fic: like sugar bonus scene #11, part one
One more Like Sugar bonus scene (Extra Sugar). 8,340 words; general series warnings for D/s society, lots of kinky sex, arranged marriage, true love, porn with emotions. This one contains watersports, though it's really more desperation play, because...well, every once in a very rare blue moon I am in the mood for this kink, usually when it's more about the control and power dynamics, and someone pointed out a while ago that there weren't any Evanstan fics along those lines, and, um, yeah. So this happened.
The first time’s not on purpose.
They’re driving home from Boston, where they’d been celebrating Chris’s mother’s birthday with a week-long extravaganza of cake and home-made dinners and carefully planned mock-impromptu skits, tapdances, and performances from various Evans children and in-laws and friends; Chris had obligingly painted backdrops for his sister’s kids’ barn dance from Oklahoma!, and Sebastian had shyly offered to play the piano and had done musical arrangements for the productions on multiple nights. One of those nights’d included a simple short piano-tune, a melody that Chris hadn’t even known about; it’d been bright and sunny and fierce and warm all at once, the kind of tune that spoke of love and simplicity and open doors for anyone needing a home, and of gratitude for that home, written by someone who’d been welcomed into it. Everyone’d applauded and demanded to know the title, if it might be for a film, if Sebastian was doing a new original classical album. Sebastian had blushed but admitted valiantly, “In fact I did write it for someone, I brought a copy, I know Chris and I got you the new kitchen pots but this is from me, I just wanted to say thank you, I-” and then found himself being hugged to within an inch of his life by Chris’s sniffling teary-eyed mother.
Chris might’ve gotten a little teary-eyed himself. He’s not ashamed. He’s so in love he thinks his heart might erupt with joy, which is kind of a distressing volcanic metaphor, but: it’s how he feels.
After the food and the goodbyes and the packing-up, they’re finally on the way home, driving because Chris had made that decision without a second thought, knowing about Sebastian and planes. Sebastian’d smiled at him for that.
Sebastian’s not quite smiling now, likely because of the traffic, which has gone from bad to worse. They’re nearly home, only maybe twenty minutes, but crawling. Chris tells himself that he doesn’t mind because he’s doing this for his husband, and this is even mostly true.
Sebastian seems to be uncomfortable, though. Restless. Shifting position. Glancing out the window at the desultory splattering rain. Pushing up sweater-sleeves, touching his collar absentmindedly, jiggling a leg. Biting his lip.
“Okay,” Chris says finally, “what?”
Sebastian jumps, as if he’s not been expecting to get caught, and stops fidgeting. “Nothing, Chris.”
“Pretty sure that’s not true, and you promised to tell me if-”
“Nothing’s wrong! I swear!”
“Nope,” Chris says, taking eyes off the car-clogged road for a second to glare fondly at his submissive. “Not gonna work. Me, my family, my uncle’s cooking, what is it?”
Sebastian now looks horrified. “None of that! I adore your family. They’re passionate. Genuine. And your uncle’s meatball-lasagna combination is also quite…passionate.”
“Not the word most people use, but okay, so if it’s not second thoughts about making my family fall in love with you, then what?”
“I just…” Sebastian makes a face at him. “It’s embarrassing. And I feel stupid. And like I ought not to’ve had a third cup of coffee before we left.”
“Ohhh,” Chris says, realizing belatedly. “Oh. Um. I can…we can…” He throws a glance around. No good alternate routes in sight. “Can you wait?”
Sebastian lets out a noise that’s someplace between a groan and a sigh. “I can try.”
“It’s only twenty minutes…”
“I hate rain.”
“You love rain,” Chris points out, and Sebastian levels a stare his direction. “I know, sir, thank you.”
If his husband’s feeling ruffled enough to be sarcastic-especially given that they’ve agreed on using Chris’s name instead of honorifics-then this is in fact somewhat serious. Sebastian’s perfectly capable of being sarcastic on an ordinary day, of course; it’s not as if Chris married a meek and retiring submissive. But Sebastian delivering a sir with that kind of edge means he’s embarrassed and annoyed and off-balance. Which consequently means Chris needs to think of a solution. Fast.
Sebastian did say sir. And is wearing the collar. Public visibility and all, black leather visible behind the loop of today’s grey scarf. The rain plops onto the windshield approvingly. It’s a fan of Chris’s newborn idea.
“Sebastian,” he says. Gathering authority. Putting it into his voice. Dominant to submissive.
Sebastian blinks, expression caught between astonishment and mortification and cranky arousal. Excellent.
“You said you could try to wait,” Chris says. “I’m making it an order. You’ll wait.”
“Oh my God,” Sebastian says, and then says it again in Romanian and German.
“That’s not how you answer me,” Chris says, driving, deliberately looking away. He hears the gasp as this fact registers, and worries for a minute that he’s been too harsh, but then the whisper of, “Yes, Chris,” drifts over from the passenger seat, and he grins.
“This…might actually work.” Sebastian tips his head back against the headrest. Swallows. His body’s tense, his cock visibly starting to swell in his jeans. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Chris reaches over and clamps a hand on his thigh, biting down just enough to prompt a whimper. “I don’t mind. Besides, you belong to me. You said so.”
“I do,” Sebastian breathes. “Da. Yes. Yours.”
“So this belongs to me too.” He risks another glance over-the traffic’s moving forward, albeit inch by inch-and meets his husband’s eyes. They’ve never had the kind of strictly traditional relationship that’d require Sebastian to ask for permission to eat or leave the table or use the restroom; neither of them would’ve wanted that. But this, here and now, appreciation and desire and astonishment warring in Sebastian’s seaspray gaze…
This they can do. This Chris can very definitely do.
He says, “You can use the restroom when I say you can. If I want to tell you to wait, I will. And you’ll wait. Because you want to be good for me. Don’t you, baby?”
Sebastian’s mouth actually falls open at that. It’s a good look on him: absolute pure want tinged with slight desperation. “Yes, Chris.”
