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amirasainz · 1 year ago

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hey! do you think you could write something where charles starts dating baby sainz after alex, and for a change she really doesn’t like baby sainz, or even a random oc ex gf of charlie and he gets annoyed whenever anyone says anything bad about baby sainz, and just wants her to himself? Thank you! ❤️

Ok so first things first. This is just a fic and not supposed to be hate towards Alexandra.

Now please enjoy reading and don't hesitate to send requests.

-XoXo

The better Girlfriend

The breakup between Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux was far from friendly. Their relationship had been plagued by cheating rumors, and the truth eventually came to light. Alexandra, a 21-year-old art history student, had kissed another guy during a girls’ night out. When this news reached Charles, their relationship came to an end

But Alexandra’s behavior during their relationship had already caused friction. She openly expressed disdain for Charles’s job in Formula 1, even going so far as to claim it wasn’t a real sport on live TV. Her rudeness toward fans and unreasonable demands put her in an unfavorable light. Charles endured his worst F1 season while they were together, and the media and fans didn’t hesitate to express their disapproval of her.

When Charles finally broke up with Alexandra, he received overwhelming support from the F1 paddock. His fellow drivers rallied around him during this difficult time:

Lando played games with him to keep his spirits up.

Pierre offered a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

Max made sure Charles ate proper meals.

Carlos helped him navigate the PR drama.

And his “Grid Dads”—Sebastian, Lewis and Fernando offered invaluable advice.

In the midst of the drama, Charles found solace in the camaraderie of his fellow racers, proving that the racing world extends beyond the track and into the bonds of friendship and support

But there was one person, that helped him the most. Amira Sainz, the unsung hero in Charles’s life. While others lent their support, it was Amira who stood by him, often without uttering a single word. During Charles’s tumultuous relationship with Alexandra, Amira remained an enigma—a girl he wasn’t allowed to befriend due to Alexandra’s jealousy. But now, free from those constraints, their paths converged.

From strangers to friends, and then lovers—their connection felt destined. The media dubbed them the “it-couple,” and fans followed their story with respectful fascination. Initially, Carlos wasn’t thrilled, but time softened his heart. With Amira, Charles discovered a happiness he’d never known before—a beautiful girl who became his world.

And Charles reciprocated her love in every possible way. Each morning, breakfast in bed; after races, flowers to brighten her day. He listened to her fears and troubles, making her feel cherished and protected. But Amira wasn’t just a passive recipient; she left post-it notes in his luggage, their apartment, and even his car. She comforted him after bad races, helping him navigate his emotions. Together, they shared a dog—a symbol of their bond.

Their love wasn’t hidden; they proudly displayed it online. Fans embraced them as the “it-couple,” and Charles and Amira reveled in their shared journey. In a world of engines and speed, their love story unfolded.

Alexandra, Charles Leclerc’s ex girlfriend, stumbled upon one of their date posts. What she saw ignited a fire within her—a seething rage that drove her to spend the next five hours stalking the couple and dissecting their relationship. But Alexandra’s fury didn’t stop there; oh no, she took it a step further. In a desperate attempt to reclaim her own narrative, she created not one, not two, but seventeen fake “Alexandra and Charles forever” accounts on Instagram.

The internet, however, is a merciless place. Within minutes, eagle-eyed users ridiculed her fabricated accounts, exposing the charade for what it was. Alexandra’s attempt to rewrite history crumbled under the weight of public scrutiny. Perhaps it was a desperate cry for attention or a futile bid to regain control, but either way, the digital world had spoken: “Fake news!”

And so, as the engines cooled down and the F1 tracks took a breather during the summer break, Alexandra found herself caught in a whirlwind of her own making. Meanwhile, Charles and his new love interest, Amira Sainz, continued their blissful journey, oblivious to the storm brewing behind the screens

The pitlane buzzed with anticipation as Alexandra, fueled by anger and resentment, strode toward the Ferrari garage. Her eyes blazed with determination, and the photographers snapped away, capturing her every move. Lando and Max exchanged shocked glances—what was she doing here?

