pleasepleaseplease elaborate on this please pleasepleaseplease
(also i hope you're doing well!💕)
related to my tags on this post
"#the *guttural* groan that came out of me #this is a professor who spends all fucking day in control #the smartest man in the room #always making decisions for the department #instructing students #and when he comes home? #oh baby #look at how his chin sits on his arm and how his eves look up? #he needs to let go of control after all that #and he does it so well #truly a distinguished sub #sebastian stan"
(Thanks! I'm presently trying not to lose my mind as the school year starts coming to a close 😅)
I—
I just think that he needs balance. He needs to come home, dragging himself, worn down, and his brief case, worn-out, through the door; he needs to loosen his tie, unknot it, and slide his hand over the length of it, pulling it out until it's open and limp around his neck, sighing, shuffling, he paws at his shirt buttons, exposing the neck of his undershirt and the chest hair teasing just above the fabric, rumbled and undressed. He's staring at the floor the whole time. He's running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, too. Slow. His hands heavy. His knees feel a little weak already—stiff, really, they don't want to bend. He's just so, so tired.
Yet, the moment he finds himself in a shadow? Your shadow. With you standing in front of him, silently having slipped from within your home? Oh, baby. It's over.
He's melting.
His knees just gone. Giving out. Sllllowly sliding down onto the floor, knees hitting the hardwood—normally, you'd have a pillow or cushion for him, he's too old to go bone to wood, but he wants it, he needs it right now. The contact. The immediacy. With his forehead against your chest and then dragging down your stomach, he's hiding his handsome face against your hip, burying himself, shutting his eyes, disappearing his crows feet and laugh lines and everything that reminds you just how much he holds in his hands, how much he controls, how—
“You finished with everything?”
Sluggishly, barely moving, he nods, fingers releasing his work bag, letting it be shoved aside.
“Good,” you thread your fingers through his thick, greying hair. “That's good, baby.”
And he, just, exhales. Everything. There go all the thoughts about work, about his fellow faculty members, about his students, about anything but this. Right here. Right now.
You want him here.
Only here.
Now.
“You're so good,” you fist your hand in the thick hair at the back of his head, tugging just barely. Not hurting him, not at all, only making your presence known. A little pressure, probably right where he wants it, relieving one of those all-too-common tension headaches he gets. “And since you're done with everything…”
You trail off, knowing just how he'll react—knowing and waiting for him to stare up at you, eyes already gone hazy and unfocused.
He does.
He stares, eyes glazed and mouth static, resting lazily, slightly open. He is a picture. For as hard as he works, years of practice allow him to play hard, too. He is so delightfully, erotically well-versed in the art of surrender.
“Uh-huh?” He mouths, nearly silent.
“You deserve to relax, honey." Your fingertips press against his scalp, massaging him, watching his eyes satisfyingly start to roll. "You stay right here. Don't move. I'm gonna go get your key,” you can't help but smirk, breaking your calm, cool dominance with just an edge of cruelty; fucking sue you, you enjoy knowing half of what makes the bulge in his well-ironed slacks as opposed to what all the students who lust over him think. “And we'll take you out, how's that sound?”
Wordlessly, already going non-verbal and sweet, sliding fast, Sebastian shudders. His pink tongue flicks out, over his lips.
“Hmm?” You prompt.
He nods.
Not a yes or no question, but you enjoy the answer regardless. That sounds like yes. He's so easy. It's cute.
“You didn't even hear the rest of it, baby,” you chuckle, dark and rich, just teasing. Always teasing. Fingers tracing the shell of his ear, pressing into the prominent bone behind it, you fucking enjoy the way he leans into your touch. Needy like a cat—history with its owner well-established, knowing exactly what's coming, where they'll scratch. “You don't need to hear the rest of it.” You tell him. You don't ask. “You just want it. All of it. Anything and everything.”
His lips quiver, “uh-huh.”
“I know. I know. I wanna tell you, though." You press your thumb to his sweet, sweet mouth, surrounded by greyed stubble. "Look at that handsome face. I wanna see your face.”
“O-okay,” his cheeks flush, burning, obviously struggling not to push back into your upper thigh, hiding himself away under the praise.