“Good,” Chris praises, and leaves the hand resting on his thigh, and drives.
The traffic miraculously clears up soon, and Chris drives fast-he’s not a sadist, and he’s not abusing this trust-but maybe not too fast. Every glance over at Sebastian, flushed and squirming and looking increasingly more distressed, goes straight to Chris’s cock. Bullets of sheer lust, physical and instinctive and visceral. Sebastian’s gorgeous when he’s pleading and needy, bent over Chris’s knee or bound and gagged on the floor, and Chris’s brain’s getting some serious images overlaid on the actual scene, hearing tiny whimpers and adjustments of position, watching the way his submissive’s hands fall to cup his cock in an attempt at relief…
Home. Their New York apartment, lofty-windowed and bookshelf-populated. It opens up happily as Chris unlocks the door, and beckons them in. Sebastian shoves Chris’s mother’s chicken fettucine leftovers into the fridge, starts to sprint for the closest restroom, and then freezes as Chris lifts eyebrows his direction: where’re you going, I’m not saying anything yet…
“Oh no,” Sebastian says, eyes huge, “oh no, no, please, sir, Chris, please-”
“Did you just say no to me?”
“Oh God,” Sebastian says, hand over his mouth. He’s shivering, unable to stand still; Chris can see the outline of his cock pressing into his jeans. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Îmi pare rău, please, Chris, I’ll do anything, anything you say, please-”
“Anything?” Chris steps closer to him. Runs a hand over his submissive’s shaking body, shoulder to hip, taking his time. “I kinda like you like this. Begging me for what you need…”
Sebastian bites his lip sharply, and a darker spot appears where his cock’s visibly hard, tenting fabric; but he doesn’t move, doesn’t disobey.
“So good for me,” Chris says, and kisses him on the forehead. “All right, go.”
Sebastian gasps something that might’ve been a thank you and bolts. Chris counts to five, measured increments of time, then wanders that way.
The door’s shut. He opens it. Sebastian’s lips part, seeing him in the mirror.
Chris smiles at him. Props a shoulder on the doorframe. Waits.
Sebastian makes a pleading little sound, but he’s already half done, intimate and revealed: cock in hand, a stream of relief into the toilet bowl; and he can’t stop even with Chris watching. When he’s done, he washes his hands very carefully and then turns around. His eyes hold the question.
“Come here.” Chris opens arms. His husband practically falls into them. Chris pets his hair, cuddles him close, tells him he did so well, he’s so wonderful, no need to be embarrassed, they’re fine, they’re more than fine…
“I know,” Sebastian says into Chris’s shirt. His hair tickles Chris’s mouth. The rain comes in with a vengeance beyond the picture windows, shrouding them in silken patter and the scent of water-drenched sky. “I only…I’ve never…do you want this? Or-I think I don’t know what you want. And I’ve never done this.”
“I know,” Chris echoes, rubbing his back through the sweater. “I’m not asking you to ask me every time. I don’t want that. Um. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just this once. But I don’t want you to be ashamed of anything, in front of me.”
“So new,” Sebastian considers. “All of this. I never know what to expect.” And in his voice the memory of arranged marriages and aphrodisiac wedding-nights battles with the knowledge of never-imagined but real happy endings.
“I’m not asking for this,” Chris says, truthful. “I didn’t know I wanted-whatever it is I want. But, um, I also kind of want to have sex with you right now.”
Sebastian stops leaning into him to regard this statement with skepticism. “Because you watched me use the restroom.”
“Because you did it for me. When I let you.”
Sebastian’s lips shape the oh. “That…I did like that. I never thought.”
“Yeah,” Chris teases gently, sneaking hands down to the waist of his husband’s jeans, searching out a button, “me either, but can we stop thinking now and have the sex? If you feel okay with this, I mean, not pushing you.”
“You really do want to.”
“Fuck yeah I do.”
And Sebastian grins, bright and impish as a tropical rainshower. “I do need to take off these pants. And underwear. Which got a bit…wet…when you were saying those things. Would you like to assist me with that?”
They never make it out of the guest bathroom. Chris fucks his husband on the spot, bent over the sink, jeans and underwear shoved down around his ankles; Sebastian hides his face in his arms when Chris tugs his clothing off, shivering with the impact of everything they’re doing, but Chris eyes the tangle of fabric and feels the bolt of lust skitter down his spine, hot and primal. Sebastian’s his. Yes.
They have lube under the sink because they’ve learned to keep lube everyplace. This one smells and tastes like watermelon’s gone through a bar fight with cotton candy, but Sebastian likes it, so Chris tolerates the sweetness. He also curls the non-messy hand into his husband’s hair and tugs, not hard. Sebastian gets the message and looks up, cheeks faintly pink but eyes full of trust. Chris cups his cheek, turns his face to the mirror, gets him to watch: to see himself as Chris pushes into him, as Chris makes love to him in the bathroom with stained pants at his feet and the sizzling decadent awareness that his Dominant’s just watched him in the act, seen his cock relieving itself, private function claimed by Chris and transformed into a new sparkling part of the dynamic.
Sebastian trembles and clutches Chris’s wrist when Chris braces himself on the counter. But doesn’t look away, because Chris wants him to see. And doesn’t call red or yellow or any word that’d end the scene. Sebastian’s right here with him, getting off on the thought of surrendering that much control.
Chris gets the other hand on his cock, that luscious thick length he’s just seen so exposed; Sebastian feels like iron and heat and velvet skin, and Sebastian moans dazedly as Chris’s hand toys with him, not even properly stroking; and that’s it, Chris is coming, emptying himself into his husband’s tight slick body as muscles ripple around him. Sebastian hasn’t come yet because Chris hasn’t let him, but is right on the edge, quivering and strung out, cock dripping copiously between Chris’s fingers; Chris, through ebbing waves of light, speeds up the strokes, gathers Sebastian closer under his own body, and tells him to come, to let it go, to let Chris see it…
Sebastian comes with a low shuddering groan, eyes fluttering shut, body arching into Chris’s grip. The expression on his face is one Chris has only seen before at the deepest levels of subspace, the transcendent aureate heights of pleasure.