The Ferrari team, despite Carlos impending departure, held a special place in their hearts for the Sainz siblings. Their camaraderie and dedication had left an indelible mark. But now, Alexandra—the wicked witch, as some whispered—had infiltrated their sanctuary.

As she stepped into the garage, the once-happy atmosphere vanished. The air crackled with tension. Alexandra’s gaze swept over the familiar red cars, the tools, the mechanics—all part of the world that had embraced Charles and Amira. She clenched her fists, vowing to tear apart the relationship that had blossomed in this very space.

If it was the last thing she ever did.

And so, the pitlane witnessed a battle of emotions—a collision of love and hate, fueled by jealousy and wounded pride. The engines roared, but the real drama unfolded in the hearts of those who watched.

She looked around at the quiet garage and immediately spottet Charles and his plaything. The tensions were high as she strutted towards them. "Charles" she tried to say in a seductive voice. When she went to hug him and kiss his cheek, he stepped away. "Alexandra, what are you doing here?" he questioned sternly. "What? Can't I see my favorite athlete" she harshly asked. "Does the stupid bitch not allow you to talk to other women?" She turned to Amira. "No wonder she doesn't, I mean look at her. I truly don't see what you see in her. She dresses like a slut. I'm sure she also sucks your dick like one and-"

“Enough!” Charles’s voice boomed, cutting through the tension. “Don’t you DARE disrespect my girlfriend. You destroyed our relationship. You used me.”He stepped closer to her, eyes blazing with anger. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll never step a foot in the paddock.” With that, he turned away, leaving Alexandra standing humiliated in the middle of the room.

The air crackled with the aftermath of his words—a collision of emotions, hurt, and the finality of a chapter closing.

#formula 1 #baby!sainz!sister #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x alexandra saint mleux x reader #carlos sainz x sister!reader #formula 1 x reader #no hate

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familiarscars · 2 months ago

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drive you insane | noah sebastian | 09

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈��𝐆. noah sebastian X psychiatrist!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. a mysterious new patient arrives at the Grimshade sanatorium and you have been tasked with taking care of his case.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). disturbing environment, violence, unconventional treatments, manipulation, questionable relationships, explicit sex, submission, knife play, blood play and profanity.

Darkness and emptiness.

The silence whispered a sinister melody, akin to the climax of an orchestra about to announce its final act. A warning. A harbinger of tragedy. With every step forward, the tension seemed to take shape—something invisible yet almost tangible, coiling around her ankles and guiding her deeper into the rotten belly of the Hidden.

The blackness was absolute, perverse. Walking through it was an act of blind faith, a challenge to fate itself. The damp walls exuded a nauseating scent of mold and rust, and the air felt heavier here, as if saturated with everything this place had ever witnessed.

Her steps were firm, but her clenched fists betrayed her apprehension. Her gaze swept the corners, searching for meaning in the gloom. You’d never had exceptional eyesight, and now, shrouded in darkness, you felt even more vulnerable. Only the occasional flashes of light through the dusty stained-glass windows allowed your eyes to glimpse your surroundings—rusty cell bars, cracks in the ceiling, and puddles on the floor, glistening suspiciously.

Water.

Blood.

Whatever it was, there was no way to tell.

The air carried a cocktail of repulsive odors: oxidized metal, rotting food, sweat embedded in the ancient walls. But among these nauseating notes, something familiar and disturbingly out of place emerged—a warm, clean, woody scent.

Recognizing that smell was almost instinctive. You didn't need recent proximity to know that very well. It was imprinted in your memory as much as the insolent looks, the sharp irony, and the calculated silence that always came with it.

Noah.

He stood out in this place in a way that was almost unreal. While everything around them decayed, he remained untouched, as if the surrounding rot could never reach him. He was beautiful. Frighteningly beautiful. He did not display the expected degradation of someone imprisoned in Grimshade’s forsaken asylum. No grime embedded in his skin, no traces of exhaustion in his features. He always smelled good. Always composed. He almost made her forget where was.