“I'm gonna unlock you," you explain, teeth sharp in your speech. You can't help wanting to devour him with a spoon. "I'll be nice, you deserve it. I won't even wait until you're as hard and aching in your cage as you get—even though you do look fucking incredible when you get there. You know that, don't you?” You squish his dimpled chin between your fingers and thumb. He pouts. Fuck. “You get all teary-eyed, red in the face, and you squirm so much. You look desperate. Like you'd do anything to get out but more to stay in. I know how much you like your cage.”
He whimpers.
“But, I won't do that.” You could laugh, maybe moan, at the way his face changes. Heartbroken and yet drooling for more, hanging on your every word. It's heady. “I'm not gonna make you hurt like that... I'm gonna take your cock out and I'm gonna put you over the fucking bench, right here, right where you come home every day, right where you bend over to take off your shoes, right where anyone could knock and walk right in and see you—your slacks and underwear down to your ankles, your shirt pushed up, your freed cock dripping over the leather cushion, fighting not to squirm too much and make a mess. You wouldn't do that.”
He whimpers, just barely. Of course. He doesn't want to be in the way, he doesn't want to be messy, he wants to be good. He wants it so bad it hurts. He wants it to hurt, too. He wants so much. He's so greedy, still seeking any sensation after decades of curating his tastes. You love it.
“You wanna be good. You want to take it when I spank your pretty ass red, don't you.”
“Yes.” His voice has gone hoarse with desire, urgently answering your rhetorical inquiry.
“You wanna take hit after hit until you just can't stand it—until you're so sure you're gonna cum just from the pleasure of my hand on your ass, you haven't gotten to cum all week after all.” You have to bite your lip. You can't not. God. “You're so sensitive, all revved up, poor sub. You just can't stop yourself.”
You lean down, closer, rubbing his back, whispering, “you won't see it coming when I spread you open and spit on your hole. You won't even fucking know what's hit you when I smack your used, stretched open hole—” his cock being caged, his orgasms being denied, has never stopped you from fucking his hole “—and get lower and lower and lower, until I hit your poor, neglected cock.”
He moans.
And suddenly, you stiffly grip the back of his neck, scruffing him, “and you're gonna cum so hard the neighbors will hear you scream.” You rattle him with the grip you have on his neck, voice inagruable to soft, contrasting just to drive him crazy, “maybe they'll come knocking after all, hmm?”
Sebastian stares up at you, eyes completely glazed over, cock exactly as aching and hard in it's confines as you said you wouldn't let it get, oops, as his soft, open lips shape, “yuh-yeah, yes, please. Please.”
Poor sebastian must don't even know what it mean, but me being my nasty self, just everything about him is triggering
Yeah ! Exactly ! That red bandana ! That handkerchief bandana that spot my eyes and bothering me so much because it just there! And he is wearing it innocently for fashion purpose ofc.
But but... I read it somewhere something like this about those innocent handkerchief/bandana....
Hmmmmm..
And for the over all meaning for the color..
I know he is innocent and no way he means that cute little red bandana anything than just accessories. But since my mind already deep in the gutter. I figured I should just ask for some company.
Anyway sebastian I know you didn't wear that red bandana to show that you are a desperate bottom hoping for some good fisting.. so for that I am sorry.
Yeah I’m new here, so why no to dom/sub? I thought that Seb looks pretty subby in your fics. He even said that he likes dominant women in his recent interview haha. It’s a surprise that you don’t like it. You think it is offensive or abusive?
I don’t think it’s offensive or abusive, it just drives me nuts.
People cherry pick things we “know” about Chris and Seb, and use them to construct this strange dichotomy that we see in almost every Evanstan fic on Ao3.
I see Chris’s “Sebastian is the sweetest kid on the planet” and “I’m a control freak” used a lot to demonstrate why Chris is a “dom” and why Seb is a “sub.”
The long and short of my opinion is:
Public character traits are not always indicative of the way you like to get your bone on. Being physically stronger, preferring to top, setting boundaries, and liking rough sex does not make someone a dom. Getting fucked, enjoying pain or powerlessness, appearing feminine, and being attentive to your partners needs does not make you a sub. Acting as an all-knowing authority figure in a romantic relationship is NOT THE NORM, and should not be considered such.