Chris ends up kind of shaky himself, at that sight. In their guest bathroom. Beneath the drumming of the rain.
After, he gets Sebastian tucked into his arms on the sofa, snacks and water and juice within reach, plus a notebook in case his genius composer husband feels like writing an opera, and puts on an old episode of Community because Sebastian’s a fan. Sebastian, half-awake, kisses his shoulder. Chris says, “I did clean up, but I didn’t do your laundry,” and his husband yawns and comes back a bit more and says, “Don’t touch the laundry,” which means that Sebastian’s awake enough to remember the red socks incident of the previous month.
Chris says hopefully, “I love you,” and feeds him an apple slice. Sebastian smiles, and kisses him with apple-sticky lips.
The second time’s half on purpose. More accurately, Sebastian does it on purpose, though Chris doesn’t initially realize this fact.
It’s about a month after the first time, and they’ve never really spoken about that afternoon. Sebastian doesn’t ever mention the idea. Chris is afraid to. Yeah, it was good-it was fucking incandescent-but what if Sebastian’s having after-the-scene regret? He thinks that in the moment they both wanted to, but what if Sebastian’s decided that that was just too far? What if Sebastian can’t talk about it-Sebastian who needed so much time early on to convince himself to trust Chris, to believe that his Dominant wouldn’t abuse that trust? Sebastian had said it once, the morning after the wedding night: who do I become, once I’m yours?
Chris can’t ask. Can’t be the one to bring it up.
So he doesn’t. And the days meander on.
He thinks about it, though. Relegates the moment to a wonderful memory, a daydream space in the back of his head: a magical afternoon-out-of-time that’d never come again, full of self-discovery and extraordinary comprehension and intimate closeness and hot wet skin. He’ll pull out that memory to turn over like a love-letter sometimes, when Sebastian’s away for a film-industry meeting, maybe.
And he’s fine with that. One hundred percent. He honestly is. He could want to try it again-his pulse picks up at the thought of exploration-but if they never do, that’s okay too. Whatever his submissive wants.
Which is why it’s such a surprise when Sebastian gives him a sideways glance one evening, over halfway through Jersey Boys on Netflix, and offers an extremely familiar telltale squirm of hips against the sofa.
Chris literally can’t believe what might be happening, and so fails to react. The Four Seasons tunefully invite Sherry to come out tonight, in the background.
Sebastian, about a minute later, does it again. Shifting in his spot next to Chris. Crossing long legs. Not bothering to be unobtrusive.
Chris can hardly think past the rush of blood thumping in his ears, the instant swell of his erection. Sebastian wouldn’t…Sebastian doesn’t want to…but clearly is, even drawing attention to the fact…and, currently, is darting another glance at him, almost flirtatious.
“Um,” Chris ventures gingerly, hoping he’s not misreading. “You…”
Sebastian gives him a slightly different look, somewhere between good God my Dominant’s slow on the uptake and thank God we’re getting there at last. Amazing how good blue eyes are at that.
“Just checking…we are, I mean, you are…” He reaches over. Rests a hand below the tie of Sebastian’s comfortable sweatpants. Not pushing, not yet. “You want to tell me what we’re doin’?”
“No,” Sebastian retorts. “I’m not certain I can say it. But I spent the evening drinking your highly caffeinated soda for a reason, you understand, Chris.”
“So you did.” Chris does know that, though he’d not been attaching any particular weight to the knowledge. But…Sebastian also hasn’t gone to the restroom all evening, as far as he can recall, and has been curled up next to him watching the movie, which means he’s been holding it and waiting…waiting for Chris to notice…
Sebastian might not be able to ask, but does want to be told. Chris feels the grin spread across his face. “Sorry. I’m kinda not good at subtle. You’ve been hoping I’d notice for a while, right? Just sitting there waiting for me to tell you what you can do, whether you get to feel better…”
Sebastian nods. Decisively. With relief at the understanding.
“Poor baby,” Chris murmurs, rubbing his abdomen gently through sweatpants. Sebastian’s breathing hitches, shortens: efforts at control. “You do like this, don’t you…knowing I get to decide what’s good for you, giving you orders, taking care of you…”
Sebastian’s eyes widen, then go softer. Dreamy. Spacey and distracted. When Chris leans in to kiss him, the return kiss is almost innocent, directionless and yielding. Not as deep as they’ve gotten him before, but definitely subspace, and a swift slipping under.
“Shh,” Chris murmurs, and works the hand into his sweatpants, toys with his semi-hard cock, plays with dark springy curls of hair over tense muscles. Sebastian whimpers, head falling back, cock leaking a drop or two of fluid.
“Shh,” Chris says again, and checks the remaining time on the film. About forty-five minutes. Hmm.
He keeps Sebastian there, hand playing with that willing body, and turns up the volume a hair even though he’s not really watching. Pale aquamarine eyes get bigger when his submissive realizes the plan, dismaying enough to bring back a modicum of awareness; but Sebastian doesn’t protest. Sebastian does give him rather betrayed-looking pathetic kitten eyes, once; Chris kisses his nose. “You wanted this. You asked for it.”
“Forty-five minutes,” Sebastian grumbles, plus some annoyed-but-not-really swearing in multiple languages. “I don’t know if I can, Chris.”
“If you really can’t, tell me.” He kisses an eyebrow this time. “I want you to try. Wait until I give you permission, sub.”
“Oh,” Sebastian says, breath like the phrasing’s stolen all his air, “yes, Chris,” and puts his head on Chris’s shoulder.
It’s not easy. Chris can tell. The first ten minutes or so go okay; Sebastian was exaggerating the discomfort to get attention, before. But shortly thereafter he’s biting his lip, wriggling, making unconscious soft sounds; Chris can see the discomfort, the growing ache. Chris’s hand isn’t helping. Added weight on his groin. Extra stimulation.