Almost.

You shook your head slowly. No. You couldn't be sinking into this. Without realizing it, you had been ensnared in a sticky, filthy web with no escape. Rune was right. You were completely obsessed.

The rest of the world had dissolved into an insignificant backdrop. Your other patients? Nonexistent. Your parents? A distant echo. Your colleagues? Faded figures in an irrelevant scene. You couldn't even remember the last time you had left the asylum for anything beyond obligation.

Everything in you had rotted—and Noah was the infection.

Even in sleep, your mind burned with the sensation of wasting precious hours of progress. When awake, you wanted to be with him. You wanted to observe him, dissect him, dismantle him piece by piece until you understood every layer he so skillfully wove to keep others at a distance.

It was a hunger that grew, voracious and insatiable. You wanted to save him. Needed to save him. Something in you screamed that he was here by mistake, that his caged existence was an error only you could correct.

And then everything became nothing.

A biting cold seized your neck, stealing your breath before a scream could escape. Your eyes widened in pure shock as brute force yanked you without warning, your feet stumbling in desperation to stay upright. You tried to grasp whatever was pressing against your skin—scratch, pull, anything—but the chain was merciless.

With a dry metallic snap, iron met the cell bars.

Your ragged breathing had barely steadied when his voice reached you—low, almost amused.

"Doctor…"

The echo slithered down the empty corridor, vibrating through your flesh like a feverish shiver.

"Noah…" You gasped, your voice trembling with the shock still carved into your bones. "This isn't funny at all. Let me go immediately!"

"And who said anyone here is playing?"

The response came sharp, a low and husky tone, almost animalistic. The dim light filtering into the cell touched his eyes in a wicked way, casting shadows that made his face seem deeper, darker—less human.

Every word he spoke was followed by the dragging sound of the chain against the floor, a sharp, grating noise that vibrated through your teeth. The metal pressed against your neck, tightening with his every movement, forming a cruel X across your back. You tried to move, but he had already closed the space around you. There was no escape.

He was pure, contained hatred. Tense muscles, clenched fists, breath ragged with raw fury. He knew you had been ordered not to return. He knew you were supposed to have left him behind.

And that enraged him.

But the fear crawling up your spine mixed with something dangerous. Something toxic. Something that burned and corroded.

Because even with the cold iron biting into your skin, even with the unspoken promise of destruction thickening the air between you…

You still wanted him.

"I thought I was clear when I said I didn’t want you here. I made my dissatisfaction explicit about your insistence on meddling in my life, but I have the impression you have serious trouble following orders."

His voice cut deep into the silence, a grave, weighty tone. With a single tug of the chain, your body was yanked forward, the pressure of the metal digging into your skin, forcing you to lift your chin and meet his gaze.

The distance between you was minimal. His scent, the heat radiating from his tense skin, the rage simmering beneath every rigid muscle—it all enveloped you. It hurt. But your pride hurt more.

"Here, I am the psychiatrist, Noah. Not the other way around." Your voice was sharp, like a blade that doesn’t hesitate when it cuts. "So you don’t get to decide what is or isn’t part of my job."

His eyes narrowed, dark sparks igniting in his expression. But you continued.

"But I imagine there’s a special reason for this attack today. Your little sister is getting married… isn’t she? You failed to break the cycle, and it made you lose your mind."

Noah’s nostrils flared. His expression was pure wildfire. You shuddered but didn’t back down, even as he leaned in, your faces so close that your noses brushed.

"This story doesn’t belong to you," he growled, the sound reverberating in your chest. "Stay out of it."

"And who’s going to stop me?"

His laughter was low, cruel, almost a warning. When he turned his attention back to you, your lungs felt heavy, your mouth went dry. The pressure between your legs made you realize what he was doing.

Noah had wedged himself between your thighs, using his body as a barrier, a divider, a suffocating tether keeping you from moving.