That doesn’t mean I think writers shouldn’t create dom/sub universes, because I do. I think people should create what makes them happy. It’s just a very tiresome trope in this fandom in particular.
Some totally original, absolutely unique evanstan press-tour sexual frustration smut with hair-pulling and daddy kink discovery 👀
Sebastian has never, ever been on a press tour that drags on and on for longer than this fucking one has. How long has he been here? Years? Yeah, he'd believe that. He loves Marvel, he really does--he gets to work with people he loves, he gets to play a character he and the fans are obsessed with, and it means people within the industry are actually starting to reach out to him, giving him more of those magical, big phone calls, but...
Oh my god, are the press tours relentless.
Isolated hours of six- sometimes seven-day work weeks from sunup to sundown, trapped in the same miniature hotel room, talking in circles. The tours are no fucking joke. Sebastian listens to himself talk and drives himself crazy, nevermind the fresh interviewers who come and go on a carousel, asking the same questions. There's only one way to break up the frustrated monotony--
Slam!
Crash!
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Seb doesn't remember when it started. Or, how it started. Any of it. The unending hours of work all blend into one memory that is truly useless, smeared and messy without any delineation in time. But throughout it, Chris has been getting progressively more and more handsy.
Glimpses of his deliciously tactile, petting hands play on repeat through Sebastian's mind, turning him into a tangled knot vibrating with energy. He. is. so. fucking. wound. up. Chris' flirting, provocative hand feathering over Seb's hip, walking just behind him, arms swinging, a half-step too close to be casual. Only they know and sparks accordingly jump between their bodies, begging them to reach out and actually touch when they can't. The fizzing chemistry lies just beneath their skin, tickling them with hair-raising static. Chris' palm warm and big on the small of his back, guiding Sebastian through doors and rounding corners as if he needed to be steadied. If anything, his hand unsteadies Seb in the best way, turning his knees to water. Chris' hand landing heavy and joyful over Sebastian's chest with every laugh, his alluring mouth curled mischievously, daring Sebastian to lean forward and just fucking kiss him. Chris' hands authoritatively, seductively fixing Seb's tie in the middle of a sea of flashing cameras. The only thing that blinds him is the hot flash of his fingers, strong and thick and painfully touching him over clothes rather than beneath him. Chris' strong hands reaching across between fans, interviewers, and handlers alike. Just to touch.
Touching, touching, touching.
But never touching how Sebastian wants him to.
And the handsier his frustrated, frisky boyfriend has gotten, the closer they've gotten to getting in trouble. Dirty looks from handlers and assistants; playful, loving jabs from co-stars; dangerously close posts from fans.
Chris is trouble.
Chris has him in trouble right now. It's just the two of them, stranded together on the desolate island paradise of their hotel room bed, clothes strewn across the wooden floor ocean all around them. Bared entirely to his lover's devouring gaze like the burning sun, Sebastian blushes and trembles, sizzling where he's pinned beneath Chris' troublesome, immense strength--his broad, muscled body is fucking him into the bed lasciviously. Every powerful, intense thrust of his cock inside him--filling him up so good his toes curl--has the hotel room headboard crashing into the wall rhythmically. Chris doesn't dare stop, driving home hard.
God.
Harder.
Fucking fuck, it feels incredible.
"Ah! Ah! AH!" Sebastian's involuntary moans spill out of him, wet and thick like drool down his chin, with every collision of the headboard to the wall. They're going to get a noise complaint, but it's the furthest thing possible from Sebastian's mind. There is absolutely nothing in Sebastian's mind. How can there be? There is only one thing filling him up. Something big, thick, and hot--
Sebastian shudders so hard it may as well be a convulsion.
All of his muscles vibrate as he's plucked by dexterous fingers, knowing just where and how to strum to leave Sebastian singing. He is an instrument. Chris is a filthy master, so good he could play blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back (and what a sight that would be). His hand that's not biting bruises into his waist is wound tight in his hair. Tighter. Sebastian moans louder, the hot, sharp static of his hair getting pulled drips erotically down his scalp to his spine, pooling low, low, low in his guts.
