── ✰ Means to an End .ᐟ.ᐟ (Band!AU Sebastian x F!Reader)
♯┆He doesn't often fuck fans. He’s never really enjoyed the experience, upset at the thought of being nothing more than a notch in someone else's bedpost—bragging rights, at most, to the person underneath him.
rating: smut (18+), angst
cw: band AU, power imbalance, drug use, angst, he doesn’t care about you, condom, hair pulling, slight objectification
wc: 4,858
A/N: I like my men mean I suppose. Sebastian is very not loving in this fic, you have been warned!!!
Burning smoke turns his voice into a mere croak, lungs full of the self medication that he has no choice but to blow back against your face, given the small quarters he pulled you into moments before.
He doesn’t often fuck fans. He’s never really enjoyed the experience, upset at the thought of being nothing more than a notch in someone else’s bedpost—bragging rights, at most, to the person underneath him. It’s a bit shameful too, he thinks to himself, to take the easy way out. He could fuck around with anyone he pleases, but a fan? Simple, the tired choice, really. There’s no fun in it when the other party has already handed him the win from the get go.
Blinking slowly, he greets you with a forced smile. The very same one he pulls on stage, canines flashing in the dim light to demand attention. The bus is empty tonight spare his company, thank fuck. He’s needed a break for a while, and it seems as though you’ll suffice tonight.
His personal little means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less… Exactly what he needs tonight after the stress of the show, and then some.
Music still yet booms around the bus, another act well underway as his members remain hidden somewhere else… He hasn’t the slightest clue as to where, and the drug that makes its way throughout his system renders him beyond having the capacity to care.
“Want some?” He coughs into the air, trying to clear the crack in his voice as more smoke tumbles from between his lips, just for more burn to enter upon another inhale. Still, he offers the joint towards you, lit end burning brightly in the otherwise dark back room he’s tugged you into.
“No, um, it’s all right!” You giggle back, and he struggles not to roll his eyes at the girlish sound.
Nervous, of course. They always are, he assumes. As if he isn’t just some regular guy who somehow had a stroke of luck in the form of a stage and applause. He has half a mind to correct your starstruck position with the truth, but settles simply on a small sigh. An annoyance than can be misconstrued as exhaustion from the earlier performance, as opposed to his frustration over the fact that you’re no different.
Not that he expected much of you in the first place, but there’s always a twinge of hope. A silent beg for something new, something exciting, something beyond just a brief filling of the hole in his chest.
Well, you’re about to find out exactly who he is. Without the crowd, with no applause, reduced to the mere man he truly is.
He shrugs at your denial of drugs, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek to suppress the annoyance he feels over your giddy excitement. “Suit yourself.” He huffs, taking a final drag of smoke before placing the almost done joint in a nearby ashtray, letting the stink of weed circle around you to no doubt get you a little high regardless of your personal preference.
You’re perched between his wide open legs, sitting so sweetly on your knees, like you’re awaiting his every instruction. Holding your breath as he repositions to settle more comfortably, trying not to take up too much of his space in fear of… God, he has no fucking idea. And that irks him further—he wouldn’t have brought you back here if he didn’t want you here.
“What’re ya so scared of?” he forces some light laughter out, stretching his legs out around you even more to reveal the slow growing bulge hidden behind his tight jeans. “Won’t bite, promise.”
In an attempt to coax you closer, he juts his hips out a little more. Wagging the dog a bone, as it were, because more than anything, he hasn’t the energy to bite. Can’t do anything but entice you, not willing to work for what you so eagerly, thankfully, want to provide him.
A sweet distraction from the stress brought on from arguments with band mates. Not that you would know, or care, right?
Similarly, he couldn’t care less about you beyond what you can provide him tonight. No name necessary—all he cares about is the fact that you were practically begging for his attention after the show, bouncing those pretty tits for him to drool at, easily allowing him to sneak you off in the dark of the night to the shitty tour bus as if it were the most romantic act in the world. Bet you think you’re special, right? Out of everyone who attended the show tonight, he picked you, yeah? And though you’re a sight for sore eyes absolutely, you could just have easily been literally anyone else. The girl to your left, the man to your right. Wouldn’t have made a single difference to him; you were just the most immediate hole within reach.
