weareallteamcap

(My excuse for how this happens?? Uhhh, maybe Chris is up in NYC for an audition and gets invited by a friend to a college party at someone's wealthy parents' house where Sebastian happens to be because he's in college for his Art™️? Idk, you make it up, lmao)

Sebastian feels more than he hears the moan rumbling up out of the upper ridges of his lungs. It rattles through him, gutting him, scraping against his ribs and up his esophagus. Jesus Christ. He doesn't even care how dirty and debauched he is, moaning on his knees in front of the most handsome guy stranger he's ever seen. He doesn't care because he doesn't fucking care—his cock is the hardest it's ever been, trapped in his stupidly tight party jeans (they make his ass look good, so what if it took him damn near ten minutes to crawl into them) as he comes too-close, not-close-enough to sucking off this nameless, burning hot guy. He wants to fucking suck him.

And he doesn't care because it's not like nameless-hottie can hear him anyway; between the pounding music coming from inside, spilling out into this tiny ass backyard, the chatter of a million voices shouting over music, the chirp of crickets from the only grass for miles in this big glitsy city, the hum of traffic, the buzz of people walking around, never sleeping, and the electric throbbing of lust through them both, there's no way hottie can hear him as he slobbers eagerly, too eagerly, all over his stupid hot fucking stomach.

He. doesn't. care.

He just has to.

Inside, hot-as-fuck-hottie's jeans were riding low and his t-shirt riding high with every victorious, boisterous shout at dominating the beer pong table. Throwing his arms up and his head back, inadvertently baring the smooth, flat planes of his taut abdomen and defined cum-gutters to Sebastian's hungry eyes.

God.

He knew he needed him.

But just look at the guy—

Sebastian didn't have it in him to actually believe it would work. His moves. Flashing his eyes at the hottie, making prolonged, purposeful eye contact with him, sipping his beer salaciously, and turning around to swagger out to the backyard like he knew he would follow him, even though he didn't. There's no way that fucking guy isn't straight. And maybe he isn’t not straight, maybe Seb's just a hole.

A hole is as good as any hole.

Sebastian won't mind being this guy's hole.

He likes being a hole. Ever since he discovered what else his mouth could do... yeah. Game over. It's been over.

His mouth waters just thinking about it, frantically, front of mind, silent begging, fuck my mouth. Please. Fuck my mouth. I want it.

Sebastian can't resist, draaagging the flat of his tongue up hottie's low abdomen, peaking out of his low-riding jeans, a pop of salacious red around his unbelievably small, tight waist, and relishing in the shivery feeling of his recently manscaped hair against his tongue. It's sharp. It prickles his tongue. He moans again.

He doesn't care that his knees are wet with midnight, chilled, glazed grass. He doesn't care that there's a crushed beer can next to him on the ground from where hottie's fumbling, big hands dropped it. He doesn't care that hottie's shoulders are so wide that anyone who glances out the back of the house will know what's happening back here, the tree jock-hottie's leaned up against too thin to give them privacy. He doesn't want privacy—he wants to show off. For everyone else, look at this fucking catch I got. For hottie, look at how much I want your cock in my throat, look at how good I am, look at how I've had my gag reflex fucked out of me, I'm a slut, I know, I love it. At least the rough bark of the tree at hottie's back is helping him, catching on his soft t-shirt and pulling it up higher. More skin.

Yes.

Sebastian licks higher.

He. does. not. care.

He's gonna fucking savor this.

Head spinning, drunk off his ass, he paws weakly, lewdly at hot-guy's crotch and—

Holy. shit.

Sebastian's ears start ringing.

He's fucking hung.

Jesus.

Vision blurred as shit, staring up at him, Sebastian blinks blearily, hiccupping, drunk as hell, thinking: that makes sense. What about you isn't perfect?

Mr. Perfect with his head thrown back, all sharp jaw from this angle, his hair a mess, his cheeks hot, his mouth parted stupidly, open wide. He's perfect. Debauched. Gorgeous.

He's so fucking hard he's sizzling hot through his jeans.

Humming, pawing, and clumsily squeezing the thick, twitching shape of him through his pants, Sebastian is pretty sure he's drunk so much beer that he's died and gone to heaven. No one is built like this. No one looks like that. No one has cock like this. Well. Okay. Maybe he's not in heaven, he, yeah—not heaven. Hell. It's actually hell because he's so drunk and unsteady he can't. He can't. He can't get into hot guy's pants. His fingers won't work. The clasp of his belt is too complex, his button fly is much too difficult, and, and—

What was he doing again?

Oh, yeah, being fucking frustrated.

Hot guy's slim, tight little hips jerk up against his face, wanting more, chasing pleasure in uncoordinated drunken desperation. Hot guy's hands, big fucking, huge fuckin'—hands. Hands. His hands cup the back of Seb's whole skull, carding through his hair, and pulling him tighter against his burning hot body as he grinds against his fucking face.

Fuuuck.

Sebastian groans, pawing, licking, moaning, and nuzzling hot guy's cock through his jeans with his whole fucking face. He needs that cock inside him. He needs it heavy on his tongue. He needs it fucking his throat, choking him until his eyes water and his nose runs. He, he—

He's so hungry for it, he can't help himself and, just, licks him. His hot-as-shit stomach is practically drenched in spit, wet and messy.

He wants to devour him.