Pinned and pulled, Sebastian arches shallowly, squirming as much as he can, the wet, aroused gurgle in his throat pure pleading. To go with his moans, the sound of Chris' hips against his ass is harsh. It stings. He's fucking him so hard. It feels so, so fucking good. He doesn't know what to do. It's making him crazy.
Holy fuck.
Chris shifts his hand from his waist, sliding it down his body, tight and dangerous as a boa constrictor, gripping him, handfuls of fever-hot skin in his hands--all of Sebastian in his hands--and grabs his ass. He pinches it, kneads it, and slaps it a little.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Sebastian malfunctions. Those hands. Smacking him around. God. He just can't fucking help but slur, moaning, no, wailing open-mouthed into the pillows, "gnngh, ohfuckyess. YES!"
He likes it rough.
God help him, he likes it rough.
He's never gotten Chris to get this rough before. They've only been doing this: sneaking around, almost getting caught, unable to help themselves and stop, though, on set and on press tours. They haven't--he hasn't told him that--
Oh.
Fuck.
He cries out again 'cause Chris is fucking groping him, fucking him still but grabbing his ass too, pulling his hair harshly while he smacks his stinging, bright-red ass with all that hot, gym-honed strength. He can't fucking stifle himself. Sebastian tries to bite down on his lip and swallow his embarrassingly obvious sounds. He loves fucking Chris any way he gets to. He'll take anything. He just--
He can't help it.
His eyes roll back into his head. If he could be thanking any god listening (or watching, watching them, watching him get it good🥴🥴) for whatever frustration got into Chris to make him fuck him like this, he would be. But he can't. That's for later when Chris isn't still getting wilder. Rougher. Getting rougher. Harder. Thrusting with all his solid weight behind it. It feels so fucking good.
He can't.
Every place Chris lays his big, heavy hands on Sebastian's naked body feels like fire. Seb is melting beneath the heat. The scorching touch feels like a demand: pay attention. Pay attention. Pay attention. Feel this. Feel how good I fuck you. Feel how hot and thick I am inside you, taking you. Pay attention and feel it. Feel it. Pay attention.
Sebastian has been out of his mind this entire fucking press tour. He hasn't felt anything; it's all rushed over him. Now he is glazed--submerged in sensation. Lust. Pleasure. It's everything.
Pay. Attention.
Chris slaps his ass again, ripping a whorish sound from Seb's throat. Chris doesn't care how good it already feels 'cause he can make it better. He goes in for the kill between his legs, gripping his hips so mean and pulling him back onto his dick. Fucking him so fucking good that he's no longer flat on the bed but he's in Chris' lap and Chris is bouncing him on his cock and Sebastian is melting back, head lolling on his shoulder, short of breath, weakly pawing at anything within reach, slurring, "ohmygoddaddy!" without even fucking realizing it.
Chris takes it in stride, fucking running away with it. Both of his hands squeeze greedily at his waist, gripping so tight his index fingers and thumbs almost touch--holding and possessing all of him as he chuckles, out-of-breath and hot as hell, "who's your daddy, baby?"
Sebastian could fucking die.
"You," he mewls.
"Say it," Chris demands, their slick lips dragging against each other, sloppy with lust and spit. Mouth to mouth.
For as much of a workaholic, busy-body as Sebastian is, likely spending too much time for his own health being stressed-out of his mind, I can not for the life of me stop thinking about what happens when it's Chris dealing with such feelings of being overwhelmed, especially the first time he feels that way when in a steady relationship with Seb—
Usually, Chris is pretty good at recognizing and dealing with his own stress—he's certainly in touch with his own emotions, alright? He has coping mechanisms he's learned for situations like these when his brain is loud about all he has piling up on his plate. But, sometimes, goddammit, there's so much happening and he's so busy he can't. It just fucking adds up.
And when it's going on and on, busy for weeks on end, stress building on stress, it puts him in a bad fucking mood. He's so busy he's frustrated. Jesus Christ, he just wants to do something else—anything else—but he's got too much to do and he just has to keep going.
Sebastian, however, doesn't think so.
He needs a break.
C'mooonnn, babe.
Chris won't immediately surrender and take one, though. Of course, not.