Sebastian cracks far enough to take Chris’s hand and kiss it, sucking the index finger into his mouth, voiceless begging. Chris permits this distraction, even pushing a second finger in alongside, and then tells him, “Keep this up and I’m gonna fuck you before I let you go, I hear that makes it, like, more intense,” and Sebastian takes a slow shaky breath around his hand and does, in fact, keep it up.
The movie’s over at last, neither of them watching; Chris wraps his hand firmly around Sebastian’s cock, inarguable command. “You. Bed. Now.”
“Bed-”
“Are you arguing? Said I was going to fuck you, sub.”
“But-but, Chris, I-”
“Quiet,” Chris says, and then winces at his own tone. “Sorry, baby, sorry, I love you. Too much?”
“Nu…no…I’d tell you…” Tears glitter in Sebastian’s eyes, easy and ready to tumble, overstimulated. “But quickly, please?”
“Of course.” He seals that promise with a kiss. And hauls his husband off to the bedroom, grabbing towels as an afterthought.
The afterthought turns out to be a very good one. When he gets Sebastian flat on his back on the bed, Sebastian’s cock drips, a tantalizing hint of both pre-come and other need. Sebastian makes a sound of anguish, shyness fighting arousal; Chris practically growls, a noise he’s never known he could make, chest tight with protective ferocious possessive love, and lifts endless legs and shoves in, blunt and forceful. Sebastian cries out at the sudden fullness, but doesn’t tell him to stop; Chris folds him nearly in half, kissing his throat, his chest, his jawline, leaving rough scrapes of beard and teeth, marks that’ll linger.
When he pulls back and plunges in again, Sebastian sobs his name and then, “If you-I’m going to-please, Chris-I can’t wait, it’s too-”
“Too much?” He rocks back into his submissive’s body lazily, taking his time. Sebastian’s cock rubs deliciously between their bodies, trapped. “You need to come, or something else, baby?”
“I don’t know!” It’s a wail, broken and despairing, every last wall crumbling down. “Chris, Chris, please-”
“Yeah,” Chris pants, withdrawing, waiting-and slamming home, hard and fast as he can, “yeah, yes, for me-”
Sebastian comes first, gorgeous long stripes of white splashing over his stomach and chest; he keeps coming for several exquisite seconds, lost in ecstasy as Chris watches. His body tightens in a beautiful bow and then releases; and with that release comes another form of release, new golden hot wetness unguardedly spilling from his cock, Chris’s rigid length still buried in his body.
Chris, stunned and reverent-he’s fucked Sebastian to this point, gotten him to relinquish every drop of ingrained control, and oh he’s never been more honored and in love-moves inside him because he can’t not, even as Sebastian wakes up with a horrified gasp at what he’s just done, even as Sebastian squeezes eyes shut in mortification-
But Sebastian’s arms reach for him, finding Chris’s biceps and clinging. And Chris comes at the touch, at the sensation of Sebastian needing him.
It’s not that messy after all; Sebastian stopped himself after only a few seconds, and most of the hot stickiness is come and lube between their bodies. Sebastian’s crying, not talking; Chris finds a second towel and swipes it over their stomachs and between Sebastian’s legs. Sebastian gasps, and Chris guesses that the towel must be too rough on tender flesh, on his poor abused cock; he starts to apologize, but Sebastian rolls off the bed and flees to the bathroom, where Chris can hear sounds of the toilet being used.
He looks at his hands. They shake a little. Sebastian did want to, he believes that, but-
He turns that way, toward the master bath.
The door’s open. Sebastian left the door open.
Chris takes a deep breath. Shuts his eyes, opens them. Okay.
When he gets up on wobbly legs and walks over, Sebastian’s done, but has clearly been splashing water on his face. His cheeks and eyelashes’re wet.
“I’m s-”
“Don’t be,” Sebastian interjects. His voice sounds as tremulous as Chris’s knees. “Don’t. Just-just hold me.”
Chris sits right down there on the bathroom floor, on the plush memory-foam rug Sebastian’d fallen head over heels for in the store, and opens arms. His husband curls up into them, both of them naked in so many ways.
Chris rests his cheek in damp soft hair. The bathroom lights shine down in hushed white, and the knobs and fixture shine right back. Compassionate. Safe. Companionable.
Sebastian says, voice very small but clear, “I’m crying because it felt good, you know.”
“Yeah.” He kisses the top of his submissive’s head. “I know.” He does. If he thinks about it too much, he ends up wincing: so many social taboos, childhood training, the internalized sense of shamefulness and dirtiness…
But that doesn’t matter. They’re not hurting anyone else, he’s certainly never going to enforce this one except in private and on special occasions, and they both like the way the power-play makes them feel. So it’s good. They’re good. Together.
He says as much, fumblingly. Sebastian nods, but then says, “Yellow, sir. I’m sorry.”
After the scene, Chris thinks. Not during. “Because it’s too intense?”
“Because…yes…I said it now on purpose. I do like it. I just mean-not again anytime soon. I need to…” A handwave, searching for vocabulary. “Equilibrium. I can’t do this every day.”
“Fair enough.” He takes Sebastian’s closest hand, linking their fingers. “I don’t think I’d ask you to. Too much, kinda, if we made it an everyday thing. You’re not, like, a pet or something, I’m not gonna take you on walks to the bathroom, y’know.”
“I should hope not.” Dry and amused, which is better than the dreadful post-scene crash Chris’s heart’s been subconsciously anticipating. “Though…and this is not a disagreement…I seem to recall you calling me your kitten, once or twice.”
“Yeah, well. You kinda are. Sunshine and staying warm and fluffy blankets and cuddling with me. I like it. I love you.”
“And you said you wanted to be able to pet me,” Sebastian says. “Always. I love you. It’s not a never again, only a slow down. I know it was my idea, this time. I enjoyed it.”
“Thought you did. I did too. If you couldn’t tell.”
