#bottom chris

Surprisingly, Dodger doesn't tip you off to the sound of a car pulling in your drive by barking rowdily, nor do you hear the keys in the door to alert yourself, and, somehow, the door swinging open then shutting behind your boyfriend doesn't register to you either. It all slips past your periphery until—

An indistinct dark shape moves past your vision, somewhere behind your phone screen where you're staring intently. 

The sudden appearance of something—someone in your living room is enough to startle you, reacting impulsively by inhaling sharply at the same time that your whole body jolts intensely. Your phone lands with a dull clatter in your lap with your sudden movement, both hands sort of throwing it, but one of your hands drops it entirely as it flies to your thundering chest instead. 

“Oh my god,” you exclaim, doing a little bit of catching your breath after identifying the random, moving shape as Chris. 

Of course, it's just Chris. You just weren't expecting him to be here—he went to the gym earlier, and the hours have slipped past too fast. 

It's just Chris. 

And Chris’ low, familiar chuckle, but otherwise non-reaction is telling enough for your eyes to snap right back to him rather than fishing around your lap and the underlying couch cushions. He always delights in frightening you. It's basically one of his hobbies at this point—if not just one of his favorite things. A non-purposeful scare should be a fucking score for him, like a free space in bingo or some shit. But instead, he's just mildly laughing to himself, hanging in the open space between the kitchen and living room. 

As you take him in—almost physically dragging your eyes along his body, head to toe, the man that he is—you catalog that, apparently, he's being fucking fucked up by his workout. 

How long was he at the gym anyway?

It couldn't have been that long, right? 

You aren't going to check your phone, though, not when another interesting detail registers in your head suddenly: he's so sweaty. 

Like, he's really fucking sweaty. 

And it's not that he doesn't sweat, he absolutely does, he works out all the time, and he runs hot—it doesn't take much to make him sweat. Including not much of a quickie to have him fired up, blushing high on his cheeks, and glowing down to his chest. But, also, just a few too many clothes on too warm of a day, and he's complaining about the heat, shedding extra layers, his long sleeves, or his clothes entirely, if it's appropriate. The difference is that he's also obsessive about hygiene. Maybe because he typically sweats so much. Either way, you've never met another man so focused on it from his endearing breath mint predisposition, buying exclusively and traveling with a particular brand of soap that he greatly prefers, his body hair trimmed routinely in a head-to-toe fashion, not only some standard manscaping down south, being obsessive about cologne and always trying new kinds, and more. Chris also applies and reapplies deodorant—like his breath mint fixation, sometimes you think it's more an absentminded, comforting habit than a need. There's no way he sweats through deodorant like that. 

Further, he doesn't like to go out and look bad with the practical reality of always being stopped for pictures, and having visible pit stains is not part of looking good. Also, you couldn't attempt to count the number of times he's changed shirts before leaving the house to counter his hot, running-hot body and any possible pit stains. 

So, all in all, there's something about… 

Yeah.

Staring at him, him staring back at you, comfortable silence with an edge, there's something about this. 

Were the showers at the gym not working? Did he forget to put on deodorant? Did he not pack a change of clothes for after the gym? He's just—

He's so sweaty. 

Chris is sweating through his faded gym shirt, the fabric thin enough to cling like all his shirts, screaming around the defined cut of his muscles, which are especially emboldened after a few hours of lifting up and throwing around heavy shit. That shirt could not be tighter. You see it every time he breathes, just this side of heaving. His nipples are hard. And. Yeah. Sweaty. He's sweating enough that that fucking shirt is all dark around the base of his thick neck and soaked at his underarms. His fucking arms are so huge, you'd think his muscles would block the soaked-in sweat, but… it's a lot of sweat. There's even darker, wetter fabric clinging to the undercurve of his pecs, crescent shapes that show exactly how shapely he is. 

Shit.

Trying to be discreet, you inhale as you shift on the couch, really fully setting your phone aside ‘cause who the fuck needs that. You have something better to entertain you now. Meanwhile, your legs spread themselves just a little. You can smell him. Not his cologne, deodorant, or laundry detergent. Not even his breath mints, his mouth is open, breathing a little heavier like he ran home from the gym and didn't drive. Him. You can smell him. 

Something about that drives you crazy. Immediately. Maybe it's the fucking pheromones. You're pretty sure that's bullshit pseudo-science… right?

Right? 

He just—

He smells really good. 

Like. He smells bad. But… it's good. All, dripping testosterone. Shed through his sweat and caught up against his heated skin and too-tight clothes. The feverish urge to strip him with your teeth and lick his skin takes over—you can't help but bite your lip. 

“What?” Chris asks, breaking the escalating silence. 

“Hmm?” You manage. Barely. 

“What?” He repeats himself, voice not losing the delicious, low rumble of his chuckle. 

“Oh, nothing,” you allow your knees to slide further apart, not hiding how good it makes you feel on your face when his eyes immediately drop to watch. “How was the gym?” You brush past it. 

“Fine,” he sighs, half shrugging with one huge shoulder. 

