well. He figures he’ll pick it up as he goes along. For now, emboldened, he moves again, slipping his hand under the waistband to loosely wrap his hand around Driver’s cock.

Driver hisses, shifting to lift his hips a little just to tug his boxers down and, wow, okay, this is happening. Colt’s able to see the way he can easily fit all of Driver in his palm — he’s small, but not insanely so. But still noticeably enough. Colt tries not to drool about it.

Still, he hesitates a little. Strokes Driver nice and slow, watches his expression to gauge how he’s doing. Somehow, Driver manages to read him anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher and thicker than when he’d last spoken, “Like that.”

It’s more than enough encouragement for Colt. He picks up the pace a little, into something a little more rhythmic but still slow. He swipes his thumb over the tip and is awed by the soft, higher-pitched sound it pulls out of Driver.

It’s easy enough to make use of Driver’s pre-cum to ease the friction, picking up the pace a little more, unsure if Colt’s more enamoured with how his hand almost dwarfs Driver’s cock, or the way Driver’s reacting, all quiet little sounds and slight twitches. Colt leans in again to press his mouth to Driver’s, messier this time, more desperate.

Driver’s hand finds the back of Colt’s head and curls into his hair, holding him there. His other hand grips at Colt’s bicep. Colt presses into him greedily, rubs over the head of Driver’s cock just to swallow down the soft whimper it draws from him, and then groans himself when Driver nips at his lower lip.

Somewhere along the way, Driver gets impatient. His hips roll up to compensate for Colt’s slower pace, and Colt lets it happen for a moment before he finally relents and strokes Driver faster. Then, without warning, Driver is spilling over Colt’s hand, teeth sinking into Colt’s lower lip like he’s trying to ground himself with the action, and Colt’s head spins all over again.

Driver pulls away a moment later. Colt withdraws his hand carefully, watching the way Driver jolts a little. He can taste blood. Or, at least, he thinks he can. It better be blood, because, really, there’s not many hotter things Colt can think of than Driver biting him that goddamn hard when he came.

“Holy shit,” is all Colt manages to say, staring wide-eyed at Driver.

He’s pressed back against the seat now, head titled back and eyes closed, breathing heavy as he comes down from the rush. Colt finds himself greedily soaking in the sight, the way the position leaves the pale skin of Driver’s throat exposed, the way Colt can fucking see him swallow a second before he’s lifting his head again to look right back at him.

“Sorry.” Driver’s reaching out to lightly run his thumb across Colt’s lower lip. The touch stings, and he withdraws it with a small smear of blood.

“Don’t be.” Colt leans back a little, glancing at his dirtied hand. “Shit. Pretty sure I have wipes in the glovebox—”

Driver catches him by the wrist. He tugs Colt’s hand upwards, leans down and, with zero hesitation, presses his tongue flat to Colt’s palm. He’s fucking licking his own cum off of Colt’s fingers and Colt is entirely too into it.

“Okay, yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, that — that works.”

Finally, Driver releases his hand. His now clean hand. Shimmies himself back into his boxers and tugs his pants back up, much to Colt’s disappointment, only to then crowd into Colt’s space, pushing at his shirt and nipping at his jawline. Colt’s brain goes offline.

Driver’s hand finds Colt’s nipple, toying with the piercing he finds there, and Colt lets out a loud, slightly strangled moan. He can feel Driver grin against the side of his neck, those sharp canines lightly pressing into his skin. Colt is glaringly, achingly hard about it.

“Off,” Driver says, all soft and quiet, pushing at Colt’s shirt. Colt leans back to obey — then pauses, squinting.

“Hey, c’mon, you never did. No fair.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Colt scowls. Driver laughs, soft and quiet but no less bright and beautiful. Colt thinks, maybe a little stupidly, that, with more time, he could come to love this man.

Instead of dwelling on that thought, he just hastens to pull his shirt off. He’s pleasantly surprised to see Driver do the same — likely in response to his complaint. Colt only gets a brief moment to see the myriad of scars littering Driver’s torso and the way that tattoo across his rib curls through it all before Driver is on him again, mouthing down his neck, and Colt really, really can’t complain about it.

Then Driver goes lower, lower, lower, until he can lightly graze his teeth over Colt’s nipple, and his head spins all over again. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does, frankly, but it’s that barely-there sort of pressure, one of his canines digging slightly into the nearby skin when he tilts his head to flick out his tongue instead.

Instinctively, Colt grabs at Driver’s back. Something to try and ground himself. But his palms press into warm skin, into the mess of scarring there, and christ alive he feels a little insane about it. Driver grins against him, shifts a little to the left, and bites down. Hard.

It’s a sharp, stinging sort of pain. Colt downright fucking whimpers, gripping at whatever of Driver he can reach. A tongue, pressed flat to his skin. Driver pulls back, lips bloodied, and Colt can feel what he hasn’t lapped up slowly trail down towards his abdomen. Fuck.

And he’s moving down, fumbling with Colt’s belt. Colt lifts his hips to make it easier for Driver to pull both his pants and boxers down, hissing when Driver takes him in hand only for it to pitch into a loud moan when Driver leans down to get his mouth on him. He’s mouthing a little clumsily at Colt’s frenulum and the piercing there, toying with it with his tongue. Colt’s head drops back against the seat, shuddering.

When Driver finally takes him into his mouth, slow and careful to accomodate for the size, Colt bites down on his own tongue to stifle a whine. Driver’s pressing his tongue flat to the underside of Colt’s cock, his hand loosely wrapped around the base, swallowing around him, and Colt feels so, so dizzy.

God, Driver is good at this. His tongue flicks over all the right places, delves into his slit on the upwards motion and then traces a vein on his shaft on the way back down. Maybe it’s just the concussion talking, but everything feels like so much too much and yet also not enough at the same time.

Colt struggles to keep still. He twitches, then downright writhes when Driver pulls up to suck on the head of his cock, flicking his tongue over the slit. Colt’s so overwhelmed by it all that when Driver sinks back down again, he cums without warning, spilling into Driver’s mouth with a whimper — and then a whining little chant of, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Driver swallows it down without any hesitation. He pulls off of Colt, wipes at his mouth with a hand, and then, voice a little rough, parrots Colt’s own words back at him. “Don’t be.”

Despite himself, Colt reaches for Driver’s face, drags him back up and kisses him soundly. He can taste himself on Driver’s mouth, while his own lower lip still stings. It’s brief, but Driver pulls away smiling bright and wide, teeth on full display, and Colt’s chest feels warm.

Driver snatches up a shirt — not his own, that’s Colt’s shirt, the goddamn thief — and tugs it on. It’s a little too big on him, sitting loose around his shoulders and biceps, neckline hanging a little low. “Keys.”

“What?” Colt blinks at him, trying to process what’s going on. God, it feels like his mind is working at about half it’s usual speed.

“I’m driving,” he says, as if that’s the point Colt was confused on.

Colt almost tries to argue. Almost, because he straightens up and his head spins, so he opts to gesture in the direction of the driver’s seat and mumble, “In the ignition. For the heating.”

“Right.” Driver nods, just once, then settles down into the seat next to Colt, leaning into him. “Five minutes.”

It takes Colt a moment too long to realise Driver is giving him a timeframe. Then he smiles, soft and maybe a little fond, and shuffles to put an arm around Driver, pulling him in. “Five minutes, then.”