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“I bought a desk,” Sebastian says. With hope. With innocence, or that’s what he’s going for, in his eyes. Big spun-sugar grey-blue. Chris hadn’t known about the desk.
“Yes,” Chris agrees calmly, “you did,” and coaxes Sebastian’s head back down against his chest for more hair-petting. While this is always nice, it’s not the goal.
In the background, on television, the Patriots score. The afternoon’s lazy and indolent, bathed in sunbeams and potato-chips, comfortable as the large-boned sofa beneath them. Home: himself and Chris. And those hands on him.
He tries, “I bought an antique desk. Writing-desk. Expensive.”
“I know,” Chris says. One hand rubs at the nape of Sebastian’s neck. He whimpers, caught between going boneless with pleasure and wanting to thump his Dominant someplace painful. Chris hasn’t properly punished him for anything in almost a month.
“But—”
“You spent your own money,” Chris points out, not stopping the neck-rub. “Even when you try to be a brat, you don’t want to inconvenience me.”
“It doesn’t match our furniture?”
“You like it, though.” Chris grins at him. “You’re lucky it’s a commercial, or did you time that too?”
He had. Chris likes watching the game, and Sebastian’s slowly learning to appreciate the sport, at least while he’s settled on the couch or on a kneeling cushion, while he’s being petted into hazy oblivion or allowed to rest a head on Chris’s knee or permitted to hold Chris’s cock in his mouth and keep it warm. He loves being useful; he loves pleasing Chris; he loves making people happy, and Chris above all, Chris with that sunshine laugh and open unguarded heart.
“Yes,” he concedes, sulking.
“Poor baby,” Chris says, curling the fingers loosely around his throat. Sebastian shivers. “Think I’ll tie you to the bed tonight—” Sebastian’s submissive and masochistic tendencies perk up. “—and just take care of you. Over and over, nothin’ that hurts, just lots of love, lots of praise, just lavishing you with it, gettin’ you to feel good…”
Sebastian nearly does thump him out of frustration. All of those suggestions sound brilliant, or at least have most certainly been so before. Chris isn’t really fond of hurting him, even in erotic ways; Sebastian loves being praised and petted and gets off like firecrackers at being held down and made to suck Chris’s cock and told how good he is, and that’s inarguably and deliciously true.
Sebastian also has that edgier sharper streak. The element at his core, blood-hot and singing like copper, that demands that he work out to the point of exhaustion, that he give until it hurts, that he act up and flirt with Sharon Stone and Anthony Mackie on camera and force Chris to correct him.
He needs to belong to Chris. He needs to be put back in his place, incontrovertibly. Firmly. By strong kind hands. He’s a kid at heart, made of exuberant enthusiastic emotions—both happy and less so, sometimes. He needs boundaries, and he needs to know they’ll be enforced.
In order to determine boundaries he has to be a brat.
Chris will spank him from time to time—they both enjoy that—but is an utter sweetheart. One who’ll gamely try anything, especially if Sebastian asks him to please experiment with ginger root or floggers or tighter bondage, but who worries. Sebastian can always see it in those eyes.
Chris worries because Chris loves him.
He can feel the weight of Chris’s hand on his head, keeping him in place.
He sighs. Lets himself relax, lets himself dissolve into the weight and the quiet and the hushed deep blue that’s the lightest level of subspace, eyes closed, drifting. Being where Chris put him, doing what Chris wants.
Chris tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Murmurs, “Good boy. You’re so good, aren’t you, listening to me…whatever I decide to give you…”
Sebastian’s eyes snap open. He doesn’t move—Winter Soldier muscles turned to languid molasses, thanks to Chris Evans—but he does manage, “You’re doing this on purpose—?”
“I know what you want,” Chris says airily. “We’ll see. If I decide to give it to you.”
“Oh fuck me,” Sebastian says, and says it again in Romanian for good measure.
“I don’t know,” Chris muses, “you are bein’ kind of a brat, kid, so we’ll just…wait and see. Still gonna play with you tonight, get you all worn out and messy and sticky, see how many times you can come for me…but I’m not gonna fuck you. You don’t deserve it. Yet.”
This time Sebastian literally can’t move. Mouth hanging open. No words in any language.
“Good boy,” Chris says, and pets his throat, rubs the back of his neck with a thumb; and Sebastian falls apart in multiple ways, trembling for many reasons.
The following morning, which is technically evening but is the first time he’s been out of bed, he observes, “I put the writing-desk in the playroom, while you were on the phone,” and bats eyes at his Dominant. The effect is not ruined by their location in the kitchen, nor by the grilled avocado in his left hand. It smirks. He cleans up leftovers with a vengeance, avoiding salad-green commentary.
“I know you did,” Chris says. “I assume you also cleaned and tidied up every single vibrator, plug, gag, cane, spreader-bar, and set of cuffs we own.”
“Um,” Sebastian says.
“Go do that now,” Chris says, “and then bring me something you want to play with.”
“Yes Chris thank you—”
“Nothing that hurts. Something nice.”
Sebastian swears at him for a good thirty seconds before going.
Chris knows him too well. He’s hard as iron and aching for release as he disinfects the largest galactic-purple star-swirled dildo. He’s not getting what he wants, precisely because he is being a brat, and he loves it.