“Yeah,” you lick your teeth, under your upper lip, feeling the sharp edge get caught on the texture of your tongue. It feels good to have something in your mouth, especially when watching Chris shift his weight on his feet, his slim hips looking ridiculously tiny with his elastic-banded, thin basketball shorts. For as much as he wears the same t-shirts for years and years on end until they're too thin to hide the dark ink of his tattoos or even the delicate color of his peaked nipples, he can't do the same with shorts or sweats. Unless it's a physical drawstring that he can tie into a neat bow, the elastic wears thin, and they sliiiide right off his ridiculous proportions. 

You can't think about the number of times when just the weight of his phone in his pocket teases his worn-out sweats or shorts down, revealing that strip of smooth, flat skin between his hips, or you'll blow all your cards now, throwing them down on the table and just going straight in for the kill. 

What's the fun without a little build-up? 

“You work hard?” You find yourself asking. “Your trainer jerking you around a lot?” 

Chris’ handsome eyebrow raises despite his apparent tiredness, smiling slyly at your innuendo. Apparently, it's his turn to eye you up and down. Of course, predictably, his eyes get stuck on your spread legs—they're even wider apart than you realized, lazing back into the couch, exposing yourself despite the complete outfit you have on. Still. For now. 

Your appetite simmers under his gaze. 

“You in some kinda mood?” He asks with those plush lips. 

“Maybe,” you bite back what would surely be a vicious smile, “why? Are you interested in finding out?” 

“Maybe,” he claims, but as he stands there, he also can't hide how he winces a little, shaking out his hand from a shoulder cramp or something that suddenly rushes over him. 

He's wearing his workout and it's fresh off the runway. You want it. 

You want it badly. 

So, you don't bother standing up from the couch; instead, you relax back even more, sinking into the sofa. “Oh, baby—” spreading your arms across the back of the couch, you take control of the tension, fisting it and pulling, you want it all coming your way, “—you worked out too hard, didn’t you?”

Before he can answer, you jerk your head to the side, “why don't you come over here and sit down. Take it easy for a minute. You deserve it, y’know?” 

Chris looks at you, suspicious but mischievous, too, palming his shoulder with one big hand, digging his fingers in with an impromptu massage. 

“C'mon,” you curl your fingers, sliding one movement into the next to pat the spot next to you. Confident and slick, you know you look good. 

You especially know when he listens to your beckon without a second thought. 

He slides over, bringing his heady, masculine smell with him, somehow light on tired feet, and he sits. How sweet. He's so suggestible and loyal. Kind of like a dog. The comparison physically strikes you, leaving you to suppress a shiver, tamping it down to be just inside you, writhing low in your gut like a tangling pit of snakes. Jesus. The way he makes you feel should be illegal. 

He settles in close to you, but he could always be closer, so—

You shift to really press against him. 

Then, intimately, you hover for a breath-holding second before touching down your fingertips to his hot, sweat-slick skin. You wear a sensual path from the sensitive, pale skin just behind his ear aaall down his neck with its throbbing veins to the collar of his soaked, fragrant shirt. Smearing your fingerprints across his body, you incidentally gather his sweat on your skin. Briefly, in an electric flash, you think about licking your fingers—the idea is so erotic, but also, you've barely started. Perhaps that's too lewd, even if the next thing out of your mouth is, “you wanna take that off?” 

You mean his shirt, tugging at his soaked collar, just hinting at revealing the ink below, clinging to his freshly pumped muscles. His trapezius, his pectoralis, all the abdominal muscles too, and more. You can't get too carried away yet, though. 

‘Cause Chris teases back, “and what, slip into something more comfortable?” 

You snort at his tone of voice, comically sensual and smooth rather than his natural-not-trying-yet-always-panty-dropping speaking voice, shoving at his solid frame, “in a way.” Before he starts trying to tickle you or some shit, you tease back, whining for show, “c'monnn.” Then, tracing his jawline, catching the stubble he's left around his mouth, just enough to prickle (especially when he goes down on you), you whisper, “I'll do all the work.” 

With all of his weight sunk into the cushions underneath your pressed-together bodies, he lets his neck relax too, suddenly dropping it back. 

Mirroring him, your eyes drop. 

His bulge is getting fucking visible. It always is, he’s big, but, like—

He's fucking hard. 

It just makes your arousal, tight and hot, burn from a simmer to a boil. 

“You already did so much today—” You lay it on thick, but who cares, voice all breath and rasp. You can't help it. You're just moving, more than pressed against him, you're turning to totally face him, and once you're looking at him-? 

God, there's not a fucking thing you can do but rush to lay your hands all over him. And that starts with pushing, urgently, at his big, fuckin’ huge shoulders. You absolutely need to get him lying flat as soon as possible. You're going to crawl all over him, you're gonna bite him, you're going to—

Thank fuck, as Chris is plunging downstream with you—following the current you set, both sopping wet like water and electric like, well, electricity—you're smart enough to remember his clothes have to come off. Now. As the handsome motherfucker goes down, crumbling by your hands, you peel off his shirt. And it is peeling. The skin-tight fabric is stuck to him. Pulling and peeling, tugging and tumbling, you swear to god you hear a few of the seams of his shirt start to give. You don't care. Fuck the shirt. 

Actually—

Fuck the shirt. 