“Right,” you laugh, anxious energy ruining his vibe a tad as you effectively force him into another show tonight, demanding he ease your nerves. “It’s just—Y’know, I… I can’t believe I’m here, y’know?”
Y’know, y’know, he mocks in his head. “Right,” he smiles placidly, helping you to submit to your wants and desires only because they align with his own in this exact moment. “So don’t ruin the opportunity, y’know?”
His mimicry is meant to be alluring, a game of back and forth his fans so often like to play—or so Sam has told him anyway, the resident fan-fucker that he is. But alas, Sebastian’s social battery is running severely low right now, no thanks in part to the prior argument with said fucker. Likewise, his patience only runs so thin, and he isn’t sure exactly how much time he has left to vent his frustrations through the use of your body, or how long the cloud in his head will last as a buffer between his stage presence and his actual personality.
Though it seems like Sam is right. The bait works, and you’re swiftly nodding back at him in a grotesque seeking of approval. “Of course I wouldn’t! I won’t, I promise!”
He’s had a hard time believing you thus far, but he gives you another chance. Even unzips his jeans for you, letting his soft bulge spill out a little from the new opening.
“Come and show me then.”
The bed he’s on is small. Much too tiny for the sort of activities he needs right now, but it’ll suffice. He hasn’t the time to search for a better location, nor does he necessarily think you deserve much else besides the dingy back end of the bus. He’s there, what more could you want? That’s how fans work, right? The dehumanisation, limiting him to his presence and naught else.
He may as well do the same to you.
Upon his direction, you finally move into action. Maybe you’re able to pick up on the slight edge of frustration leaking into his words because he’s never been the best at hiding his emotions, no matter how much media training he’s been subjected to. But he’d like to think it’s because you’re on the same wavelength as him. Raring to complete this transaction, keen to brag about fucking the favourite member of your favourite band to your friends when you get back home, adamant that you’re telling them the truth when you retell exactly how you start crawling towards him, flashing a cheeky glimpse of cleavage that convinced him earlier to give in to his more selfish desires. The primal urge to fuck his feelings out, no matter the ethics involved in fraternising with fans. Sam does it all the time, so why shouldn’t he indulge when the opportunity presents itself?
As it so often does.
You’re no different from the rest, but he nonetheless appreciates the fact that you’re giving in now. Edging closer to his half sat position, half laying back against the wall the bed is bolted to. “Atta girl,” he encourages you, a more genuine smirk tugging at his lips now that you’re playing nice. Maybe the stink of weed is finally taking hold of you, prompting you closer, all the way until you straddle his thighs, leaving his hardening cock to pulse and throb for more pressure as you tease him with a slow sway of your hips. “See? S’not so bad, right?” his hands grip loosely at your waist, an attempt to keep you pinned in place, but he harbours little strength to offer you anything more obsessive.
“Sorry, I’m just a little nervous…”
“I know…” he coos naturally, clouded by the drug as he focuses on helping you come out of your shell. Putting in the minimum amount of work required to open you up for him, so that he can selfishly get what he wants before having to throw you out for the night. “I’m no different than anyone else.” Just like you, he keeps to himself.
“That’s not true…” You lean closer to him, a strong smell of perfume filling the air around him to rival the smoke, and he can only imagine that you picked the scent out specifically for a pipe dream situation like this. “You’re special to me.” Your nails rake playfully down his clothed chest, and he has to fight back a yawn at the tired excuse in the hopes of keeping you perched on his lap.
What’s worse is that he fears that if he opens his lips to speak, he’ll only end up telling you off for the obvious flattering lie, so he instead hums noncommittally as he tries to focus solely on the feeling of your weight on his thighs… How nice and warm you are in his hold, a cute little thing with the hots for him simply due to his influence.
Is it so wrong to use you if you’re practically begging for it?