He whines a little. Presses his hand to his cock, through his jeans. Feels the glorious quiver of denial from head to toe.
His new-old writing-desk gazes at him with naughty Victorian amusement from the side of the room, next to the spanking-bench.
He comes back meekly with the collar he knows is Chris’s favorite—on softer fuzzier occasions he’ll admit it’s his too—and the plushest lined cuffs and also nipple clamps in case Chris says yes. Chris considers this, looks at him, weighs them in one hand. They’re blue-jeweled and sparkly; they don’t hurt as much as others, mostly designed for show.
“You want to look pretty,” Chris says finally, “and you’re still pushin’ it, kid.”
“You wouldn’t want me any other way. We’re nearly out of blueberry-flavored lube.”
“Can’t have that. I’ll order us more.” Chris scoops up the laptop with one hand. “You get naked and get on your knees. I’ll put what I want on you.”
“…yes, sir.”
“Oh, no, hey.” Loving fingers touch his cheek, nudge his chin up. “You’re good. We’re good. I’m gonna let you have this one, okay?”
“Thank you, sir,” Sebastian answers, lightness masking shaky emotions, “I knew that would work, you can’t resist the sad kitten eyes, you never can,” and Chris laughs and helps strip him naked, helps adorn him with cuffs at wrists and ankles, with that cherished symbol of belonging around his throat, with sparkly bits of sapphire decorating eager nipples.
Chris puts him facedown across strong thighs and uses him as a lapdesk. Sebastian falls into twinkling starlit pools, velvet and gemstones, soothing and muffling and drowsy and bright. After a while Chris moves the laptop and strokes his back and tells him to come, and he does, tranquil and distant and obedient without thought. He’s Chris’s.
The night after that, while they’re eating breakfast-for-dinner in bed at one am—it’s not Marvel season yet, they can indulge if they want to, dammit—he suggests, “You know I leave for Ireland in three weeks…”
“Mmm-hmm,” Chris acknowledges, seemingly barely listening, though Sebastian knows that expression and that’s Chris trying not to crack, “and you’re gonna bring me back a leprechaun, or something.”
“I am not,” Sebastian says, lazily opening his mouth for his Dominant to feed him another bite of pancake and whipped-cream, “I am not bringing you a person. A pooka, maybe. Fairy-horse. Baby one.”
“It can play with Dodger.” Chris’s dog lives with his sister when they’re filming; Chris will be swinging by to pick him up while Sebastian’s gone. “I’ll miss you, kid.”
That’s honest and wistful and heart-torn, that preemptive loneliness in those superhero eyes. Chris feels everything so acutely, love and loss and others’ pain and a need to offer hope and kindness and care in whatever ways he can. Chris will shoulder the world’s burdens and fret himself to pieces under them without a moment’s complaint, Sebastian knows.
“I love you,” he says, twining himself around his Chris in bed. Bodies together: naked and strong and committed. “I’ll call you every day. And text you. Probably more than you want. You can tell me anything you’re thinking, or stop thinking about anything except me, whatever you want, anytime. You won’t be able to get rid of me.”
Chris laughs, a deep rumble that echoes through Sebastian’s body and soul and warms him from the inside: he’s made his beloved happy, reassured.
He adds, “I imagine reception’s fantastic in Celtic Fairyland,” and waits a beat and then throws in, “pun intended,” and Chris starts giggling like an overgrown pile of Boston-Irish rainbows, and Sebastian kisses him more.
He tries waking Chris up with his mouth wrapped around Chris’s cock. Chris grabs his hair and yanks his head up; Sebastian whines, denied a morning toy.
“You finish me off now,” Chris says, “or I let you play with the new machine for two minutes later, your choice.”
Sebastian glares at him—ineffective with lips wet from recent activity—and counters, “Ten minutes.”
“One.”
“What the fuck, Chris—”
“Never mind,” Chris says, “too late,” and tugs his hair more. Harder. “Get back to what you were doing, and do it nicely. Sweet and gentle. Show me how good you are. And don’t come.”
Sebastian’s extraordinarily tempted to use teeth, but refrains.
He is good at this. Skilled. He gets Chris groaning and twitching in no time, thighs tense, eager fluid beading up at the tip and dripping onto Sebastian’s tongue. He licks it away, flicks his tongue over the slit, drinks it down—
“No,” Chris says, pulling him off; and Sebastian moans, shaking, as Chris comes across his own stomach and hand, whiteness spilling, pooling, gleaming over bare skin and muscles. He wants to taste it so badly his whole body throbs with the desire. Resonating, yearning. His cock’s heavy and fat between his thighs.
“Be good,” Chris tells him, and Sebastian nearly shrieks aloud and instead curls up into a quaking ball around the insistent pulse of arousal, half-mad with it, dizzy and splendidly incoherent. He hurts and he needs and he belongs to Chris, he’s being good for Chris, he’s practicing this denial for Chris—
Who rubs his back and praises him, low-voiced and sincere, giving him words of love and affirmation. Sebastian’s head spins.
Chris trails a finger through the messy splash of his own release, scooping a bit off his own stomach, and slips the finger—just a taste—into Sebastian’s mouth, once he’s stopped begging for it.
In an attempt to burn off pent-up frustration, Sebastian goes to the gym for an hour, and then does a thirty-minute gymnastics routine because they both do appreciate the flexibility, and then comes home and does a handstand with splits after walking through the door, in their living room with the cavernous ceilings. It’s not the weirdest thing their living room’s seen.