"It’s bold of you to play truth or dare with a murderer, don’t you think?" His voice was a sharp challenge. "If you were as smart as you seem, you’d have realized by now that you have far too many similarities with my victim. And that I know how to trace profiles… repeat patterns."

His eyes roamed your face, slow. Too slow. As if mapping every detail, every flaw, every fear.

His fingers came next, gliding along the side of your face with a terrifying softness. A touch that made your entire body react the wrong way.

"What makes you so confident that you can dismiss the possibility that I might kill you, doctor?"

His whisper burned against your skin. Your heart nearly exploded.

"The absolute certainty that you’re not a murderer." Your voice came out steady, even with the blood pounding in your throat.

Noah arched a brow slightly, a flicker of interest gleaming in his gaze. But you didn’t yield to the provocation.

"You clearly have traits of someone unstable, someone who masks repressed emotions behind insane desires and well-rehearsed apathy. But I don’t believe you’re easily manipulated. You’re not the kind of person who hands over your mind on a silver platter to just anyone."

The tightness of the chain remained the same, but something in him shifted.

"You’ve always been the leader. You’re the one who orchestrates the situations."

Noah’s eyes gleamed in the dim light, the shadow of a smile curling his lips. The tip of his fingers traced over your skin in a way that was almost tender, but something was off—something far too twisted in that touch.

"If I didn’t know that fear and insecurity seep from your very core, I might actually fall for this little psychiatrist act of yours, desperate to prove your worth," Noah declared, his low timbre reverberating like a warning. "But that doesn’t make you any less interesting."

You took a deep breath, feeling the chain’s pressure still firm around your body. You couldn’t give in. You couldn’t show hesitation.

"I need you to let me go. If you refuse to understand what I have to say and insist on rejecting my help because you'd rather lock yourself away in here like a coward, I believe our conversation ends here, Noah."

The smile that formed on his lips wasn’t a smile. It was a warning.

"Our conversation only ends when I say it ends, doctor."

The tip of his finger trailed slowly along the side of your neck, directly over your vein. You felt the almost ghostly touch pulse along with your blood.

And for the first time since you stepped in, you weren’t sure if you would leave in one piece.

But you didn’t back down.

Your eyes, wide at first, now gleamed with something deeper, more dangerous. Curiosity. Fascination. The quickened breath wasn’t fear; it was something warmer, something hungrier.

He noticed. And he smiled.

"You don’t understand, do you?"—his voice slipped through the air like a thread of silk. "I never just wanted to touch you. Never just wanted to feel your skin beneath mine. I want… to devour you."

He stepped forward, and you didn’t move in the tight space. The heat between you became suffocating, and you took a sharp breath as the cold press of his lips grazed your neck.

Noah crossed any boundary between reason and emotion, professional and unethical, as he slipped your coat off your shoulders, letting it fall to the damp floor.

You gasped, hesitating to pull away, but he insisted, trapping you against him, forcing his leg between yours. You hated admitting how well your body responded to it every time you remembered how wrong it was—how you could be caught at any moment.

"The scent and texture of your skin… do you have any idea how that drives me insane? How much you provoke me every time you insist on crossing my path in this hell? I tried to avoid it, but it’s like raw flesh, exposed, waiting to be torn apart, chewed, taken. Every time you speak, your voice pours hot down my throat, and I wonder what it would be like to feel it die inside my mouth."

His tongue traced along your vein as if following a precise path. You closed your eyes for a moment, as if his words were a spell sinking beneath your skin. When you opened them again, there was a different gleam in them. A shiver ran through you—but not from repulsion.

"I don’t just want you," he continued, toying with the thin strap of your blouse. "I want to consume you. I want to reduce you to something only I can possess. Every piece, every fiber, every fragment of what you are… inside me. Mixed with me. Absorbed, dissolved, forgotten by the world."

You bit your lower lip, feeling the cold of the Hidden blend with his voice, confusing your body’s reactions. His words wrapped around you, tangled in your thoughts like invisible threads pulling you deeper into the abyss.