The power imbalance ordinarily makes him feel gross, icky with guilt at even the thought of exerting it against anyone. Which is why he smoked the weed, just a little help to lower his standards, forget his morals just for one night. Just another night for him, but maybe the best one for you. He’s yet to see how memorable you’ll make it for him, though he hasn’t got much faith for now.
“Don’t have much time.” He gulps, emphasising his urgency with a barely there pat on your ass.
“Right, yeah. Course.”
“Condoms are under the pillow—”
Before he can politely ask you to grab one, you’re already reaching over for his benefit. And if anything, he’s just happy to have picked a submissive one tonight. The thought alone of having to deal with foreplay, of pretending that this is something more than it already is, gives him a headache. You’re probably wet enough already, right? Soaked right through the second he brought you into the bus, knowing full well what his intentions were when he showed you to the furthest bed. He doesn’t even have to try in order to prepare you—existence is all it takes tonight, right?
In the meantime, he prepares himself by pulling his erection out from the fly of his boxers. Letting it cool in the air as your soft gasp at the sight of it has more hot precum rolling down the length of it. Just human natures, pure instinct, and nothing about you specifically. He tends to it idly, gently tugging on it once or twice as you busy yourself with ripping the packet open—eagerly, may he add. Watching as it slips from your hold until you resort to using your teeth for the job.
The discarded package is thrown to the side, cock still yet in his hand as he wags it towards you, red hot tip leaking and begging for your attention.
For any attention at this point.
He briefly wonders if you’ll tell your friends all about your fumbling about too, but you deprive him the chance of dwelling on the thought for too long, heeding his warning of future company and time constraints by placing the end of the condom right on top of his tip, and he groans in both frustration at the feeling—bareback is infinitely better, but is he fuck knocking up a fan of all girls—and enjoyment at the fact that he’ll soon be able to rid the anxiety building in his chest.
The cooling effect of the condom does little to calm his lust—pure unadulterated lust, nothing else harboured for the moment—especially when you pout so prettily back at him like that. Seeking more approval for the way you gently, slowly, roll it down his whole length. Trying to keep the tension of teasing alive and well in spite of the lack of time he has with you, leaving just a peek of his base free from the constraint of safety as he finally lets out a shaky sigh once you let go and flutter your lashes back at him expectantly.
You are rather pretty. Makes it easier to stay hard at the very least.
“Thanks,” he breathes, hot and heavy, unintentionally flirting with the simple appreciation he offers you if the way you flush and hide from his half-lidded drug induced gaze is anything to go by. He’s sensitive too, much more than normal, thanks to the weed. Could probably get off just as well if he had the energy to jack himself off in private, but the warmth of another body was too enticing to pass up on, especially with the way you practically skipped right behind him into the tour bus. “I uh— Are you ready?”
He couldn’t care less about whatever fantasy version of him you must have built up in your head through viewing him in interviews, music videos, live on stage… He only cares about getting what he wants in the easiest manner possible. Though he assumes he doesn’t have to check in with you, his head tilting at the way your thighs rub together provocatively, coaxing another fat bead of precum to try and escape his new confines. Instead smearing nicely against his tip as he instinctively reaches out to grab at his erection, feeling the weight of every throb your coquettish actions pull out of him.
“Yes. More than.” You state plainly, clear and carrying some sort of faux confidence he decides to exploit.
“Good,” his hands once again find home on your hips, tapping at them lightly as an attempt at encouragement to get closer. “C’mon then,” he rasps, shuffling down the sheets to bob his cock closer to your core. “Need it.”
Not you. It. The mere act of sex itself as opposed to you as a person. The sole worth you provide him right now. Hidden only behind a short skirt and thin panty barrier he intends on penetrating if you don’t hurry up with dragging it to the side, just before you reposition as he wordlessly asks for. Almost as if you planned for this exact situation more than the concert itself, right? Maybe all of his fans feel the same way. That’d be embarrassing for them, he muses to himself.