Chris’ broad body hits the couch cushions and bounces. He’s so into falling for you, he's so tired after hitting the gym, he's half-laughing, “oof,” and you. You are staring dead in his eyes as you take that fucking shirt—balled up in both your hands now, a deceptively small amount of fabric for something that was just covering such a big, big man—and lift it to your face. Specifically, you hold it over your mouth and nose. You're chloroforming yourself practically, but there'd be no better way to go than like this: straddling his thighs, inhaling the scent of his sweat deeply, watching his whole face blush pink. 

You can't blame pheromones, even if you are fucking huffing them, for the next rush of arousal; lust coiling inside you, strangling your thundering heart, and leaving you aching. All the credit for that swooping—swooning feeling goes to that goddamn pretty tint of red.  C'mon, what's better than a man like Chris Evans blushing for you? Just because you're filthy. 

He likes it when you're fucking nasty. 

And, breath hitching on top of him… you can't say he's wrong. You like yourself like this. You are all but physically feeling yourself like this (any less willpower to completely destroy your boyfriend, and you would be, you'd be sliding your hands all over yourself, you'd be reaching your hands up your own shirt and down your pants to—)

Shit, you are so fucking turned on, your desire doesn't just boil, but it boils over.

You can't help yourself. 

“Just—yeah, just like this,” you paw at his bare chest, out of breath yourself, fingernails scratching through his chest hair, and palm sensing how hard his heart is pounding beneath all that muscle and bone. You hush his groan with a fox-sly grin, “shh, don't worry. Don't worry about a thing.” 

And, such a good dog, he doesn't. You can see it on his drool-worthy face. In his eyes. He's gone quiet in there—he isn't thinking, isn't worrying, he's feeling you palm his slick, sweaty pecs. His mounded, thick muscles squeezed and groped. His taut, eager nipples begging to be pinched and licked until he's pushing your head down, insisting you fucking touch him anywhere else before he completely goes out of his mind on too-much, not-enough pleasure. His sure, always gorgeous ink that you know the taste of, under your lips, teeth, and tongue. 

Further, you drag your fingers down his taut, clenching abdomen—the robust ridges of his washboard stomach. And, mouth unashamedly watering, you lift the elastic band of his clinging shorts and boxer briefs all in one go.  They slide so easily off his body. No fight. All whorish desire. His shorts and underwear were useless anyhow, not hiding a damn thing. Not with a cock like that, bouncing out of his clothes and hitting, slapping attractively, proudly, against his low stomach. 

This time, you can't suppress your shiver, and so it rolls through you entirely, resonating especially destructively between your legs. 

Fuck. 

“Just like this,” you soothe, yourself and Chris, your appetite is just raging, stomach practically growling with your hands flat down his body, curling around his hips. “Just—” shit. There's not the supplies for this in the living room in the middle of that damn day. Why, why, why haven't you two learned to keep lube everyplace for every time an urge strikes? “—Stay right here for me, handsome,” you fix your statement before launching yourself off the couch, running down the hall, quickly collecting the lube, and coming back. 

Seeing him again, lying there for you, waiting, one arm tucked behind his head, biceps bulging without even trying, cradling the back of his own head in a baseball mitt-sized hand… 

All that skin. 

All that sweat. 

You are not ashamed of the throaty moan that erupts from your lips as you take your place on his lap again, stretching out like a smug cat. If you’re the cat with the canary, pleased and purring, then Chris is a dirty dog. A very loyal dog, spread out, and waiting for you. Damn, does he look good enough to eat. 

Your lips, your teeth, and your tongue all explore his available, bared flesh as you shift just enough to lift one of his overworked, trembling legs. His skin is smooth despite his body hair, slicked down with sweat, and his muscles are heavy. There’s so much muscle—meat—packed onto his frame. He tastes like sweat, salt, and sex in your mouth. Sucking rough, sharp-edged kisses sloppily down his thigh from his knee to the heady, musky space between his legs, you hardly resist leaving marks. Just barely. Mr. Movie Star can’t have that. 

Too bad. 

You kiss his body more and more, dragging your mouth along him with your lips brushing his skin until he groans, goosebumps rising across his leg involuntarily. You almost bite down hard enough to mark him up. The crease of his thigh where it blends into his hip. The base of his cock. That one vein that sits so close to the surface of his skin, traveling across his hip, down the flat, smooth muscle of his very low abdomen, feeding into his cock—under your tongue, you can feel his pulse in that thick, rushing vein’s bulge. You push back down, tonguing and kissing to the weight of his balls. 

He's irresistible. 

As much as you must taste him, you have to feel him, too. You just have to. And so, easy as anything, you wrap your fist around his heavy, throbbing cock, squeezing all his girth, then… after a little while of playing, palming him, feeling him throb, twitch, and eyeing how the tip of his cock starts to pearl with pre-cum… jerking him off. 

Jerking. 

Tasting. 

Feeling. Tasting. Really fucking feeling it. He throbs. He twitches. He humps up toward you, his ass and thighs flexing enticingly. At the corners of your face, just above your open lower jaw, the sensation of your saliva glands tingling—rushing as your mouth waters—should embarrass you, but it doesn’t. It can’t. You’re fucking locked in. He’s delectable. And you’re powerless not to let him try and hump up against your face and fist a handful of times, rubbing his leaking dick all over you, painting you in a thin layer of his desire, sweat and pre-cum, before you shut him down. That isn’t how this is going to go. 