"Because love, my dear…"—he smiled, and his teeth were like sharp blades in the dark—"love is devouring."

The silence that followed was electric. You exhaled slowly, as if waking from a trance—but with no intention of running.

"Then devour me."

The laugh that escaped him was low, guttural, as if you had just said exactly what he expected to hear.

"Oh, doctor…" The chain loosened for just a second—only to tighten again when he surged forward, crushing his lips against yours.

The impact was hard, feral. There was no space for tenderness. The kiss was brutal, a clash of wills where neither side wanted to yield. Noah gripped the chain tightly, and every movement you made to fight back only trapped you closer against him.

His taste mixed with the metallic tang in the air. It was visceral. It was wrong. It was inevitable.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you against him, and in the next moment, his fingers were tangled in your hair, holding you firmly as he deepened the kiss.

You no longer knew if you were being overpowered or if you were willingly surrendering your own sanity.

And maybe it was too late to care.

You ached to touch him, to bury your fingers in his hair as you straddled his lap and took his lips for yourself. The need burned beneath your skin, impatient. But before you could give in to the impulse, he moved first.

The slack of the chain around your neck slid skillfully down to your wrists, binding them at the center of the X formed against your back.

He gave you no space to escape, no pause between his lips and yours. Between hungry kisses and searing bites, he alternated between claiming and marking, the metallic taste quickly spreading over your tongue.

The taste of blood mixed with metal and warm saliva, a fusion of sensations that made her dizzy. Noah left no room for air, no space for thought—he dominated, gripping her face with firm fingers while the chain around her wrists tightened even more, limiting any attempt at resistance.

You gasped against his mouth, feeling his teeth graze your lower lip before another onslaught. It was like being devoured from the inside out, as if each bite and each pull carried a piece of you into him.

Your body was rigid against the grate, a hostage to your own desire and the brutality he imprinted on every touch. Noah finally released your lips, but only enough to slide his mouth down your jaw and reach your neck.

The kisses there were even crueler—bites, slow licks over sensitive skin, as if he were branding his presence into your flesh.

"You don’t need to go anywhere, babygirl," his voice was hoarse, thick with desire, while the grip around your wrists intensified. "Not until I've tasted your flesh to the bone."

There was mockery in his tone, but something else too—something dark, something hungry.

And you knew, in that instant, that you were dangerously close to losing any shred of control you had left.

The thin blouse you wore felt like nothing more than delicate lace, barely covering your body, the nervous sweat making everything more intense. You were completely at his mercy, vulnerable, in front of a possible killer who could do whatever he wanted with your body. It was sordid on so many levels, but you were trapped in the trance he had cast over you.

Psychopaths are seductive, as if sweetening their words with a special, cursed honey. They mold themselves to their environment, adapting to the situation with the cold precision of a lizard. If Noah was determined to make you feel, he would.

He would do whatever he wanted.

Noah moved in slowly, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he observed your skin, like an artist examining a piece of work yet to be sculpted. The glint in his eyes, like a burning flame, was almost tangible. He ran his fingers along your arms, immobilized by the chains, feeling the smoothness of your skin, and you realized his need to mark every part of you, to make your flesh something more than just a body—but an extension of what he desired.

"Perfect..." he murmured, as if speaking to himself, but you heard it, and the sound of his voice made your breath heavier, denser. He pressed the edge of the knife against the inside of your wrists, the most vulnerable points closest to your blood, and the blade gleamed under the dim light, promising something deeper, more intimate.

"Your skin..." he said, and the blade moved slowly to your neck, tracing along the line of your collarbone, the cold metal teasing your sensitive flesh. "It needs to be shaped, like a piece of flesh that only I can sculpt."

You felt the touch of the blade—cold and precise—but something inside you began to respond. The nervousness didn’t fade; instead, it merged with something else, something warmer, deeper. The pain had not yet come, but the fear was there—and with it, the excitement you could no longer deny.