It’s not the most comfortable position given how tiny the bed is compared to two bodies, but the weight you offer him on top is at least appreciated with a dry hum. Pleasantly surprised at best, amused at worst. At any rate, this is the extent of what you can offer him at the moment, and he wastes no time in exploiting your timid efforts for his own selfish needs. Flipping your skirt up with ease, chewing on his lip right at the slight sliver of pussy you allow him to see. And though under any other circumstance—perhaps with a lover, and not someone like you—he’d appreciate the teasing a little more. Would enjoy dragging the moment out for as long as his weak heart could handle; but he simple can’t wait any longer. Driven purely by lust, he taps his cock against your mound once or twice in a begging to hurry the fuck up, smearing beads of precum over the condom until your barrier is fully removed to the side, and he’s instead tapping his tip against your warm, soaked little sit.
Fucking fans, he internally chastises you. He’s got no idea how you’re not somehow mortified about your actions tonight. Gross.
Though the fact that you are in fact already this ready for him is a bonus. Means he doesn’t have to put any more effort in, tilting his hips without a word to angle his condom covered cock down towards your hole, one hand digging his nails into the fat of your thighs to help you sit up a bit to help accommodate his length.
“Sit.” He breathes, not intending on commanding, but you seem to misconstrue his words as such anyway in one fell swoop. Forcing him into shooting upright, briefly, before falling back down onto the cheap sheets once your ass is plush against his thighs. Sopping wet, aiding in the stretch his cock imprints inside of your eager hole—you could at least pretend not to be so desperate. It’s not a good look.
“Fuck me,” he rasps, giving himself a second to adjust to the feeling of your vice grip tight cunt, imagining that part of it must be a genuine attempt not to let him leave, and that you simply cannot be this fucking tight right off the bat. His ego won’t allow it. “Are you—” he swallows thickly, biting his tongue. “You ready?”
You surely look it. Flushed cheeks, lips parting in an attempt to breathe through the girth he provides, a moan caught behind your tongue because he hasn’t given you permission to move, let alone speak yet.
But he doesn’t have the time for any allegations of anything sinister, so he’s obliged to ask, despite how enthusiastic you are about taking his cock.
You nod as quickly as you can, and he notices a small gulp, a little swallow to try and steel yourself for whats about to come. He doesn’t intend on playing too roughly, but you have wasted enough of his time already.
With all the respect you currently deserve, he draws his hips back as much as he can—which really isn’t much at all, given how flush you are against him—before snapping them back against you, resulting in a slight bounce that he immediately takes advantage of by repeating the action again and again, his palms gripping to your waist to keep you steady enough to take his cock, because he’s selfish and doesn’t so much care for your safety as he does for his own pleasure. Which means you must stay put, besides the bouncing he’s fucking you into, otherwise his cock might slip free and he doesn’t have the patience to hump his way back inside.
It’s not like he hears you complaining about his greedy attitude anyway. Immediately holding onto his sweat soaked top for dear life, mouth hanging open now as hushed moans threaten to slip past your tongue, hot breath fucked out of you with his sudden fast pace; now that he’s started, he hasn’t a hope in stopping. Not when it feels so good to be using you like this, an external show of his frustration, his disgust in how hopeless you are for him. What was he even mad about in the first place…?
Oh, right. Sam and Abi taking a stand against some bullshit decision for the band—God, he’s still so riled up about it. Enough to just…
Without thinking, a hand raises to the back of your head, shaky in the vice hold it soon takes of your hair as he fucks faster at the argumentative memory. He can’t help but to feel like this is a low point in his life, wrapping your hair between his bruised knuckles, giving you as much of a knowing look as he possibly can without his eyes rolling to the back of his skull when you ride his cock like that, even if forced into the motion from how mean his unfair thrusts are. Like he’s mad at you. But you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Just a needy, pathetic little fan, who wants nothing from him besides his cock. So you nod, like he’d expected, before he tightens his grip on your hair and he pulls.