So, you firmly press his hips down, sliding your fingers all up against his wildly attractive Adonis belt. Your fingers fit so fucking perfectly against those stupidly arousing grooves. Cum gutters or whatever the fuck they’re called. You can’t think. Just—

Fuck. this. man. 

Like fuck him.

You don't have anything clever to say to his stupidifying, gorgeous face, slackened in honest pleasure and trust, letting you control his movements and his pleasure, you just—“turn over,” you breathe hotly, mouthing at his knee. Okay, more teeth than lips as you mouth at him. Not so harmless. You want to bite. 

Chris does as you ask, responding to your voice hot and raw with his heavy leg sliding off of your shoulder and his acres of muscle clenching and shifting as he rolls sensuously over onto his belly. 

Damn. 

The sight of his ass never gets old. 

And there is only one thing to do with a man, spread out like he's on a platter, chest against the flat of the couch while his hips are unable to resist tipping up and back, shoving his ass sluttily out at you, his strong spine arched like a bitch in heat. Only one thing. 

You do it. 

You finger him. 

Popping open the cap of the lube with a familiar click that kills him if his groan is anything to go by, and slicking up three of your fingers, you make sure to get your fingers excessively wet just because the sloppy sounds of sex are one of Chris’ favorite things. He’s just as nasty as you, thank fuck. Always wanting to hear it, feel it, breathe it in, and taste it. 

He wants it. 

You’re right there with him, wasting no time and quickly prepping him. Teasing his entrance, then, when he’s ready for it—soon enough with all the lead up and his ever-present hunger—you make sure to press your first finger in, shallow at first, teasing in and out until his labored breathing catches on an exhale. You know he’s about to fight for words, ready to ask for more. So, you give him what he wants, going in deeper, faster, and revel in his shocked little coughing exhale. The muscles in the low of his back tense with need. Desperately, you want to see him shake. 

You add your second finger, and he’s with it now, taking it easily, arching his back, trying to subtly draw his knees under himself to get better leverage despite your earlier shoving him down and promise that you’ll do everything. You don’t let him have it. You won’t let him get his knees under him. You add your third finger and curl all of them, hitting his prostate so good that his body jerks and he flattens back down, all the air rushing out of his lungs under the weight of heated flames that lick and lap at his body, melting him. 

You do it again, rushing with power, curling your fingers, tugging at his rim, and stimulating his prostate until he’s bellowing helplessly into the couch cushions under the weight of pleasure. Crashing in. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure—every time you curl your fingers and press against his prostate. 

Jesus. 

You can take another fucking second of this tease. Touching him but not being inside him. You need inside him. 

You have to—

Slick. 

More slick. 

There’s probably more than enough lube coating his hole, deep inside him, and dripping out of his messy, clenching rim, but what the hell. Who gives a shit? Add more. Get messier. All rationale is out of the window; it’s not like you’re thinking about suspicious lube and cum stains on your couch when your boyfriend is face down, breathing like he’s about to start crying, just a little, if you don’t keep fucking him immediately now. 

Fuck yes, you slick up and you shove in, sighing in head-spinning pleasure as Chris heartily groans while you bottom out inside his tight ass. He doesn't always prefer bottoming. But when he does… 

Shit. 

He just takes it. 

It's so fucking good for you both. 

And right now, you have a fire under your ass, a fire through your whole body, really. It's not just a fever. It's fire. It’s boiling over arousal that demands you fuck his ass and you fuck him hard, carving space for yourself inside him, perversely reveling in each goddamn guttural sound that's knocked out of his big, powerful lungs against the force of your every thrust. More and more guttural and also more high and higher with his moans and whimpers. (How do sounds like that come out of a man like him? Chris Evans. Good god.) More loose. Thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out. He's losing it around you, underneath you, and for you. You're in it for his pleasure, of fucking course, you are; nothing turns you on more than that fucked-out, dumb look on his movie-star, leading-man, handsome face, but, worse, pushing you both higher, he's also in it for you. He trusts you. He wants you. He's letting you in. Before you, he’d never done something like this—getting his ass handed to him, fucked until he’s bleary and dumb around the edges. You’re making him melt. Sometimes you don’t know what’s better: the pleasure itself from fucking him, or the reactions he gives to it. 

He's trembling, just how you craved. Shaking. Fucked hard. 

The visceral pleasure of getting fucked is so good. 

His big paws have curled themselves into fists, and he's weakly punching—pounding the cushions while you pound his ass. 

Thrusting hard. 

Hitting his prostate. 

Making him take it. 

Drenching him in pleasure as the room vibrates with the sloppy, wet sounds of sex, only interrupted by the involuntary sounds that escape both of your hanging-open mouths, groans, whimpers, swears, scraps of dirty talk that are cut too short too soon, choked back by another wordless moan. 

And still, because he's so unreasonably hot, it's not enough. More, more, more. You need more of him. His hot piece of ass. His thick thighs. His shifting, rippling back. His. Him. Yours. He's yours. 