“Oh,” Sebastian purrs, tilting that head up to kiss him, letting Chris know they’re okay and the bathroom rug is okay and the whole world is okay, “I could tell.”
“Just let me know when,” Chris says, “or not, or whatever,” and kisses him back, drinking him in.
The first time’s not on purpose.
They’re driving home from Boston, where they’d been celebrating Chris’s mother’s birthday with a week-long extravaganza of cake and home-made dinners and carefully planned mock-impromptu skits, tapdances, and performances from various Evans children and in-laws and friends; Chris had obligingly painted backdrops for his sister’s kids’ barn dance from Oklahoma!, and Sebastian had shyly offered to play the piano and had done musical arrangements for the productions on multiple nights. One of those nights’d included a simple short piano-tune, a melody that Chris hadn’t even known about; it’d been bright and sunny and fierce and warm all at once, the kind of tune that spoke of love and simplicity and open doors for anyone needing a home, and of gratitude for that home, written by someone who’d been welcomed into it. Everyone’d applauded and demanded to know the title, if it might be for a film, if Sebastian was doing a new original classical album. Sebastian had blushed but admitted valiantly, “In fact I did write it for someone, I brought a copy, I know Chris and I got you the new kitchen pots but this is from me, I just wanted to say thank you, I-” and then found himself being hugged to within an inch of his life by Chris’s sniffling teary-eyed mother.
Chris might’ve gotten a little teary-eyed himself. He’s not ashamed. He’s so in love he thinks his heart might erupt with joy, which is kind of a distressing volcanic metaphor, but: it’s how he feels.
After the food and the goodbyes and the packing-up, they’re finally on the way home, driving because Chris had made that decision without a second thought, knowing about Sebastian and planes. Sebastian’d smiled at him for that.
Sebastian’s not quite smiling now, likely because of the traffic, which has gone from bad to worse. They’re nearly home, only maybe twenty minutes, but crawling. Chris tells himself that he doesn’t mind because he’s doing this for his husband, and this is even mostly true.
Sebastian seems to be uncomfortable, though. Restless. Shifting position. Glancing out the window at the desultory splattering rain. Pushing up sweater-sleeves, touching his collar absentmindedly, jiggling a leg. Biting his lip.
“Okay,” Chris says finally, “what?”
Sebastian jumps, as if he’s not been expecting to get caught, and stops fidgeting. “Nothing, Chris.”
“Pretty sure that’s not true, and you promised to tell me if-”
“Nothing’s wrong! I swear!”
“Nope,” Chris says, taking eyes off the car-clogged road for a second to glare fondly at his submissive. “Not gonna work. Me, my family, my uncle’s cooking, what is it?”
Sebastian now looks horrified. “None of that! I adore your family. They’re passionate. Genuine. And your uncle’s meatball-lasagna combination is also quite…passionate.”
“Not the word most people use, but okay, so if it’s not second thoughts about making my family fall in love with you, then what?”
“I just…” Sebastian makes a face at him. “It’s embarrassing. And I feel stupid. And like I ought not to’ve had a third cup of coffee before we left.”
“Ohhh,” Chris says, realizing belatedly. “Oh. Um. I can…we can…” He throws a glance around. No good alternate routes in sight. “Can you wait?”
Sebastian lets out a noise that’s someplace between a groan and a sigh. “I can try.”
“It’s only twenty minutes…”
“I hate rain.”
“You love rain,” Chris points out, and Sebastian levels a stare his direction. “I know, sir, thank you.”
If his husband’s feeling ruffled enough to be sarcastic-especially given that they’ve agreed on using Chris’s name instead of honorifics-then this is in fact somewhat serious. Sebastian’s perfectly capable of being sarcastic on an ordinary day, of course; it’s not as if Chris married a meek and retiring submissive. But Sebastian delivering a sir with that kind of edge means he’s embarrassed and annoyed and off-balance. Which consequently means Chris needs to think of a solution. Fast.
Sebastian did say sir. And is wearing the collar. Public visibility and all, black leather visible behind the loop of today’s grey scarf. The rain plops onto the windshield approvingly. It’s a fan of Chris’s newborn idea.
“Sebastian,” he says. Gathering authority. Putting it into his voice. Dominant to submissive.
Sebastian blinks, expression caught between astonishment and mortification and cranky arousal. Excellent.
“You said you could try to wait,” Chris says. “I’m making it an order. You’ll wait.”
“Oh my God,” Sebastian says, and then says it again in Romanian and German.
“That’s not how you answer me,” Chris says, driving, deliberately looking away. He hears the gasp as this fact registers, and worries for a minute that he’s been too harsh, but then the whisper of, “Yes, Chris,” drifts over from the passenger seat, and he grins.
“This…might actually work.” Sebastian tips his head back against the headrest. Swallows. His body’s tense, his cock visibly starting to swell in his jeans. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Chris reaches over and clamps a hand on his thigh, biting down just enough to prompt a whimper. “I don’t mind. Besides, you belong to me. You said so.”
“I do,” Sebastian breathes. “Da. Yes. Yours.”
“So this belongs to me too.” He risks another glance over-the traffic’s moving forward, albeit inch by inch-and meets his husband’s eyes. They’ve never had the kind of strictly traditional relationship that’d require Sebastian to ask for permission to eat or leave the table or use the restroom; neither of them would’ve wanted that. But this, here and now, appreciation and desire and astonishment warring in Sebastian’s seaspray gaze…
This they can do. This Chris can very definitely do.
He says, “You can use the restroom when I say you can. If I want to tell you to wait, I will. And you’ll wait. Because you want to be good for me. Don’t you, baby?”
Sebastian’s mouth actually falls open at that. It’s a good look on him: absolute pure want tinged with slight desperation. “Yes, Chris.”
“Good,” Chris praises, and leaves the hand resting on his thigh, and drives.