“Impressive,” Chris approves, emerging from the kitchen, phone in hand—he’d been talking to his agent. “You want to come sit on my lap and be petted for it, like a good kitten?”
Sebastian turns the handstand into a forward roll, pops up into a seated position on the floor, and considers options. Then tries to bite the outstretched hand.
Chris taps him on the nose. “Behave.”
“Please,” Sebastian begs, sitting back on heels like a good little submissive, “please, come on, Jesus, Chris, I’m going crazy—”
He ends up sitting on Chris’s lap and being hand-fed bites of sandwich. He cries a little, and hides his face in Chris’s chest, and Chris makes soothing noises and cuddles him. Sebastian drifts, spacey, floating, knowing that this is good for him and knowing Chris is taking care of him and trusting Chris, but desperate and raw and needy, like his insides’ve been pulled out and put on display.
He wakes up the next morning clinging to Chris and crying, unable to talk. Chris kisses him, holding him tightly. “Hey. You okay? You feel like talking?”
Sebastian shakes his head, can’t answer, wants to touch and be touched everywhere. Closeness. More. Chris on top of him, surrounding him, wrapping him up. He can’t quite stop crying, slow leaking tears. His fingers curl and fumble at Chris’s chest.
“You’re okay,” Chris whispers. “You’re safe, I love you, you’re being so good for me, I’m so proud of you, I love you.”
Sebastian makes an inarticulate broken noise—a plea, a cry, a shattered pearl on his tongue—and Chris rolls over to land squarely atop him, caging him in with weight and arms and love. Sebastian trembles with the magnitude of the yes.
“I love you,” Chris says again. “You’re mine. I’m yours, and you’re mine, because you want to be. Because I want you to be.”
Sebastian’s whole body swells with light. Filled up by it, suffused by it, carried away by it. Yes. Right.
“I love taking care of you.” Chris kisses his nose. “I love knowing I can give you what you need. You trust me that much. With you.”
I always have, Sebastian’s mouth tries to say, but the light’s stolen all his language.
“Come,” Chris tells him, and he does, or he thinks he does. His body seems to open up and pour its release out peacefully, a liquid spill between them as he hovers among fluffy white-gold clouds. Chris is talking but the individual words bleed together and blur. Love, he thinks. Yes.
Chris kneels above him and takes one of Sebastian’s hands—unresisting but heavy, he feels so heavy and yet strangely weightless, as if lying in amber—and fits it around his own cock and jerks himself off like that, hand over Sebastian’s slack one, controlling both, pumping. He groans, “Seb—” as he comes, head falling back, body straining and poised and beautiful. His orgasm splashes Sebastian’s naked body: stomach, chest, throat, lips. Painting him with Chris’s release.
“Sometimes,” Chris confesses into his hair in the dark, “I get scared, y’know?” Sebastian, more than half-asleep and certain that he’s not meant to hear this, fuzzily tries to figure out what to do. He wants to know, though this isn’t entirely fair, and he’s also kind of snarled in dream-cobwebs.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Chris goes on. “I just…you’re you, you look at the world like everything’s incredible, hot-dog trucks and cats and karaoke and skinny jeans and—and everything’s fun with you. Around you. And I’m not Steve Rogers, I’m not Captain America, I’m some dumb meatball from Boston who never went to college, just some guy who wants to make you smile…”
Sebastian really wants to stop pretending and wake up now and hug Chris and never let go. Chris’s arms are warm; Chris’s breath’s warm too, ruffling his hair as they lie entwined in bed.
“I love you,” Chris says. “With my whole goddamn heart, if you want it.”
Sebastian, still not sure he’s meant to witness this laid-open truth, settles for nuzzling sleepily into the tattooed spill of ink-lines across that collarbone. He mumbles, “Chris…?” and Chris laughs quietly and pets his hair. “Shh, kid. Go back to sleep.”
“Mine,” Sebastian says, drowsily fierce and yawning, and presses clumsy lips to naked skin. “And ’m yours.”
Chris chuckles, pauses, sticks his face into Sebastian’s hair for a second, and says earnestly, “Yeah.”
This time he awakens to Chris Evans’ mouth busy on his morning erection, which is inarguably among the top ways to wake up. Sebastian sighs and stretches and gazes down, enjoying the view: that dark head moving between his thighs, the glide of his own stiff arousal between plush lips, the masculine happy rasp of beard. Chris stops to glance up, grinning. “Hey, you’re up.”
Sebastian gives his cock a very pointed look, then turns the look on Chris.
“I love that you don’t have to talk to make the bad pun,” Chris says cheerfully, “I love you, I adore you, put your hands on the headboard and keep them there—orders—and I’m going to let you come whenever you want this morning, okay?” and gets back to what he was doing, playing Sebastian’s body like a beloved instrument, one he knows soul-deep and can guide and direct, summoning and commanding the exact reactions he desires.
Sebastian moans and squirms and shudders with sensation as Chris licks and sucks and finds a swift rhythm. Chris wants him to come, wants him to feel it; and even as he keeps both hands dutifully on the headboard he thrills to the knowledge.