You want to and you can, so you do—you grab, grip, and grope Chris’ huge fucking shoulders, digging your nails in, leaving crescent marks and dragging lines of raised, pink skin down his back, listening to the growling sound it earns from him. He can't get away from the slam of your hips against his ass with your hold on him. Fucking him. You pull him back onto it. He doesn't move much because he's fucking heavy, but his hips do tilt, and it does make his moans pitch that much higher. Breathy and shocked by how good it feels like he can’t believe how hot it is to be split open like this. His sound rips a responsive yet opposing deep sound from you. You are feral. You can do anything. 

Everything. 

You thrive like this; so much so that you can't even realize how hard you're working, how much you're sweating now, how, how—

How nothing else matters. 

Nothing but the delectable contrast between his broad football all-star shoulders compared to his tiny, little dancer waist. Well. That and his hole stretched wide around you, taking it like a champ. 

Yet, somehow, even worse than your eyes flicking between his huge shoulders and tiny waist and tinier hole, is focusing on the excruciatingly erotic sight of just a sliver of the side of Chris’ face as he fights and loses the battle to hold himself up. His shaking, iron-pumped, bulging arms aren't enough under the onslaught of lust. Resting even that low on his forearms, he should be sturdy, but he can't.

He collapses, thick arms sliding apart and out from under him with nothing left to hang onto. 

And that face—

The surrender. 

You could cum from just that. His fucking face!

His dazed, watery eyes and fluttering eyelashes; every thrust bounces his eyes into momentarily rolling back. Constantly, his lush, red lips stay open, dripping with groans and whines that have never sounded sweeter to your ears. And his flushed skin, blushing all the way to the hot shell of his ear, the curve of his neck, and certainly his big chest, even if you can’t see it. Jesus, he probably is getting off on being fucked and having his hard nipples rubbed against the texture of the couch cushions. 

You might goddamn growl.

Just. Jesus. He's so pretty. 

The way his muscles shift when he tenses, too. Woof. It’s too much. Way, way too much, just like how fucking ready he is to cum. It’s everything. You can see it. In his face. In his body. In his sounds. You want it. You want him to more than you want to cum. 

You’re fucking him like you’re daring him to cum. And… 

Aren’t you? Isn’t that what this is? A dare? Do it, do it, do it, your mind races so thoroughly, obsessing over him, teetering on the edge, that—

“Let go, baby, let go,” you roughly hush into the back of Chris’ fever-hot neck, out of breath as your hand traces down the sweat-drenched line of his spine. 

And. Docile and loyal, letting you work him over, surrendering to you to totally exhaust him—he does. 

He cums. 

Clenching and twitching and pumping in surges all over the couch, he cums, going almost silent as he shatters. Hitting and crumbling through his orgasm. 

And, of course, you are helpless not to meet him there, rushing to the finish, in just a few more frantic pumps, getting sloppy and selfish right at the end. He feels so good. He looks so good. He, him—Chris, Chris, Chris. You moan his name as you cum, hitting your climax and still relishing in his. You fucking destroyed him.

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.

I'm thinking about how when Chris was 24, it would've been 2005, and so he hadn't met Seb yet by that point, but all roads lead to Sebastian, so, when he does meet Sebastian and they've been together for a while, somehow this interview clip comes up.

I don't have a set idea of how it surfaces--maybe someone (probably Mackie, lmao, trolling him because it's fun and because he knows first hand how competitive Sebastian can be when you push his buttons) sends him the clip saying he should if 24 is still his favorite age or not, maybe Sebastian stumbles across it on his own on YouTube and gets curious, or maybe he's missing Chris and rewatching old clips of him when they're in different cities for different projects which Chris finds out about, asking him how he's doing and receiving nothing but a blush, and then Seb gives him lip back for how he looked in those days, handsome yes, but the fashion, Chris, the fashion is... something. Whatever the reason, yes, that clip.

That clip needs a modern explanation.

And Chris, for all his dark eyes, confident smirks, and cocksure manhandling of Sebastian when he's feeling frisky, when something is suddenly sprung on him, he can get quite shy. It's adorable for such a muscle-bound, virile guy if you ask Sebastian. It's too innocent, almost. The way just the right, perfectly-timed out-of-the-blue innuendo, abrupt wink, or slap on the ass, and he's blushing.

The soft embarrassment almost doesn't fit on his large, broad frame, yet it's there. It's there and it's fucking vivid--spread like hot, liquid butter melted into golden toast from one cheek over the bridge of his handsome nose to the other, shaded by his glasses and thick beard. He can't hide behind any of it, though, not his beard, his glasses, or the sweeping wings of his grown-out hair shading his forehead, curling around his ears.

God, Sebastian wants to plaster himself to Chris, tip to tail, he could swoon and press into him so hard right now.

Chris blushing and stuttering--stumbling over his words and his own limbs in the suddenness of Sebastian's filthiness--is almost always accompanied by a narrowing of his eyes and a tilt of his head.

Sebastian is nothing if not the sweetest menace.

So.

Before I get more distracted by more gifs of Seb looking so bratty, Sebastian brings the clip up to Chris, asking a seemingly innocent question that he knows has some undertone to it. He can see the dazed, satisfied look beneath Chris' put-on cool. He knows there's a story there, one he wouldn't tell, couldn't tell, and he intends to find out what, even if he has to pull it out of his man sputtered, pink-cheeked word by sputtered, pink-cheeked word.