So, then, Sebastian playfully but also seriously has to be like, c'mon, c'mon, c'monnnn, you know you need a break. Take a break for me? He's pouting, joking, and genuinely offering himself up to act as his stress relief. They already rough each other up—really, Chris roughs him up. Deliciously so, he chokes and slaps and breaks him so fucking beautifully. It's good. Sebastian loves it. Never in his life has he been more well-fucked. So. Why not, right?
What's the harm?
The harm, though, is that Chris says absolutely not. He's not going to—
No.
He is a grown adult. He's not going to take anything out on Sebastian—if he needs that physicality, he'll go for a run, knock it out at the gym, take a hike, anything but that. Besides. He's busy. He doesn't have the time... even if he wanted to.
But, Chriiiiis.
Not even Sebastian's world-class pout can get him to budge. Nor can promises he'll use his safeword if he needs it, assurances that he knows Chris would never get that far anyway, he trusts him, he, they, they should—
Nothing seems like it's going to get him to accept that he needs to blow off some fucking steam before he explodes. Nothing until Sebastian craftily comes up with a different approach. Because, okay, if Chris doesn't think he needs the break, if he's not going to be able to channel what he needs to get out into fucking Seb mean, then—
Sebastian settles in his lap instead, straddling him, caressing his bearded jaw, and murmuring, "just let me take care of you then. Shh," he kisses him, all soft lips and coaxing, gentle breaths. "Shhh, sit back, let me."
Chris shifts, pushy and nervy like he's about to—
Okay.
He doesn't.
Blissfully, thankfully, Chris lets him.
Chris lets him do a lot of shit—more than he should. Together, they're wicked. Both of them get into trouble, together and separately, depending on the miles and time zones stretching between them. There's no FaceTime delay or phone-speaker crackle to excuse Sebastian's solo trouble, just to the sweeter side more than the bratty side, as he starts to finger himself loose. Lithe, slick fingers prepping and stretching his eager-to-help, sparking body. Just before filling. Fuck. Filling. Inside him. Chris is so, guh, big.
Fuck.
He can't wait.
He doesn't—
Sebastisn does not wait.
He doesn't mind the burn anyhow, sliding down on it, barely pawing Chris out of his pants, barely getting a look at his handsome length before he's having all of it. Inside him.
Yes.
The fuckin' size of him kicks his ass into gear, bouncing on it, choking a little as he takes it. Almost forgetting himself, oxygen combusts in his chest, punching out a groan—and Sebastian has to grit his teeth and bear it, slowing himself to a steady roll. He wants to be greedy but this isn't about him. Barely, he keeps it together. Wet and deep. Riding slowly. Deep. Bouncing with quaking thighs, effort-fully slow. Squirming. Riding. Slow. Taking it.
He's going slow and going slow and riding steady and going—
"HA! AH! Yes!" Sebastian can not hide his gasp of lewd excitement when Chris, suddenly, finally fucking can't take it anymore.
Launching into hungry motion, all at once, Chris crashes into the conclusion that he can't wait. There is no more patience inside him, no rationale left in dealing with the dragging on and on, slow and steady. His pounding heart in his heaving chest below Sebastian's hands, balancing himself, needs to match its pace. His body clearly demands more. The stress of waiting is breaking.
And so Chris unceremoniously flips Sebastian over to take.
Pounding.
"Ah! AH! HAAH!"
The bed rattles in a glorious, filthy cacophony underneath Sebastian's back suddenly reacquainted with their sheets, shouting in its own kind of enjoyment. Mirroring Sebastian. Cheering them on.
"H'rder!" Sebastian barely manages to exhale, gritted out against the pleasure swelling like a tidal wave inside him. His fingers clutch desperately at Chris' pale, freckled, huge fucking shoulders—hanging on for the ride.
There it is.
Fuck.
Yet...
He has Chris' back. He knows this isn't Chris really putting his back into it. Not completely.
"Ha-arder!"
One last kick in the ass and—
There it fucking is.
Chris is goddamn laying into him. Pounding him flat. Bruising him. Giving him what they both need. Burning through all his frustration and transferring the heat to Sebastian until he's whining in raw pleasure, tears streaming down his cheeks and sweat pooling across his skin like rivers of sacred water washing everything else away. This is rebirth. This is creation. Nothing else can touch them—white, hot heat scorches them.