The neck his action reveals has him drooling, just a little. Spurred on by how tight your little cunt gets at his roughness, cheap bed promising to break under the harsh squeaks his humps make. But he’s gotta hand it to you—you sure do look pretty when getting fucked.
“Takin’ me— ah, taking it so well,” he corrects himself through breathless grunts. Licking his lips absently as he appreciates the view of you without your face front and centre, so that you’re unable to watch him enjoy himself ruin your tight hole. “That’s it, atta girl—” he encourages, just to keep you nice and tight and wet for him, cock throbbing at the feeling of your slick dripping down to the sheets under his ass.
He’s not entirely sure if the dizziness he’s experiencing is from the weed or from how hot the back room gets when he’s fucking you as hard as he can, heaving with panted gasps for air as you continue to bounce up and down his fat cock, letting him set the pace with heavy, eager humps for more. Of you? Surely not, more catharsis. Tonight’s previous annoyance slowly ebbing away with every well timed thrust, fucking as deep as he possibly can to finally make those pretty moans spill from your parted lips, a sound that forces his mind further away from the band to instead focus on the present.
At the way you grip his cock like a champ, even with the condom on he can feel your walls fluttering around him, like you’re trying to prove yourself to him or something. Even as you struggle to take the pace he fucks you at, your grip slipping once or twice as you instead rely on him to keep you upright with his nails digging gently into your scalp and the other steadfast on your hip. Pushing you down onto his cock so that not much gets to leave before he’s already slamming back up into you, channelling all of his restless energy into precise, brutal thrusts that leave you squeaky.
He hasn’t the willpower to be annoyed at the sounds you make when his cock seems to easily enjoy them. Shuddering precum from his tip, begging to mark you from the inside out—not that he’d ever grace you with such niceties, but the frustration builds in his balls as he instead takes to fucking you faster. Harder, tugging on your hair one last mean time before returning to your hips, and lifting you into the air. Just a little, enough so that you’re kneeling instead of sitting, allowing him complete control to ruin you some more. Fuck his shape into you so that no one else seems to fit, so that you’ll spend forever wishing that he’d just pick you, trying to replace the feeling of tonight for as long as you live because nothing could ever compare to fucking him, right? To live out every fans dream, taking his fat cock over and over again, able to reach out and touch his chest, his neck, his cheek—right before he tugs his face away under the guise of a rough moan.
Besides, it’s much easier to swallow his guilt over the act of fan fucking when he imagines you as a realistic toy. Just something for him to play with and nothing more, his rhythm slipping up once or twice as your volume increases, some sort of mantra consisting solely of his name that goes straight to his cock escapes you, heels planted firmly against the sheets to help leverage his hips up and up, not once providing you with a break because this is all about him and how he feels.
Which is good, mind you. So good, a string of curses escaping him at the way you just… Just let him use you like this. Like you’re happy to do so, biting down on your bottom lip with cracked pleads for more, clinging to him with sheer desperation as he seeks more of that selfish pleasure you’re so eager to offer him. Small, tight little hole wrapping around him so perfectly, so nice and snug, leaving him a little breathless as short huffs and groans are all that crawl up his throat. No words are needed beyond please, yes, oh my God, not when your cunt is doing all the talking for him. Contracting around him, so obviously on the cusp of feeling better than you ever have—and likely ever will—that the intense milking grip of your hole around his fat cock has him struggling to hold on. Using your heated skin for stability, praying that the bed doesn’t break under the weight of his fast fucks, he tuts quietly at your inability to last long yourself.
Not that he expected anything more of you, but he nonetheless fucks harder at your signals. Thrusting deeper, keeping you pinned in place with rough hands as he forcibly bounces you up and down, staring directly at your tits as they bounce with you, pretty cleavage almost hypnotising him as he concentrates on the way your cunt takes him. Wet squelches of your enjoyment echo in the small room around him, the bed under him violently begging for a break as he only pays attention to himself, fucking at a tempo that suits him, a greedy grunt driving him forward as he thrusts a couple more times for good measure.