Chris tumbles through his answer with his voice stuck in that low, rough register that Seb has become so fucking intimately familiar with, reacting to it like a dog hearing the word "dinner." He could drool. And speaking of drooling and mouths and appetites... Chris' plush lips just get redder and wetter until they're glistening and swollen from all the biting and licking he does as he retells the story. Sebastian doesn't think he knows he's doing it. If he does know, then he's a bastard, a fucking cocktease, but--

That look on his face?

Nah.

He's not teasing.

Really, he's caught up in a heated, sticky whirlwind in his mind, sweeping him off his feet and carrying him into the thick of the tempest deep inside his body. A core of pure want.

As he's thrown roughly about by the winds, feeling the pull of old eroticisms, sparks reignited, he doesn't spare a detail. It might take gentle, urging encouragement from Seb at first, verifying sincerely that he does want to know, and it's not making him jealous to know, quite the opposite--as he listens intently, hanging off the edge of every detail with his fingernails dug in, Seb finds that he has to involuntarily shift in his seat, half-shivering, letting his knees fall wide open as his blood starts to heat and thicken, redirecting to his knotted gut.

Seb thickly swallows the excess spit pooling in his mouth. Inhale, exhale; he has to remember how to breathe. He can't help but imagine every fucking word he manages to pull out from his lover's oh-so alluring mouth.

In the same way that Chris fidgets by sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and licking it lavishly, his eyes move and change; they flit back and forth like a flame pushed by a howling wind. He's staring between Sebastian's eyes--their gazes meeting and all but crackling with the intensity--and some middle distance that Seb can't see but knows holds all of Chris' visceral memories. Memories that wash over him in sticky, hot waves, lapping at his skin in phantom flames, pushing up against him as hot, humid summer breezes.

Chris' skin, normally pale, tints more and more pink the deeper he dives into his tale.

He usually talks with his hands, but as he goes on and on and on... he doesn't.

Rather than making gestures to add emphasis intentionally, he's obscenely absently rubbing his big, heavy palms up and down, up and down, up and down, the length of his muscular thighs. It almost looks like he's soothing himself against the onslaught of intensity; it almost looks like he's groping himself against the onslaught of the intensity. Either way, he can't help but touch.

Touch himself.

Every now and again, though, Chris suddenly realizes what he's doing, his hands creeping inappropriately high on his own body, and he shoves his hands back under his thighs, sitting on them. But. They just keep coming out to play the deeper into his story he gets. He can't help it.

Every new detail is more alluring than the last.

Sebastian hoards every piece of them, stowing them away like something gleaming and precious. They are. The way he's describing it, god, it is precious in the most perverse way--trusting her completely, feeling so vulnerable and exposed to her, all but on his knees at her mercy while certainly not literally, physically being on his knees, just emotionally, gutting, so gutting, his eyes rolling for it, his mouth gasping uncontrollably, no, moaning uncontrollably while the rest of his body shook, boneless and limp at the same time that he wanted to writhe, maybe he was writhing, squirming, fisting the sheets, arching his back to get more without stopping to think of if he should or not, fuck, whether or not he was squirming for it, he definitely was crying during it, his first time crying from the intensity of the physical sensations, he's cried during sex before for emotional, connecting reasons, he had never been so fucking turned on like that before that he couldn't help it, the tears just came out, falling, spilling over, running down his cheeks, smeared into the pillows, so fucking insane, so good it was shocking, nails digging crescents into his lean hips, embarrassing, but not, impossible almost, the way it felt, stretched, raw, full, too much, and, just, too much--swearing after the fact that he couldn't fuckin' have that all the time of he'd go crazy.

Too good.

Chris got pegged.

Chris Evans got fucking pegged in 2005 and it was too good.

Having all that spilled out in front of him in a beautiful, messy masterpiece, Sebastian honestly fucking wants to shove his hand into his pants right here and now. Fuck getting into his own pants, though, he could just sliiiide his hand down over the front of his pants and cum in his pants like an overexcited teenager, panting, whining, picturing his biggest crush on the backs of his eyelids in varying positions, all these possibilities, not really knowing, but wanting to know so fucking bad it hurts. He is so fucking turned on. He's a goddamn glowing neon sign, lit with bright, obvious red arousal.

Jesus Christ.

But, Chris keeps going and the hot-shower thick, foggy air dulls slightly. His voice takes on something gentler and softer. As good as that was, it just happened a few times, maybe not even a few? Kinda hard to exactly remember. Maybe just twice? Three times? Four... nah, not actually four. Less. It had to be less. There's no way it was that much. They broke up eventually--obviously, for him to get to Sebastian. He'd much, much rather be with Seb, of course, he fucking loves him and they work great and it's so. good.