He traced a subtle path with the knife over your skin, the cut not yet happening, but the touch of the blade created a growing tension. You felt your heart pounding harder, your breath quickening, and he watched, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

"I can do anything I want with you, can't I?" he whispered, his voice rough and calm. "I can tear your skin and see what hides inside you. I can touch your deepest fears and turn them into pleasure. All you need to do is give in."

The blade slid lower on your neck, toward your collarbone, and you felt the edge lightly cut into your skin. Blood began to well up, warm and thick, and the sensation was like a flame igniting beneath your skin. The pain was mild, but the pleasure of being touched, of being possessed in this way, came quickly, without warning.

"Feel this..." he murmured, and the blade moved to the other side of your neck, as if creating a map of scars, a game of marks and touches. The blood trickled slowly, and you felt every drop, as if it was a part of you now being given to him—something of yours he would consume and make his own.

The blade pressed a little deeper, and the blood began to flow more freely. The heat in your body started to mix with the pain, and you realized you were beginning to lose yourself, to forget the limits, to surrender to this moment, to this game. He smiled, satisfied with the change in your eyes.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, almost tenderly, while the blade rested against your skin—threatening and affectionate at the same time. "You’re going to give me everything."

The warmth of the blood against your skin seemed to intensify every sensation, every touch. The marks he left were there, engraved, like a macabre masterpiece on your flesh. Noah knelt, and with almost ritualistic precision, ran the tip of his lips over the cuts, feeling the liquid trickle down, absorbing it with a sadistic pleasure.

When he finally pressed his lips to yours, the kiss was a mix of heat and iron, the taste of metal still strong, as if every movement of your mouths was tracing a line between pain and desire. The heat of your bodies colliding, the pressure of the chain, and the scent of blood in the air... all of it created an atmosphere of pure abandon.

You weren’t sure who was more lost there—him, with the ferocity of his possession, or you, immersed in this sick and irresistible game he imposed.

And then, without pulling his lips from yours, he whispered, almost like a challenge, "Now, who will be consumed?"

Noah followed the trail of blood trickling from your collarbone, slithering between your breasts and staining the thin fabric of your blouse. His tongue brushed your skin, sending shivers through you, but he continued his path without lingering on your ragged breath, descending toward your waist. When he slid down the fabric of your lower clothing, you tried to arch your body, but the chains tensed, threatening to deprive you of air.

Your gaze lifted to the ceiling, where imperfections in the paint spread like random marks on a neglected canvas. Meanwhile, he dedicated himself to sculpting the soft skin of your inner thigh, each movement marked by meticulous precision, where his tongue followed soon after until it halted at your groin.

He inhaled your intimate scent almost like an antidote finally found, exposing you even more. His lips trailed over your flesh until they stopped at your clit, but Noah only smiled at your frustrated groan as he straightened and stood once again.

Noah’s long fingers closed around the excess of the chain, pulling it firmly and forcing your body to follow his steps. He listened to your deep breath and savored the sound for a few seconds before sliding his index finger gently along the side of your face, where your unease was visible. The absence of light made it impossible to see his expressions, and this uncertainty left you vulnerable—you had no idea what would come next.

With slow, almost studied movements, Noah traced the shape of your lips with his index and middle fingers. Instinctively, your mouth parted, a silent invitation he accepted without hesitation, sliding his fingers inside. Tilting your face upward, you swirled your tongue around his skin, enveloping him in wet, devouring heat before sucking them slowly, feeling them slip from your lips with a faint pop. He watched, satisfied.

You had become a puppet in his hands, every movement reduced to the dance imposed by the chains. Any slip, any hesitation, and he would tighten them again, reaffirming his control, subjugating your body. With firm pressure, he guided you downward, forcing you to your knees before him. It was at that moment that something inside you dissolved—the conflict, the resistance, the illusion of autonomy. You felt between your legs that maybe it wasn’t so bad to be here. Maybe this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Noah made that moment entirely about him, and deep down, perhaps that was what you craved—to be his, to serve him, to surrender to the certainty that you didn’t need to think, decide, or resist.