And even as he’s cumming, spilling the accumulation of frustration and pity into the condom you so nicely adorned him with earlier, he’s still fucking into you. Small stuttered thrusts to completion, milking himself empty inside of your useful cunt until he’s completely spent, only letting go of the iron grip he has of you once he’s sure that he’s done, and even then he’s still circling his hips idly once you’re settled back down on his lap.
He’s not sure if you came too, and he’s certainly not fussed either way. Catching his breath in the now stuffy room, a wave of disgust washes over him at the lovesick little look you send his way. Only he hasn’t the strength at all now to mimic your affection, abstaining from such niceties to instead squeeze his eyes shut with a throw back of his head.
He’ll blame the weed, he decides. I was under the influence, that’s all.
“Was it good?”
Even you don’t assume to speak so highly about yourself. It’s not I, but rather it.
“Yeah,” he sighs, shifting his hips away from you in a plead for you to get up off of him, which you thankfully understand without any complaint, allowing him to remove and tie the condom off to the side. The sight of his spent seed grosses him out, a welling of frustration tightening around his chest. “Thanks.” He manages to huff out.
“Sure,” you plop back down onto the bed, waiting a second for him to lazily look over at you, and then down at your lower half, before settling back at on your face. “I uh, I suppose I should get going, right?”
Thank fucking God.
“Right, the crew should be back soon and…” And, well, you know. He doesn’t want to entertain you any more than he already has.
“Yeah, no, totally. I get it!” You smile genuinely at him, and all he feels in your regard is shame. Some regret too, maybe. “Lemme just…”
Behind you is some miscellaneous items brought on by himself, Sam, Abi, and God knows who else. Some leftover makeup from previous fans no doubt, empty alcohol cans, and more of the like. But most importantly to you is a small notepad and pen.
Sebastian rolls his eyes when you aren’t looking.
“Here,” you hand him the obvious phone number once scribbled down, a sickening little heart underneath it as if it’d help your case. “N-not that I wanna assume or anything but…”
“Thanks.” He takes the paper passively, yawning as he stretches out on the ruined sheets in an effort to get you gone sooner.
An awkward silence fills the air before you finally take the hint, and once again thank him for his time before heading out. Though he waits until he hears the bus door open before calling a halfhearted “Stay safe getting home!” to you, knowing full well that the almost forgotten about nicety will likely make your night.
The door slams shut soon after—it always does, cheap fucking bus—but it’s the nicest sound he’s heard all night.
Warnings! My opinion. Little bit suggestive but nr.
Alex
- 6’0 / 182cm
I think he’s pretty tall & likes to tease you if you’re even half an inch shorter than him. Definitely dangles things over your head.
Elliot
- 6’4 / 193cm
People usually hc that Elliot is the tallest bachelor, he definitely does give tall vibes. If you’re significantly shorter than him, he loves patting your head & bending down to kiss you.
Harvey
- 6’4 / 193cm
I think he’s roughly the same height as Elliot, maybe a bit taller. Harvey just seems like someone who would be genuinely inhibited by his height, definitely hits his head on doorways & trips over his own legs.
Sam
- 5’8 / 173cm
I don’t think Sam is SHORT but he’s definitely not tall. He’s just too baby for me to see him as any taller than the other bachelors. Still thinks he’s 10 ft taller than you and throws you around like it’s nothing. My semi short king <3
Sebastian
- 5’10 / 177cm
This one might be a hear me out because I see people either hc Seb as super short or super tall. I definitely see him more on the tall side - very lanky. He’s got a very long, slender build in my head. Loves loves loves size difference, whether you’re bigger or smaller than him.
Shane
- 5’7-5’8 / 170cm
Short king. I hc him as shorter than avg but I could also see him being closer to Sam’s height. I just think he’s on the stout side, short and a little chubby. Very dad bod. If you’re taller than him, he definitely calls you his stallion unironically.
a little something for the wonderful @annetastic1981a 💜💜
thank you so much for your kindness, support, and friendship over this past year. you are one of my favorite people in the world, and i appreciate you more than i can properly say.