Chris runs hands along his thighs, spreading them wider. Sebastian murmurs nothing at all—a phrase, a stray bit of Romanian, an endearment, a vow—and lets them fall open, yielding.
Chris does—something, something mindblowing—with that tongue, and at the same time one of those big kind hands pinches his inner thigh.
The pinch isn’t even that bad, but the sweet sharp sting sings down his spine like a piano-note: white and bright and clear. He comes instinctively, body shocked by pleasure and pain, orgasm instant and beyond conscious control. The world arches up in crystal bliss and shatters.
Chris assiduously swallows every drop, licks his cock clean, and kisses his thigh on that sparkling spot. Then scoots up and kisses him.
Sebastian can taste himself, can taste the evidence of his need and his response and their love, in the kiss. He likes it.
“I have a surprise for you,” Chris says. They’re holding hands, strolling through a history of space exploration exhibit; the museum’s not busy on this mid-afternoon weekday, and they’re the only ones in this room. Stars pinwheel just for them. Decorated walls beam in benevolent delight: visitors, and excited ones.
“Surprise?” Sebastian tips his head, looks up at Chris: not far, only an inch of height difference, but they both like it. When he steps closer he can feel the way they fit and align: bodies and muscles, superhero training and strength and complete elation over the exhibit’s Mars rover display. “When did you arrange a surprise? Does it involve a paddle or ice-cream or both?”
“I am a god of romance.” Chris waves a hand grandly, can’t keep a straight face, snickers at himself. “After you brought home the desk. I’ve been thinkin’ about things.”
“Really?”
“Nope, no details. Change of subject. Assignment for you.”
“Really,” Sebastian says again, close enough for a kiss, for shared breaths.
“Yep. Start thinking about your fantasies. Anything. Your wildest dreams. Toys. Role-play. Pirates. That one story you wrote me that time about being my kitten. You don’t have to, like, write out a list. Just…have some things in mind.”
Sebastian narrows eyes at him. “We’re in public. In a space museum.”
“And?” Chris tacks on, in a poor attempt at innocence. Even the idea’s working: desire simmers, skin flushes hot, and the closeness of their bodies becomes acutely real. And Chris wants him to think about his fantasies. The wildest ones.
Therefore—
“Right now,” Sebastian promptly requests, “I want you to fuck me in the men’s room of a space museum. Sir.”
Chris shoves a hand into his pocket. Pulls out a small tube of slickness. Winks. “Thought you’d be up for that. My kinky little exhibitionist. Also I know astronauts’re a turn-on.”
“Mmm,” Sebastian says. “Spacesuits. Helmets. The NASA logo. Fuck yes, take me now, sir.”
“God, I love you,” Chris agrees, and grabs his wrist and hauls him off to a men’s room on the second floor, in which they establish extremely friendly first-contact relations up against a wall.
He adds astronaut role-play to the fantasy list, after. Chris doesn’t ask for the list immediately—which is rather disappointing—but this gives him time to add a few more. Toys, certainly. In various holes, possibly all at once. Suspension, which they haven’t played with yet. Being kept tied to the bed all day, Chris’s to use at whim. Chris had mentioned pirates; Sebastian ponders this, and thinks about historical fashion and corsets and breathplay.
Chris had used the word assignment. Sebastian’s brain turns this into a naughty student-teacher after-school special. He might be on board with that one. They both love Chris asserting some authority: older, protective, taking care of him, calling him kid, spanking him.
They’ve already played with the Captain America and Winter Soldier costumes, so he doesn’t bother mentally including that one; it’s actually a little tricky because of character bleed, and while they’d both had an insanely satisfying time, he’d found himself slipping into Bucky’s head and Bucky’s love for Steve and the Winter Soldier’s pain. He knows Chris did the same with Steve; they’d talked about it, after. They’d try it again, they’d concluded, but only with modifications to both costume and character; still kinky super-soldiers, perhaps, but alternate versions.
He does like Chris in spandex, though.
He also likes himself kissing Chris’s boots, getting off by rubbing against those boots, and licking them clean.
He sticks Chris in leather boots, ordering me to put on a show on his virtual list.
Chris makes dinner. This is not unheard-of, but hardly usual; Chris is not a terrible but an indifferent cook, having mastered spaghetti and sandwiches and various grilled foods, and normally Sebastian’s the one who experiments with summer squash pasta or homemade vanilla whipped cream or Chris’s uncle’s treasured lasagna. Tonight, though, Chris goes all-out: candles and chicken and pasta that’s borrowing Sebastian’s own pesto recipe, a chocolate-blueberry martini waiting when he walks through the door, and red roses on the table, the big floppy kind that bloom in spicy scarlet extravaganzas.
“Hey,” Chris says, holding out the martini. “You look gorgeous.”
Sebastian looks down at himself: shower-pink, hair still damp enough to curl up at the edges, naked but for the slim black collar and cock-ring he’d found on the bed. “You decided what I was wearing, you know. Is this a special occasion?”
Chris had told him, when he’d gotten back from the gym, to stay out of the kitchen and to go shower. He knows it’s not an anniversary—he’s secretly making plans for those already, including the first meeting, the first tipsy hook-up in a hotel room, the first hesitant shy kiss and the pearlescent chilly morning they’d decided to try this crazy thing for real—and it’s not anyone’s birthday, and he doesn’t think Chris is about to propose.