The traffic miraculously clears up soon, and Chris drives fast-he’s not a sadist, and he’s not abusing this trust-but maybe not too fast. Every glance over at Sebastian, flushed and squirming and looking increasingly more distressed, goes straight to Chris’s cock. Bullets of sheer lust, physical and instinctive and visceral. Sebastian’s gorgeous when he’s pleading and needy, bent over Chris’s knee or bound and gagged on the floor, and Chris’s brain’s getting some serious images overlaid on the actual scene, hearing tiny whimpers and adjustments of position, watching the way his submissive’s hands fall to cup his cock in an attempt at relief…
Home. Their New York apartment, lofty-windowed and bookshelf-populated. It opens up happily as Chris unlocks the door, and beckons them in. Sebastian shoves Chris’s mother’s chicken fettucine leftovers into the fridge, starts to sprint for the closest restroom, and then freezes as Chris lifts eyebrows his direction: where’re you going, I’m not saying anything yet…
“Oh no,” Sebastian says, eyes huge, “oh no, no, please, sir, Chris, please-”
“Did you just say no to me?”
“Oh God,” Sebastian says, hand over his mouth. He’s shivering, unable to stand still; Chris can see the outline of his cock pressing into his jeans. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Îmi pare rău, please, Chris, I’ll do anything, anything you say, please-”
“Anything?” Chris steps closer to him. Runs a hand over his submissive’s shaking body, shoulder to hip, taking his time. “I kinda like you like this. Begging me for what you need…”
Sebastian bites his lip sharply, and a darker spot appears where his cock’s visibly hard, tenting fabric; but he doesn’t move, doesn’t disobey.
“So good for me,” Chris says, and kisses him on the forehead. “All right, go.”
Sebastian gasps something that might’ve been a thank you and bolts. Chris counts to five, measured increments of time, then wanders that way.
The door’s shut. He opens it. Sebastian’s lips part, seeing him in the mirror.
Chris smiles at him. Props a shoulder on the doorframe. Waits.
Sebastian makes a pleading little sound, but he’s already half done, intimate and revealed: cock in hand, a stream of relief into the toilet bowl; and he can’t stop even with Chris watching. When he’s done, he washes his hands very carefully and then turns around. His eyes hold the question.
“Come here.” Chris opens arms. His husband practically falls into them. Chris pets his hair, cuddles him close, tells him he did so well, he’s so wonderful, no need to be embarrassed, they’re fine, they’re more than fine…
“I know,” Sebastian says into Chris’s shirt. His hair tickles Chris’s mouth. The rain comes in with a vengeance beyond the picture windows, shrouding them in silken patter and the scent of water-drenched sky. “I only…I’ve never…do you want this? Or-I think I don’t know what you want. And I’ve never done this.”
“I know,” Chris echoes, rubbing his back through the sweater. “I’m not asking you to ask me every time. I don’t want that. Um. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just this once. But I don’t want you to be ashamed of anything, in front of me.”
“So new,” Sebastian considers. “All of this. I never know what to expect.” And in his voice the memory of arranged marriages and aphrodisiac wedding-nights battles with the knowledge of never-imagined but real happy endings.
“I’m not asking for this,” Chris says, truthful. “I didn’t know I wanted-whatever it is I want. But, um, I also kind of want to have sex with you right now.”
Sebastian stops leaning into him to regard this statement with skepticism. “Because you watched me use the restroom.”
“Because you did it for me. When I let you.”
Sebastian’s lips shape the oh. “That…I did like that. I never thought.”
“Yeah,” Chris teases gently, sneaking hands down to the waist of his husband’s jeans, searching out a button, “me either, but can we stop thinking now and have the sex? If you feel okay with this, I mean, not pushing you.”
“You really do want to.”
“Fuck yeah I do.”
And Sebastian grins, bright and impish as a tropical rainshower. “I do need to take off these pants. And underwear. Which got a bit…wet…when you were saying those things. Would you like to assist me with that?”
They never make it out of the guest bathroom. Chris fucks his husband on the spot, bent over the sink, jeans and underwear shoved down around his ankles; Sebastian hides his face in his arms when Chris tugs his clothing off, shivering with the impact of everything they’re doing, but Chris eyes the tangle of fabric and feels the bolt of lust skitter down his spine, hot and primal. Sebastian’s his. Yes.
They have lube under the sink because they’ve learned to keep lube everyplace. This one smells and tastes like watermelon’s gone through a bar fight with cotton candy, but Sebastian likes it, so Chris tolerates the sweetness. He also curls the non-messy hand into his husband’s hair and tugs, not hard. Sebastian gets the message and looks up, cheeks faintly pink but eyes full of trust. Chris cups his cheek, turns his face to the mirror, gets him to watch: to see himself as Chris pushes into him, as Chris makes love to him in the bathroom with stained pants at his feet and the sizzling decadent awareness that his Dominant’s just watched him in the act, seen his cock relieving itself, private function claimed by Chris and transformed into a new sparkling part of the dynamic.
Sebastian trembles and clutches Chris’s wrist when Chris braces himself on the counter. But doesn’t look away, because Chris wants him to see. And doesn’t call red or yellow or any word that’d end the scene. Sebastian’s right here with him, getting off on the thought of surrendering that much control.
Chris gets the other hand on his cock, that luscious thick length he’s just seen so exposed; Sebastian feels like iron and heat and velvet skin, and Sebastian moans dazedly as Chris’s hand toys with him, not even properly stroking; and that’s it, Chris is coming, emptying himself into his husband’s tight slick body as muscles ripple around him. Sebastian hasn’t come yet because Chris hasn’t let him, but is right on the edge, quivering and strung out, cock dripping copiously between Chris’s fingers; Chris, through ebbing waves of light, speeds up the strokes, gathers Sebastian closer under his own body, and tells him to come, to let it go, to let Chris see it…
Sebastian comes with a low shuddering groan, eyes fluttering shut, body arching into Chris’s grip. The expression on his face is one Chris has only seen before at the deepest levels of subspace, the transcendent aureate heights of pleasure.
Chris ends up kind of shaky himself, at that sight. In their guest bathroom. Beneath the drumming of the rain.