However, continuing down the path, investigating more and digging deeper, hoping to hit that deep, raspy register again like you hope to hit water when digging a well, Sebastian pushes him a little more, a spark of hope (or something else, something more inappropriate) within him--did he seek it out more, then? It couldn't've just been that one woman, right!? Just with her? And not even a decent number with her. Just a rarity? If it really was all that, wouldn't've it have been more!? Sebastian just fucking can't get that image out of his head: Chris, big, muscular, masculine, so gutting-ly masculine, and, ugh, just manly, yet bent over some plush bed, ripping through the pile of pillows crowding his red-hot face, the sheets and bedding all fucked up around his thrumming body, sweating so badly he glistens temptingly, moaning so loudly as he takes some brightly colored strap up the ass for the first time, and uncomprehending of how good it feels to be fucked. Unable to deal with it. He'd be totally consumed in the pleasure the lucky lady is giving him--fucking him. And if he's not grasping at the sheets then he'd be touching himself, gripping his own body bruisingly, trying to ground himself, trying to deal with the exquisite pleasure and failing, failing so hard with, shit, maybe some lipstick or makeup from earlier making out smeared over his gaped mouth, smeared into his bearded jaw, and smudged down his thick throat--

But, no.

Chris explains that at first, he was too tender to think of it for a while--no matter how mindblowing it was--then when he was recovered enough to wonder about it... he trails off. He doesn't know. He doesn't know why, really.

Out loud, Chris wonders if maybe he just doesn't attract those kinds of women? Girls that would be into that, though--he laughs--he can't imagine there are many women totally fucking put off by the thought. But, he's aware of how he looks, and with a casual, all-too-smooth, stretch-and-rest, he sprawls an arm out to cover Sebastian's shoulders, his hand scruffing the back of his neck meaningful look, he knows what Seb's preference with him is. It's fine. He likes that, too. A lot! He likes it a lot--getting rough and throwing him around, giving him orders, folding him up into a ball, and fucking him until he cries. Yet, at Sebastian's prompting, he finishes with how it just never came up. So he didn't do it again. Just that time.

A few times.

Seb needs a m i n u t e to catch up.

He needs to get a handle on himself.

He's not sure if he'll be able to deal with the knowledge of 24-year-old, in 2005, Chris letting a woman put something up his ass. That was not cool then. And Seb'd, just, kind of assumed based on their fucking around that Chris hadn't done anything like that (Sebastian thought he was the kinky, experienced one between the two of them but maybe that needs to be teased out of Chris, too (that is SO a pet project for another day)) and, honestly, Seb doesn't know if he should be jealous of her for being his first or if he should demand to be given her phone number so he can call her up and thank her, maybe he'll send her fucking flowers, for Christ's sake. That mental image is delicious.

Thank you.

Of course, though, he's sensitive to Chris' big heart. He can understand that waiting while still heartsore completely. And, yes, he shivers continually from Chris' hand, still heavy and big on the back of his neck, making everything around him shine just a little brighter, feeling a little dreamier. But, he is nothing if not constantly on edge because of Chris, anyone would be, he's a walking wet dream, at any given time, Sebastian's mind is half-full of dirty fantasies, so he can't really be blamed for it when he just blurts that shit out--

"I could fuck you, you know."

Chris' mouth opens and shuts. Multiple times. He's gaping like a fish out of water, no oxygen to be found. But he can't seem to help it. Some wordless sound that is supposed to be communication but isn't comes out of his open-shut-open mouth.

"Chris, babe," Seb jokingly pleads with him, leaning in, hand on his thigh, "did I break your brain? Are you okay?"

His mouth moves more as if trying to say that his brain isn't, no, it's--it's fine, he's fine, he... Chris apparently gives up as quickly as he starts to defend himself, stumbling through, "you know, I, uh, um," he shifts in his seat, "don't laugh, okay?"

"Okay," Seb agrees immediately.

"I-I didn't think of that," Chris mumbles in his general direction.

Seb slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle what is, certainly, a laugh despite what he just said.

Chris glares, "Seeeeeeb," he drags out, whining in that Boston-boy way he has sometimes. Nothing but a big, jovial kid at heart.

"I think I should feel insulted," Seb recovers, choking back one last humourous bark, but before Chris can protest to his words, he continues, "I don't." He clarifies. "I don't feel insulted. And don't look at me like that, I'm pretty sure I know what you mean, anyway, you don't have to say it. Y'know? Yeah, like, yeah," he agrees with himself, "we started hooking up but you didn't have experience while I just wanted it bad," he bites his lip, shooting Chris a hopefully killer, dark glance before carrying on, "so there was one way that was easy. Big deal," he shrugs, "we got into the habit of doing it one way," again, he shrugs, this time with one shoulder instead of two, "I should've asked. I just assumed."

"I should've asked," Chris emphasizes, then under his breath, he adds, "I should've thought about it."

"Well," Sebastian's hand lands back on his knee, dragging itself, fingertips teasing and light, up the length of his thigh towards his crotch, "you're thinking about it now, right?" He's looking up at Chris through his lashes, knowing (because Chris has confessed as much to him) that he looks deceptively sweet and coltish for someone who damn well knows how to get into trouble--especially with that mouth of his.

When he expectantly sucks on his bottom lip, waiting for an answer, Chris' eyes fall there.

Predictable.

He gets lost. It's easy to see--to hear, even with the catch of his breath.

So, to help him out, because he's nice like that, Seb tilts his head to the side and clears his throat at the same time. He could just giggle with the apologetic look that graces Chris face, acting like a good, respectful man caught staring at someone's boobs on accident. As if he hasn't done worse to Seb. As if Seb doesn't want him to do worse.