This ask from iisl anon has me thinking deranged thoughts about cocky, confident, domming-from-the-bottom Chris so… I had to do something to get the thoughts out of my head.
Here you go 👀
Chris turns around, boyishly mischievous with his grin despite the lustful, kink-heavy atmosphere currently squeezing around them, dangerous and salacious as a constricting snake; he peeks over one broad, pale but freckled, inked shoulder to gaze heavily at Sebastian behind him. After a charged moment—just staring, his arousal almost too obvious in his expressive eyes—he licks his reddened lips, “you gonna fuck it, or what?” His hips shift, doing something fucking life changing to his ass and hole and the tight little expanse of his waist (especially when compared to his impossible shoulders). “S'waiting for you, sub,” he murmurs headily.
And to add insult to injury—leaving Sebastian to shake, head to toe, with cock swaying heavily between his spread legs—Chris reaches back with one big hand to grip a handful of his round asscheek, spreading himself wide enough that Seb can get more than enough of an eyeful of his lube-glistening, stretched hole. He's so wet. And, Christ, just dying to be filled—Sebastian knows that feeling, knees going weak.
That little shudder that Seb already had going spreads like fire, becoming an earthquake. And at the same moment that Chris is also possessed into moving more by his throbbing desire, arching his back (like he needs to make himself more mind-meltingly attractive, posturing like a bitch in heat), Sebastian bows his head with a groan.
He can feel his cheeks go hotter—redder. His face, his mouth, is tingling.
Oh, god.
“What’s th’matter, baby?” Chris asks, his accent coming out to play with the deeper grain of his arousal-thickened voice. He could not be any fucking hotter. He can't. Any more heat and Sebastian will rival the fucking sun, burning molten between his legs. “Too much for a pretty, thoughtless boy like you to handle?”
“N-no,” Seb protests weakly, just enough fine motor control left within him to consider pouting. He doesn't, though—or, he doesn't think he does. It's hard to fucking tell when he's trying desperately not to notice the damn-near toe-curling sensation Chris has drawn his attention to: his brain melting out of his ears. No thoughts. It's, just—!
His heart, pounding faster and faster, knocks any breath he had from his chest. His heart isn't in his chest. It's delved down low, deep, into his cock, throbbing and heavy between his legs. Pulsing. Pounding.
It's—
Actually, it's nothing!
He's fucked people before.
He has! Women and men, too! This shouldn't be so—
A whimper slides it's way out of Sebastian's mouth, slick between his tingling lips and drooling down his dimpled chin.
He was actually, absolutely, a flourishing slut before he and Chris got too wrapped up in each other for coworkers in an industry that moves too fast to ever make getting attached a good idea. It's not like he doesn't know how to do this. He just doesn't—
Chris brings out this side of him, okay? It's always been there, of course. However, Chris, like no one else, has accepted the parts of himself that he tried his best to never indulge with a serious partner. Maybe a night here or there. Just to satisfy an urge when it finally got too loud to ignore. Then he'd be 'normal' again. He would pretend he could go on without it. He could hide them, not admit it, not need it.
But, Chris. Oh, Chris. Chris and him slot so well together. Too well together. They urge each other on, fit together, and work.
So, fuck yeah, Chris brings out his urges to submit and heel and, on occasion, brat. Bite back. Fight only to relish in the sweeter earned submission. It works so goddamn well with Chris. It's worked since before they dared to put a label on their relationship romantically, let alone sexually. So, falling hard and fast, he hasn't—they haven't—
Sebastian taking control like this isn't exactly well-worn between them. But. The second Sebastian manages to crawl forward on his knees and press the aching tip of his cock to Chris' slick, lax hole, sinking into his tight heat slowly and dizzyingly, Seb realizes, heady and rushing, lust-thick blood pounding in his blush-burning ears: oh.
He isn’t in control.
This isn’t—
No.
This isn't like that.
Oh.
Physically shaking as he presses in—tip, shaft, shaft, base, then balls deep—how could he be so stupid?
How could he forget it could be like this-?
Chris looking back at him, wearing nothing but that commanding fucking look that confesses he knows exactly what he's goddamn doing and he is relishing in it. Commanding him obsessively. Seb's toes curl, his liquefied brain sliding that much faster out of his ears.
God.