They’ve talked about that, too. It’s out there. No hurry. An idea. He’s already Chris’s, collared and decided; Chris would like to get married someday, wants the whole family bustle and holiday dinners and dogs underfoot. Sebastian himself has been ambivalent about marriage—not as if he’s had the best role-models given divorce and strained partnerships, and they’re already in a long-term committed relationship—but Chris makes him want those things too, or at least think about wanting those things, openly and officially and legally. In part for the light in Chris’s eyes. In part because it’s starting to sound nice, domesticity and surety and public avowal.
All of which he’s reluctantly admitting bit by bit aloud. Chris glows like sunrise when he says words to that effect, and so Sebastian’s privately conceded that in a couple more years he’ll be picking out rings and calling Disneyland to arrange a fairytale proposal. For his prince, his happy ending.
“Nah,” Chris says, waving a hand, fortunately not the one with the martini in it. “Just felt like doin’ something nice for you. Love you, kid.”
“I love you,” Sebastian says, rescuing his martini, which Chris made for him, from excited hand-gestures, “so much, I don’t have words—do you want to know about my fantasies yet?”
“In the morning,” Chris says, “I got plans for you,” and refuses to elaborate, even when he deploys the quivering chin and pathetic kitten eyes.
The pasta’s a fraction overcooked, but Sebastian’s heart melts like butter anyway. Chris learned his recipe, and tried so hard, and loves him. He feels like crying, a little, but opts for showing gratitude by getting on his knees and making Chris come so hard the stars from the space exhibit drop by to explode.
Chris wakes him up with freshly-brewed caramel-and-macadamia-nut coffee, and brings him toast and jam and marmalade and scones and clotted cream on a tray. “Are we British?” Sebastian inquires. “Not complaining if so. I like London. Is that lemon curd?”
“I want you to not be hungry,” Chris says, “but also nothing, um, heavy. And, um, we can be, was that on your list?”
“It is now. Regency-era ballrooms and you kissing my hand and peeling back my glove to run fingers over my wrist—”
“I might have gloves,” Chris says helpfully. “From some event. White ones. Or the black leather ones we used when— Do you want me to dress up?”
“Not now. I’d get marmalade on them. Of course, then you’d have to punish me for that.” He licks a fingertip clean. Grins. “Would you?”
“You’ve been wanting that.” Chris picks up a scone, puts the whole thing in his mouth, says around the bite, “Don’t I take care of you?”
“Always. I thought—never mind.”
Chris swallows the end of the scone. The moment should be silly, breakfast-trays and toast-crumbs and chewing. It’s honest as the brightness of marmalade, truthful as the heat of coffee and caramel. “You thought I was just going with the whole denial routine, making you get off on pure niceness and petting and all that. Right?”
“Well…”
“And you’d’ve let me do it, too.” With a headshake: half exaggerated, half real. “We’re gonna have to talk about that one, kid. You’re too sweet—I mean, I love you, I love that you’re my sweet boy, but. You think I’d send you off to Ireland feelin’ like that?”
“So…you are going to spank me?” Sebastian tries, scrambling to keep up. He feels like the empty jar of clotted cream: not quite sure when or how it’d gotten there, but glad to be.
“I love taking care of you.” Chris wraps a hand around his wrist. Squeezes. “I’m still a mess sometimes, workin’ shit out in my head, but I know when you need more. I like it too, don’t think I don’t, I like watching you come apart for me, watching you take everything I give you, and I’m so damn proud and you’re so damn beautiful and you’re all mine. My marks on you.”
Sebastian’s mouth falls open. Sitting naked in bed, he becomes a puddle of honey at Chris’s feet. Molten and gold, shining and slow as a stream poured from a spoon.
“Come on,” Chris says. “Let’s go visit the playroom.”
In their playroom, Chris has turned his impulsive writing-desk purchase into a centerpiece. Polished up and prettied until every antique brass trimming swells with pride. Every drawer, hidden and displayed, begs to be swung out and played with; dark wood shines with all its might. Chris has also set out elegant fountain pens, not antique but old-fashioned and graceful, and heavy creamy writing-paper, the kind with expensive texture and torn edges that Sebastian falls in love with in bookshops.
He doesn’t normally buy anything like that. He loves writing, which Chris knows. He can’t quite justify indulgent notebooks and paper and pens when he’s generally writing early drafts, lines in half-English and half-Romanian and his sometimes bewildered grammar, when he crosses words out all the time and types it all up anyway later.
He adores the feel of expensive paper, though. Probably for the same reason he likes expensive underwear and fur-lined wrist-cuffs and cinnamon cocoa: sensation, sensation, more.
He looks up at Chris. Gets raised eyebrows, but no comment yet.
He glances around. The usual stuff’s in place, the bench and the cross and the neat drawers and the heap of blankets because Chris likes to keep him warm after, even in the short wobbly distance to a hot bath or bed, and the mini-fridge because Sebastian’d once mentioned water and snacks as part of aftercare and Chris had gone out and bought and stocked a fridge. The room’s designed for fun, for them, for them to play in together; and it knows as much, reaching out to hug them into this safe space.
Chris hasn’t actually gotten out much in the way of toys, so Sebastian’s libido’s caught between delight at the writing-desk present and confusion about how this relates to aforementioned spankings. His cock’s half-hard because of those promises and because he’s naked with Chris’s hand around his wrist, though that’s just his usual reaction to Chris.