Just obey.

Just let yourself be guided.

His free hand slid along the waistband of his pants, and it wasn’t long before his erection sprang free, quickly controlled by his grip. You gasped as the tip brushed against your lips, moving slowly as if urging you to analyze its texture first. In the small space your lips formed as they parted, he pushed inside until your jaw popped with the demand, but you took him in.

It was impossible to fit all of him inside your mouth—he was thick and large enough that the sides of your lips stretched as if threatening to tear. You held firm; it wasn’t as if you had done this many times before, but you didn’t want to seem pathetic in front of him, and that drove you to try harder.

With the help of your tongue, you slicked him with saliva, making it easier for his cock to slide in and out in the repetitive rhythm he set as you sucked him. From the sounds Noah made, he seemed comfortable—he pushed your head down further, and everything he carried struck the back of your throat at once. Noah gripped the strands at your nape tightly and fucked your mouth with the urgency of someone who had craved this.

His skin was hot, smooth, and the texture against your tongue had never felt so pleasant. You traced him with your tongue along his length and aided him by opening your mouth wider when he demanded you take him whole. You ignored the pain in your scalp and the burning in your throat—you only focused on sucking him while your eyes lifted upward. Seeing the agonized expression on his face and hearing his almost guttural moan spurred you on even more.

Your legs trembled strangely, your brain losing its sense as if the oxygen had been stolen from it for a few seconds, and down your thighs, the proof trickled that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You felt him pulse inside your mouth, and before he could come, Noah pulled out of you, lifted you off the ground with a swift motion, and shoved you against the cell bars, back to him. It wasn’t long before you felt the weight of his body behind you again, and your eyes closed as the tip of his nose brushed along the side of your face. Noah ran his tongue over your sweat-dampened skin, inhaled your scent, and growled as he lifted one of your legs.

"You’re completely unstable…" you sighed, shaking your head as if you could deny to yourself the grotesque mistake you were making.

"Ah, doctor… it’s people like me who shape, feed, and addict people like you."

"Never."

"You can deny it if it makes you feel better, but you can't pretend you've been the same since you set foot here..." He leaned in slightly, and you felt the heat of his voice against your skin. "I warned you. You're already in the worst of hells. This place is cursed, it will drain your mind, blur the line between reality and illusion... You'll go insane on your own, just by being here."

His whisper chilled your stomach, a sharp shiver climbing up your spine.

"And that's not the worst thing you'll see or do just by being inside. And the worst part? There's nothing you can do about it." He laughed, a low, almost amused sound. "Nothing but enjoy your last days of lucidity."

Discomfort crawled under your skin like needles, a strange, almost narcotic sensation. You hesitated, but his touch did not. Noah kept brushing his lips along the side of your face, his breath warm, provocative, while his fingers moved between your legs, preparing your entrance. You were so wet… his lips had a perverse magnetism, and your body responded as if your mind no longer had any authority over it. Your eyes rolled back slowly, your chest rising and falling, as his voice became a distant hum.

Because surely he was lying.

"Thanks for the warning, but I can take care of myself." Your voice came out low but firm, as if trying to remember who you were before stepping into this place.

Noah smiled, biting lightly at the corner of your jaw before whispering:

"Good, doctor. Because that's all you have in here. Yourself."

With his words came the sudden thrust that forced him inside you, a cry escaping with the searing sensation of his cock tearing through the walls of your pussy, a feeling that lingered until you adjusted to his size. Noah toyed with the tight space and pushed in even further, prolonging the sting.

You tilted your head back until it rested beside his face and saw, from the corner of your eyes, his teeth sinking into your shoulder. Another scream escaped and died on your lips as he tightened the grip of the chain around your neck. He pulled, driving himself deeper, limiting the space between you, milking you and tearing at your walls as if claiming the narrowness you insisted on keeping from him.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and skin rubbing against skin; he defiled every part of you just as he said he would, he was as filthy as he claimed to be, but you couldn't feel more satisfied as he filled you completely.