After, he gets Sebastian tucked into his arms on the sofa, snacks and water and juice within reach, plus a notebook in case his genius composer husband feels like writing an opera, and puts on an old episode of Community because Sebastian’s a fan. Sebastian, half-awake, kisses his shoulder. Chris says, “I did clean up, but I didn’t do your laundry,” and his husband yawns and comes back a bit more and says, “Don’t touch the laundry,” which means that Sebastian’s awake enough to remember the red socks incident of the previous month.
Chris says hopefully, “I love you,” and feeds him an apple slice. Sebastian smiles, and kisses him with apple-sticky lips.
The second time’s half on purpose. More accurately, Sebastian does it on purpose, though Chris doesn’t initially realize this fact.
It’s about a month after the first time, and they’ve never really spoken about that afternoon. Sebastian doesn’t ever mention the idea. Chris is afraid to. Yeah, it was good-it was fucking incandescent-but what if Sebastian’s having after-the-scene regret? He thinks that in the moment they both wanted to, but what if Sebastian’s decided that that was just too far? What if Sebastian can’t talk about it-Sebastian who needed so much time early on to convince himself to trust Chris, to believe that his Dominant wouldn’t abuse that trust? Sebastian had said it once, the morning after the wedding night: who do I become, once I’m yours?
Chris can’t ask. Can’t be the one to bring it up.
So he doesn’t. And the days meander on.
He thinks about it, though. Relegates the moment to a wonderful memory, a daydream space in the back of his head: a magical afternoon-out-of-time that’d never come again, full of self-discovery and extraordinary comprehension and intimate closeness and hot wet skin. He’ll pull out that memory to turn over like a love-letter sometimes, when Sebastian’s away for a film-industry meeting, maybe.
And he’s fine with that. One hundred percent. He honestly is. He could want to try it again-his pulse picks up at the thought of exploration-but if they never do, that’s okay too. Whatever his submissive wants.
Which is why it’s such a surprise when Sebastian gives him a sideways glance one evening, over halfway through Jersey Boys on Netflix, and offers an extremely familiar telltale squirm of hips against the sofa.
Chris literally can’t believe what might be happening, and so fails to react. The Four Seasons tunefully invite Sherry to come out tonight, in the background.
Sebastian, about a minute later, does it again. Shifting in his spot next to Chris. Crossing long legs. Not bothering to be unobtrusive.
Chris can hardly think past the rush of blood thumping in his ears, the instant swell of his erection. Sebastian wouldn’t…Sebastian doesn’t want to…but clearly is, even drawing attention to the fact…and, currently, is darting another glance at him, almost flirtatious.
“Um,” Chris ventures gingerly, hoping he’s not misreading. “You…”
Sebastian gives him a slightly different look, somewhere between good God my Dominant’s slow on the uptake and thank God we’re getting there at last. Amazing how good blue eyes are at that.
“Just checking…we are, I mean, you are…” He reaches over. Rests a hand below the tie of Sebastian’s comfortable sweatpants. Not pushing, not yet. “You want to tell me what we’re doin’?”
“No,” Sebastian retorts. “I’m not certain I can say it. But I spent the evening drinking your highly caffeinated soda for a reason, you understand, Chris.”
“So you did.” Chris does know that, though he’d not been attaching any particular weight to the knowledge. But…Sebastian also hasn’t gone to the restroom all evening, as far as he can recall, and has been curled up next to him watching the movie, which means he’s been holding it and waiting…waiting for Chris to notice…
Sebastian might not be able to ask, but does want to be told. Chris feels the grin spread across his face. “Sorry. I’m kinda not good at subtle. You’ve been hoping I’d notice for a while, right? Just sitting there waiting for me to tell you what you can do, whether you get to feel better…”
Sebastian nods. Decisively. With relief at the understanding.
“Poor baby,” Chris murmurs, rubbing his abdomen gently through sweatpants. Sebastian’s breathing hitches, shortens: efforts at control. “You do like this, don’t you…knowing I get to decide what’s good for you, giving you orders, taking care of you…”
Sebastian’s eyes widen, then go softer. Dreamy. Spacey and distracted. When Chris leans in to kiss him, the return kiss is almost innocent, directionless and yielding. Not as deep as they’ve gotten him before, but definitely subspace, and a swift slipping under.
“Shh,” Chris murmurs, and works the hand into his sweatpants, toys with his semi-hard cock, plays with dark springy curls of hair over tense muscles. Sebastian whimpers, head falling back, cock leaking a drop or two of fluid.
“Shh,” Chris says again, and checks the remaining time on the film. About forty-five minutes. Hmm.
He keeps Sebastian there, hand playing with that willing body, and turns up the volume a hair even though he’s not really watching. Pale aquamarine eyes get bigger when his submissive realizes the plan, dismaying enough to bring back a modicum of awareness; but Sebastian doesn’t protest. Sebastian does give him rather betrayed-looking pathetic kitten eyes, once; Chris kisses his nose. “You wanted this. You asked for it.”
“Forty-five minutes,” Sebastian grumbles, plus some annoyed-but-not-really swearing in multiple languages. “I don’t know if I can, Chris.”
“If you really can’t, tell me.” He kisses an eyebrow this time. “I want you to try. Wait until I give you permission, sub.”
“Oh,” Sebastian says, breath like the phrasing’s stolen all his air, “yes, Chris,” and puts his head on Chris’s shoulder.
It’s not easy. Chris can tell. The first ten minutes or so go okay; Sebastian was exaggerating the discomfort to get attention, before. But shortly thereafter he’s biting his lip, wriggling, making unconscious soft sounds; Chris can see the discomfort, the growing ache. Chris’s hand isn’t helping. Added weight on his groin. Extra stimulation.
Sebastian cracks far enough to take Chris’s hand and kiss it, sucking the index finger into his mouth, voiceless begging. Chris permits this distraction, even pushing a second finger in alongside, and then tells him, “Keep this up and I’m gonna fuck you before I let you go, I hear that makes it, like, more intense,” and Sebastian takes a slow shaky breath around his hand and does, in fact, keep it up.