Deep enough inside him—close enough to him, Seb feels it rumble through Chris' chest into his own body as he speaks, “good boy.”
Against the praise, Sebastian can't help but jerk, his cock dragging, fast, in and out of his clenching hole. Sensitive. Both of them. But, Sebastian, yes—
In response, Chris’ chest heaves, gutturally pushing out breath and wanna-be words, “tha-ahh!” He breaks when Seb's hips helplessly kick forward again. All that's in his empty head is hot, hot, tight, wet, hot. He's sure he's leaking pre-cum like crazy inside his dom's clenching, tight hole. “That's it,” Chris regains his composure and he sounds so fucking satisfied that it's obscene, hunger abated.
He's filled.
He's content with driving Sebastian out of his fucking mind.
And it only takes him a minute to adjust before he's reaching back to grip Sebastian's hip meanly with his huge, mit hand, urging him forward and unashamedly demanding, “fuck me.”
“C'mon, baby,” Chris smacks his hip, treating him like a jockey with a favorite, well-trained, well-raced stallion, smacking his flank, “I wanna feel it,” he groans lowly, like he can't help it, “I want you t'make me cum on your cock, I know you can do it, my good boy.” The bastard squeezes around his cock, like Sebastian needs to be reminded where his dick is. Like it's not just bright, burning white hottighttightwethotwet.
Sebastian swears he can feel the last of his boiling blood rush into his cock, filling unbearably, twitching eagerly. Again, Chris is too hot. Just looking at him is too much. He can't deal with it. It hurts. He's so fucking sexy, letting him in—letting him fuck him.
Fuck him.
Sebastian might whimper.
He might faint.
But, Christ, he definitely startles like a stallion into action—bucking and starting the race off on the right foot by putting his fucking back into it, letting his muscle memory take over. He's smoothly pulling out and deeply thrusting in with his weight behind his hips, shifting oh-so slightly until Chris’ hand flies off his hip in favor of curling into the sheets, squeezing until his knuckles go white. The sight makes Sebastian just want to fuck him harder. More. It isn't long before Chris’ plush mouth drops open with ragged moans of pleasure—
“Uhh, uh, ah!” Chris’ noises add to the lascivious loud, wet sounds of their bodies hitting together.
Fap. Fap. Fap.
Lube and pre-cum and sweat.
“Fuh-fuck it good,” Chris pounds the mattress with his fist, getting his energy the fuck out, overwhelmed so much by his service sub that he can't help it.
“Mmm-hmm, yeah,” under his breath Chris goes on, like he can't help but say it, he doesn't mean for it to come out, “fuckthatfeelsgood.” Then, louder, more reckless, “get me loose, I know you like it wh-weh-wet and sloppy, d-don't you? Yeah, it makes you shoot off real fast, doesn't it?”
Said service sub is absolutely thrilled. Feeding off of pleasing him.
Sebastian takes it as what it's meant ideally to be, though. A carnal threat. So, he's fucking hammering home, then. Fast, hard, but not too hard, not too fast. He doesn't want to orgasm before he gets Chris off. He wants to make Chris feel good—give it how he wants it. He doesn't want to be punished. He wants to be good. He's good.
The best answer he has is a panting exhale which is, all thing considered, pretty fucking good.
“Fffast-faster, Seb, c'mon,” Chris moans, breaking off, breathing heavily into the pillows, muffled and moaning more, “fast,” he mumbles, then laughs to himself stupidly, drunkenly, high on getting fucked and still holding the reins tight, “better make sure you get me there first, baby, don't make me, m-make—” His threat loses all its bite, trailing off into nothing but needy panting with how lost in it he is.
Pace fucking picked up, suddenly, with a rattling moan, Chris’ voice breaks, “yes!” He cries out, the thick muscles in his back rippling unbearably erotically under his skin as he fights with the overwhelming pleasure of his prostate being hit dead-on. His voice shakes and ripples but remains strong enough to control and possess Sebastain, “that's it. That's the spot. Yes, yes, nngh, mmmnghyeah, keep going, yes! Good boy! Don't—hhuhh, don't stop! Right there! Fuck. You're such a good boy, you fuck me so good. Gonna make me c-cum!” Too turned on to be anything but honest.