"Yeah..." Chris finds his voice. Eventually. First, his eyes get that same foggy glaze as they have in the video, right fucking in front of him this time, better than any camera could ever capture. He's thinking about it. Fuck, he's probably overlaying that past pleasure with his ex and every wicked, filthy thing Sebastian's already done to him and new possibilities. New delights and overwhelming pleasures that Seb could show him, threatened with a good time. More than good. Seb is gonna ensure that it's better than good. Chris' impossible eyelashes flutter, "yeah, I am. I'm thinking about it."

"Good," Seb whispers back, a smirk sharp on his lips. He folds himself into Chris' lap, following the line of his arm back towards its owner, taking it and curling it around his waist.

Instinctively, those lovely fucking hands find their way beneath Sebastian's shirt. Skin to skin. His heart races.

"I could fuck you," Seb breathes, repeating himself nonsensically.

"Yeah," Chris agrees, blinking up at him from where he's perched in his lap.

A bolt of arousal stabs through Sebastian's chest suddenly, all but making his bones fucking rattle, god, he cards his hands through Chris' hair, sliding through his grown-out locks like silk, and manages to catch at the end, tilting his head back so he's really fucking looking up at him, "tell me you want it," he hushes, their lips just barely brushing.

Chris' paws harder at his waist, squeezing him, "I want it," he groans. Arching his neck, he fights to connect their lips for real, he just wants a kiss, but Seb deftly evades him. He lets his hands fall from his luscious hair and instead holds his head, his jaw, in his hands, feeling that thick fucking beard and reveling in it. He's gonna have this fucking beard between his legs again. Soon. He has to. He will. Yes. "I want it," Chris repeats.

"What?" Seb asks, letting his thumb rest on the pillow of Chris' bottom lip.

"I want you to fuck me," he shuts his eyes against the sheer tidal wave of lust carried in his proclamation, the words punched out of his chest in a breathy moan, gently biting at his thumb, kissing the tip.

Fuck.

Sebastian rips his thumb out of that lush mouth with a distinct 'pop' and smashes their lips together instead. Immediately it's fucking hot and heavy and a little wet and--

God.

Sebastian wants to fucking eat him.

He doesn't give a shit about Chris' glasses pressing against his face a little too sharply. He isn't thinking about how normally he wants to be the one torn apart and swallowed. He can't give any more fucks than the one he's gonna fucking give this man. He's gonna fuck him hard. He's, he's--

He's thinking about nothing but the exotic, erotic way Chris is opening his mouth to him and letting him have. Seb is ravenous to devour and Chris has tilted his neck back beneath the weight, letting Seb lick into his mouth. Seb makes something of a purr that he can't really help, it just happens. Kissing. They're kissing so much, lips locking, and it's as fucking toe-curling-ly good as it always is just a little different. Different, novel, but they still fit together like they were meant to be. It's hot. Intense. Flush against each other. Chest to chest. In lap. Rocking, grinding. Kissing.

Making-the-fuck-out.

Usually, Chris is the one running his mouth with dirty talk between filthy hot kisses while Seb humidifies the scant inch (if that) of atmosphere between their bodies with moans, whimpers, and other wordless, involuntary cries of pleasure that he can't hold in. But, in this moment, thrillingly perilous, Seb can't keep up with the words spilling out of him. There's nothing that can dam the flood. Lust all-expansive inside him, no more room. He's gonna fuck Chris. He's gonna fuck him good. He's gonna fucking fuck the shit out of him until he cums his brains out.

He wants to see Chris broken in the best way--broken open with his fists curled so tight that his blunt nails dig into his strong palms. He's gonna dick him until he's dumb, mouth wide open, hanging open, making garbled, needy sounds with red, red, red lips, but blushing redder. Hotter.

Good.

Seb wants to fuck him good, he wants to slide inside him, tight, tight, tighter than anything as he clenches down on his dick. He wants Chris' eyes to roll back as he feels what it's like to have a blood-hot, throbbing cock in his ass. He wants him to choke, feeling it in his throat. He wants to reduce his confident, cocky man into a pile of mush. He wants to hear him swear like a sailor, speared on his cock, as Seb laughs weakly, shaky, in over his head with how it feels to fuck him, pressed up against him, chest to back, balls deep in that fucking ass (oh my god, don't even get him started on that shapely ass), lost in it just as much as he is.

Christ.

They're gonna be a hot mess.

Chris has ruined Sebastian for everyone else. He's that good. The best he's ever had. So, it's time to return the favor again. He already has, he knows he has, but there's always room for improvement, yeah? He wants to make it good for him, he will make it good for him, and he'll be good for him--gonna blow his mind with his dick. Fuck yes.

I could go on forever with this, really, I could. If only I had the time. I would fucking love to write Chris' shock and dirty thrill at being opened up, feeling the tip of Sebastian's cock pushing into him for the first time, audibly letting go of every half-coherent thought he has, biting off, "Seb! Seb! Ah! God! Seb, Sebb, Seb, it, fuck, it feels s'good, you're so thick, oh my god, ohmygod, it's so hot, s'thick, fuck, how do you take it, how--how do you take me, mmngh, its so much, ah!"

Bonus:

I keep thinking about this Chris, too, like 🥴🥴