The movie’s over at last, neither of them watching; Chris wraps his hand firmly around Sebastian’s cock, inarguable command. “You. Bed. Now.”
“Bed-”
“Are you arguing? Said I was going to fuck you, sub.”
“But-but, Chris, I-”
“Quiet,” Chris says, and then winces at his own tone. “Sorry, baby, sorry, I love you. Too much?”
“Nu…no…I’d tell you…” Tears glitter in Sebastian’s eyes, easy and ready to tumble, overstimulated. “But quickly, please?”
“Of course.” He seals that promise with a kiss. And hauls his husband off to the bedroom, grabbing towels as an afterthought.
The afterthought turns out to be a very good one. When he gets Sebastian flat on his back on the bed, Sebastian’s cock drips, a tantalizing hint of both pre-come and other need. Sebastian makes a sound of anguish, shyness fighting arousal; Chris practically growls, a noise he’s never known he could make, chest tight with protective ferocious possessive love, and lifts endless legs and shoves in, blunt and forceful. Sebastian cries out at the sudden fullness, but doesn’t tell him to stop; Chris folds him nearly in half, kissing his throat, his chest, his jawline, leaving rough scrapes of beard and teeth, marks that’ll linger.
When he pulls back and plunges in again, Sebastian sobs his name and then, “If you-I’m going to-please, Chris-I can’t wait, it’s too-”
“Too much?” He rocks back into his submissive’s body lazily, taking his time. Sebastian’s cock rubs deliciously between their bodies, trapped. “You need to come, or something else, baby?”
“I don’t know!” It’s a wail, broken and despairing, every last wall crumbling down. “Chris, Chris, please-”
“Yeah,” Chris pants, withdrawing, waiting-and slamming home, hard and fast as he can, “yeah, yes, for me-”
Sebastian comes first, gorgeous long stripes of white splashing over his stomach and chest; he keeps coming for several exquisite seconds, lost in ecstasy as Chris watches. His body tightens in a beautiful bow and then releases; and with that release comes another form of release, new golden hot wetness unguardedly spilling from his cock, Chris’s rigid length still buried in his body.
Chris, stunned and reverent-he’s fucked Sebastian to this point, gotten him to relinquish every drop of ingrained control, and oh he’s never been more honored and in love-moves inside him because he can’t not, even as Sebastian wakes up with a horrified gasp at what he’s just done, even as Sebastian squeezes eyes shut in mortification-
But Sebastian’s arms reach for him, finding Chris’s biceps and clinging. And Chris comes at the touch, at the sensation of Sebastian needing him.
It’s not that messy after all; Sebastian stopped himself after only a few seconds, and most of the hot stickiness is come and lube between their bodies. Sebastian’s crying, not talking; Chris finds a second towel and swipes it over their stomachs and between Sebastian’s legs. Sebastian gasps, and Chris guesses that the towel must be too rough on tender flesh, on his poor abused cock; he starts to apologize, but Sebastian rolls off the bed and flees to the bathroom, where Chris can hear sounds of the toilet being used.
He looks at his hands. They shake a little. Sebastian did want to, he believes that, but-
He turns that way, toward the master bath.
The door’s open. Sebastian left the door open.
Chris takes a deep breath. Shuts his eyes, opens them. Okay.
When he gets up on wobbly legs and walks over, Sebastian’s done, but has clearly been splashing water on his face. His cheeks and eyelashes’re wet.
“I’m s-”
“Don’t be,” Sebastian interjects. His voice sounds as tremulous as Chris’s knees. “Don’t. Just-just hold me.”
Chris sits right down there on the bathroom floor, on the plush memory-foam rug Sebastian’d fallen head over heels for in the store, and opens arms. His husband curls up into them, both of them naked in so many ways.
Chris rests his cheek in damp soft hair. The bathroom lights shine down in hushed white, and the knobs and fixture shine right back. Compassionate. Safe. Companionable.
Sebastian says, voice very small but clear, “I’m crying because it felt good, you know.”
“Yeah.” He kisses the top of his submissive’s head. “I know.” He does. If he thinks about it too much, he ends up wincing: so many social taboos, childhood training, the internalized sense of shamefulness and dirtiness…
But that doesn’t matter. They’re not hurting anyone else, he’s certainly never going to enforce this one except in private and on special occasions, and they both like the way the power-play makes them feel. So it’s good. They’re good. Together.
He says as much, fumblingly. Sebastian nods, but then says, “Yellow, sir. I’m sorry.”
After the scene, Chris thinks. Not during. “Because it’s too intense?”
“Because…yes…I said it now on purpose. I do like it. I just mean-not again anytime soon. I need to…” A handwave, searching for vocabulary. “Equilibrium. I can’t do this every day.”
“Fair enough.” He takes Sebastian’s closest hand, linking their fingers. “I don’t think I’d ask you to. Too much, kinda, if we made it an everyday thing. You’re not, like, a pet or something, I’m not gonna take you on walks to the bathroom, y’know.”
“I should hope not.” Dry and amused, which is better than the dreadful post-scene crash Chris’s heart’s been subconsciously anticipating. “Though…and this is not a disagreement…I seem to recall you calling me your kitten, once or twice.”
“Yeah, well. You kinda are. Sunshine and staying warm and fluffy blankets and cuddling with me. I like it. I love you.”
“And you said you wanted to be able to pet me,” Sebastian says. “Always. I love you. It’s not a never again, only a slow down. I know it was my idea, this time. I enjoyed it.”
“Thought you did. I did too. If you couldn’t tell.”
“Oh,” Sebastian purrs, tilting that head up to kiss him, letting Chris know they’re okay and the bathroom rug is okay and the whole world is okay, “I could tell.”
“Just let me know when,” Chris says, “or not, or whatever,” and kisses him back, drinking him in.