He asks, somewhere between a thank you and impertinence, “So you want to get off on me writing something for you, sir?”
“Not just something.” Chris grabs his wrist. Yanks him over to the desk. Shoves him downward so he’s bent across it. Sebastian gasps at the forcefulness, and melts under it. “You had an assignment.”
“I—”
“You’re going to tell me about your fantasies. In detail. A whole essay, kid. Bent over this writing-desk you decided to buy.”
“Oh,” Sebastian gets out, quivering. His body’s already reduced to liquid sparkles; he’s unsure he can stand up without support. He can smell the wood polish Chris used, can see the gleam of the patterned inlay, black and white squares close to his cheek. He can touch pen and paper when he reaches out. His legs tremble.
“Get started,” Chris says calmly. “And don’t mind me. I’m just going to…encourage you. As my good boy. My good little schoolboy.”
“Oh Jesus Christ—” He nearly comes on the spot. His cock shifts, stirs, throbs where it’s pressed to wood. Chris, dressed in pajama pants and an inviolate air of dominance, leans over him. Whispers, “You want me to punish you, baby? I will. But we do it the way I want. And it’ll be fun.”
“You’re actively trying to kill me,” Sebastian says weakly. “Your little schoolboy, Chris? The naughty kind?”
“Staying after school,” Chris agrees, “to write an essay for me. Punishment. For all those thoughts you’ve been having, the way you look at me in the classroom…”
“I have,” Sebastian breathes, head filling up with lightness like champagne, fizzy like he’s drunk on Chris, on Chris arranging this fantasy for them. “You saw me looking, sir…couldn’t help it…kept thinking about you…thinking about you asking me to stay after class, or go to your office…”
“And now you’re going to show me exactly what you’ve been thinking.” Chris leans in closer, drops a sudden unexpected kiss to his left ear, murmurs, “Oh thank god you’re into this one…”
Sebastian’s heart flips over with giddy love. “Private school, remember. And I was the headmaster’s stepson. Sort of public-private school for college, too; Rutgers never completely gave up private-school rights. So yes, I was the ultimate sweet little good-grades student in proper uniform just begging to get ruined by older boys and girls. The entire time.”
“I can totally picture you. Those eyes, that mouth…” Chris slips two fingers into the mentioned mouth. Sebastian sucks on them happily. “Such a good boy. And you get on your knees for me.”
For you, Sebastian wants to say. Chris Evans. And whatever role we’re playing, of course I’ll bend over the desk for you as my kinky professor, but that’s because it’s you.
He can’t talk well with fingers in his mouth, so he licks at them instead. His thoughts’re starting to fuzz around the edges, glowing and indistinct.
“Still your punishment.” Chris takes the fingers away. Sebastian pants for air. “Pen. Write. Actual essay. Now.”
Oh god oh god how does he even write an essay—
He grabs the closest pen as Chris puts a hand at the small of his back. Bent over the desk, he scribbles, I think about you, sir. I think about your hands on me.
“Not bad,” Chris comments, “as an opening. Nicely targeted to your audience. I think you need more detail. Maybe some inspiration would help.”
What? He turns to look; Chris says, “No,” in a tone that permits no dispute. Sebastian gulps. Writes, letters crooked with haste and desire, ink blurring paper like the wetness he can feel gathering at the tip of his cock, I love getting on my knees for you. Sucking your cock with your hand in my hair, holding me, making me take it, just the way you want me.
Chris has come back with a—a spreader bar, fuck, holding his legs apart. Wide enough that he’s on display, bent over as he is: he can’t close his legs and Chris can see everything, his hole, his balls, the tremble in his thighs…
Chris peeks at his sentences. Makes a mildly disapproving noise. “We already do that. Thought I asked you for fantasies.”
Someone makes a small desperate noise. Oh. Himself. His fingers nearly drop the pen.
“Thought about putting your collar on you.” Fingers touch the back of his neck. “But you haven’t earned it yet. Not nearly enough. Not if I’m keeping you after school, alone with me in my office, and making you do extra work…”
Sebastian swears at him in Romanian and German. Feels his cock jump and smear slickness across unyielding dark wood.
He writes carefully The overall theme of this essay, sir, is me belonging to you. Whatever you want to do with me. Examples to follow.
Chris laughs. Then trails fingers down his spine, to the dip and curve of his ass, to the yearning aching empty opening of his body. There’s a snap, and body-warm lube touches sensitive muscle; Chris must’ve been holding the bottle. “Go on, then.”
I think about you fucking me in public. Not really in public, I know we can’t, but someplace where we could. A club or a dungeon or a party. Where you could bring me in on a leash and show me off, being proud of me, giving me orders, making me fly under your hands or a whip or only your command, on my knees. I’d do anything you said.
“You want other people to see you?”
Not to touch me. I’m yours. But maybe to look. To feel their eyes on me. So you can show them how good I can be. I think about kissing your boots in public, sir, and I feel like I need to come. He risks a glance back at Chris. Every nerve ending’s buzzing, on overload.
Chris laughs again, twists fingers inside him, kisses his shoulder. “I’m liking this, but not yet. Let’s see if we can’t make it harder for you, though…” And the next instant a plug’s being pushed inside him: a larger one, thick and heavy and cool. He moans; he knows Chris can see as it sinks home, as the base remains visible, as his legs stay held apart. He feels himself react at the thought.
“More,” Chris demands, in character now, stern. “More than one example, kid, didn’t you learn how to write a good essay? Do I have to spank you until you remember?”
Sebastian actually wails out loud, whole body tightening as those words land; he can’t remember anything for a moment, scattered, surrendered, wanting. He’s amazed, tumbling back to earth, that he hasn’t come; but Chris is gripping his cock enough to hurt, stopping the imminent peak, and he sobs.
He scribbles messily What you said about pirates might’ve been a joke but I like the idea. Being captured by you. Taken prisoner. Being the pirate captain’s your property. I don’t want you to hurt me but I like the idea of being forced not given a choice having that choice taken away. Because my choices are yours. Also you could fuck me right in the open on the deck and bend me over a cannon and make me come like that, between you and the metal, in the sun.
“Hmm,” Chris says. “Nice detail. Well done.”
Sebastian whimpers, broken, taken apart.
“Also, I knew about the exhibitionist streak—you’d let me fuck you bare in front of a whole pirate crew, make you walk back to our cabin after I’ve had you, while you’re all open and wet from me?—but we might have to play with that whole inanimate object fixation, kid. Pirate cannons, this desk, my boots…such a filthy little mind you have.” Chris tugs at the plug. Twists it, slides it back in. “I love it. I’m gettin’ ideas. I also noticed a couple mistakes, things you crossed out, there.”
Sebastian closes eyes, trembling, adrift on a sea of fantasy and euphoria. He’s never quite felt this before—subspace, fuck yes, he’s high as a kite on submission and denial and Chris’s voice, but Chris is also demanding that he stay active and perform tasks, keeping him exquisitely caught and drowning in obedience.
“Since it’s my job to help you with your essay,” Chris says, “guess I’m gonna have to correct you for those,” and another object appears in his line of sight on the desk.
A ruler. A simple wooden one. No sharp edges. Basic. But hard and unforgiving.
Sebastian’s body tries to come again, a ripple of sheer lust that rocks him from head to toe. The plug feels impossibly larger in his ass, barely grazing the electric spot inside, no doubt a deliberate choice.
“Three bits you crossed out,” Chris muses. “Nine words. Nine sounds about right.”
The first snap of the ruler obliterates all thought. Sun-hot line across his ass. Brilliant searing glory. Chris is using a small schoolboy instrument on him and punishing him at last and it’s humiliating and soothing and splendid and exactly what he needs.
Chris doesn’t ask him to count. Only lands the ruler across his backside again. Matching lines.
Chris doesn’t like to hurt him. Chris doesn’t mind ordering for him in restaurants or telling him to behave, but gets uncomfortable when asked to seriously chastise or scold or make him cry or feel sad.
And Chris has found a way to make this work: it’s play, it’s part of this game and these roles, and the infractions are nothing that impacts their lives, so the only weight behind the punishment is what they both bring to the moment.
Love, Sebastian thinks, though he can’t think so it’s more of a feeling: an impression of sunrise, a painting of light, a billowing of clouds.
Chris leaves burning stripes lower, across his thighs. Higher again. A pause. Sebastian’s shaking intermittently, uncontrolled physical response, not in a bad way; he simply can’t stay still under the onslaught of sensation.
“More,” Chris tells him. “You can do that. For me.”
Historical role-play. Costumes. Corsets. I want you to put me in a corset— He misspells historical the first time. His cheeks are damp: tears, sweat from flushed skin, mouth open and making tiny sounds. —I would be so good for you, so pretty, and you could make it so tight I couldn’t breathe, or so I could only breathe a little, so when you held me and fucked me I’d feel like I was floating in a dream—
Chris gives him one more hit for the misspelling. Sebastian squirms against the desk. His ass burns wondrously; his thighs quiver from being held apart, and his cock rubs stiffly against antique wood, trapped between furniture and his own weight. It hurts but it feels good; he rocks hips more, mindlessly.
Chris tangles fingers in his hair, kisses the nape of his neck. “Pretty. You always are, though. My sweet boy. You’re doing so well, this is so good, the way you’re taking everything for me…”
Sebastian whines and wriggles, dazed by praise and pain.
“Taking your punishment,” Chris says, “my good boy. Hang on—” and tosses the ruler onto the desk. Sebastian stares at it, cock dripping, mouth hanging open. “If you really were my good little Victorian schoolboy…”
They do own canes. Two, in fact: harder and gentler. Chris holds the harder one to his lips. Sebastian kisses it dreamily.
“Finish writing,” Chris says. “Good essays end with a conclusion, don’t they? Some kind of wrap-up, something to leave your reader thinking about? I want you to learn something from this, Sebastian.”
“Please,” Sebastian moans. Or he thinks he does; he’s not sure the word makes it out. He’s at the edge of non-verbal and sliding.
“Stop me,” Chris breathes, caressing his cheek, “if you need to. Safewords, red, yellow—or just tap this drawer—” He guides lax fingers to upright wood; Sebastian nods slowly. His head feels heavy, lethargic.
“Where are we now?” Chris touches his cheek again. “Seb?”
“Green,” Sebastian mumbles, or close enough for reassurance; his body’s both his and not-his, faraway and singing, conquered by Chris and under Chris’s jurisdiction. Chris nods, and promises, “I love you—” and stands up again. “Finish.”
In concluse conclusion I belong to you sir in every fantasy—
Chris slips the plug out of him. Sebastian’s hole clenches vainly around nothing, slippery with lube.
—and I love it when you remind me of that, in public or breathplay or kissing your boots or just me wearing your collar at home so I can feel it—
The cane cracks across his already abused backside. Sebastian cries out; Chris is there in an instant, checking on him. Sebastian nods shakily—we’re okay, you’re okay, this is what I needed—and Chris runs a hand over his hair, down his back, soothing.
—I want you to know how much I love being yours, Chris. I love the way you take care of me. You find a way to give me what I need even when always. Even when I’m a brat on purpose because I want a reminder.
“I kinda got that,” Chris says, sounding like he’s laughing, like he’s laughing through tears, and the cane sends fireworks bursting through sore and sensitive skin. The pain transmutes to ecstasy: alchemists’ gold.
In conclusion I love you, Sebastian writes, letters clumsy and disastrous and piling up and falling over each other in need and truth.
Chris brings the cane down one more time: squarely over his open gaping hole, where the plug had been filling him. He jerks against the desk, legs flailing uselessly in restraints; Chris strokes his hip with the cane and then moves it around, slides it up, slides the tip inside of him—
His mind blanks out: luminous, suspended, craving. His body becomes weightless and electric: the breath before unfallen rain, craving a stab of lightning.
Chris whispers, “Come like this, baby, I love you,” and he does, while far-off he feels Chris pressing against his hip, bare skin now, rigid cock pulled out of pajama pants; Chris’s come splashes hot over his hip and ass, and Sebastian comes and comes in what feels like endless bliss. The orgasm doesn’t seem to stop, it just goes on and on, spasms of delirious splendor that make his hips jerk and his balls empty themselves, climax spilling onto the desk; his hole clenches around the tip of the cane—
Chris’s hand lands on the back of his neck, fingers curling loosely around his throat, pressing his cheek to the desk as he sobs in anguished pleasure.
Everything gets very radiant and bright, and he shudders from head to toe, eyes closing, body abruptly limp as the brightness stretches to serene infinity.
“Seb,” Chris is saying, holding him. “Sebastian? Come on, kid, Sebastian, I love you, you’re okay—”
His eyelashes flutter. Takes a lot of work just to open them. Who knew.
He’s being cradled in large strong arms against a large strong chest. They’re both still naked and on the floor of the playroom; Chris has tossed away the cane and spreader-bar and is petting his hair somewhat frantically. “Seb?”
“Hi,” Sebastian manages, blinking more. “Love you. More than okay. Wow.” Everyplace tingles and hums and purrs: thoroughly sated and beloved.
“Yeah?” Chris checks him over with heartbreaking tenderness, steadying his head when it threatens to loll. “You kinda checked out on me there…”
“Yes,” Sebastian tells him, senses muffled in cotton candy but coming back gradually, “you made me come so hard I passed out, yes, congratulations.”
“Congratulations, huh?” Chris strokes hair out of his face. “Was that…good?”
“Oh my god,” Sebastian says, “yes, holy fuck yes. Um. You?”
Chris blushes. Pink and adorable behind the beard. “Yeah. I mean…um, yeah. Great. Until the very end, when you didn’t answer me. You didn’t tap out…?”
“I didn’t want to.” He yawns. “I felt—I feel—incredible. God—everything’s still…” No words present themselves; he waves an uncoordinated hand. “Yes. Incredible.”
“You didn’t totally pass out,” Chris says. “I mean, I think you were conscious, but…pretty out of it. Only for a few seconds. I just—want to make sure.”
“Chris.” He tips his head up. Puts a hand on Chris’s chest: right over that generous heart. “You didn’t hurt me. The opposite. That was—I know what you did. For me.”
“Well,” Chris says, blushing more. “Kinda for me too. That was—the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Plus…”
Sebastian raises tired eyebrows.
Chris, despite the blushing, finishes decisively, “I have your, um, essay. To keep.”
“Oh no,” Sebastian says, unsure whether to be thrilled or dismayed. “I don’t even remember half of it, you know.”
Chris finally subdues the worry—for the most part—under teasing: his submissive’s visibly fine and smiling at him. “I could read it back to you. Get you to act some bits out. Just in private, for us.”
“I’m so glad,” Sebastian says dryly, resting his head on Chris’s shoulder, naked and worn out and effervescent with love, “that you could help me correct the flaws in my essay-writing, sir.”
Chris kisses his hair and answers, “I’m keeping that ruler, kid,” while the writing-desk grins behind them.
Later, while he’s filming in Ireland and sending his Dominant pictures of, alternately, random historical landmarks and himself in suggestive poses, Chris makes a Twitter post. A birthday message. For him.
I still remember that time I helped you with your college essay, it reads. Plus a picture of them, that picture, with the interview joke in Chris’s writing about wildest dreams come true. Innocuous, perhaps, to anyone else.
Sebastian’s eyebrows go up when he sees it, on set. So does another instantly excited part of him. Oh yes. He remembers.
He wonders which of his paragraphs Chris will want to remind him of first, during their phone call.
He can’t wait.