Every now and then, you glanced around with the tension of someone afraid of being caught. Noah ran his tongue over the deep imprint of his teeth on your shoulder and traced it down to your neck. He had no mercy for your moans, nor for the way you whimpered until a subtle tear slipped from your left eye—he thrived on it.

This was wrong.

You were being fucked by your most problematic patient, the one hiding a mystery you were determined to uncover as if it had become your life's purpose. The way he was possessed by lust, from his movements to his sick gaze, distracted you more than it should—and maybe that was his plan—but you hardly cared.

This version of him, what he became when he was alone with you and willing enough, was the most disturbing and fascinating thing you had ever known.

Your body was on the verge of explosion, Noah filled you entirely, and you synchronized your breaths and movements into a silent, torturous dance that smelled of metal. He had taken complete control of your body, even your moans obeyed his permission. Noah pressed you against the cell to go even deeper, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes and stare at the ceiling above.

He clearly noticed when your legs faltered for a few seconds as he increased the pace of his thrusts. Noah kept you steady and upright to take everything he had to give you, and you welcomed his cock, pulsing more and more, ready to collapse inside you. He moaned louder and louder, and you felt his muscles tensing.

The immersion into hell and the escape from a sea of lava shared the same essence as the sensation consuming you now. It burned. It throbbed. A cruel numbness spread through your nerves, and you wanted to capture every fragment of what you felt, to hold onto them inside you, to relive them later, tomorrow, and after, and after... Like the merciless ecstasy of the worst stimulant, he pushed you beyond the limits of reality, blurred your vision, made stars explode before your eyes.

He drowned you along with him in a perverse plane.

As if, in that instant, he bound you to this place with invisible chains, condemning you to become part of him.

Noah didn't want you to forget.

He wanted you to live it through the marks on your skin.

He wanted to fuse you to Grimshade and condemn you as he was.

Leaning against the back gates of the Hidden, you wrapped your trembling fingers around your own wrists, feeling the rapid pulse reverberate beneath the marked skin. You couldn’t believe that had just happened. Your chest rose and fell erratically, and in a desperate reflex, your teeth sank into the inside of your lip, stifling a pained whimper. Every step made the incisions on your thighs burn, sharp little flames reminding you of every touch, every moment.

The front garden was drowning in a sea of patients, and you quickened your pace along the side discreetly, not daring to look back. Your steps were quick, almost unsteady, as if an invisible force was pulling you away, while a cold weight crawled up your spine. You felt his eyes burning against your back, as if he was tracking you without even moving.

From the corner of your eye, a glimpse—Noah was finally crossing the common entrance, disappearing inside the Hidden.

Your heart pounded erratically against your ribs, and every fiber of your body felt charged with a tension that refused to dissipate. You shut your bedroom door behind you, feeling the weight of that night still clinging to your skin, as if Noah were there, looming over you.

But he wasn’t.

You walked to the bathroom, locking yourself in with a sharp click. The urgency of the shower was irrational, almost obsessive. You turned on the hot water and stepped under the stream, feeling the heavy drops punish your skin. Your fingers traced over the incisions, and every touch brought back the memory of him—of the blade, of the slow, controlled pressure, of the venomous whisper that coiled around your senses.

Your eyes squeezed shut. Your head tilted forward. This would never happen again.

When you emerged from the shower, you wrapped yourself in a nightgown and took a deep breath, staring at your own reflection in the fogged-up mirror. What you saw there didn’t seem exactly… yours. But you blinked, pushed the thoughts away, and forced yourself to act as if nothing had happened. As if you could simply move on.

You lay down, closing your eyes, and within seconds, sleep swallowed you whole.

Until something woke you.

A breath against your ear.

Your entire body tensed. Your heart skipped a beat.

It was the same ticking and dragging sound from the night Tom Hallow was found dead.

You bolted upright in bed, your eyes sweeping the dark room, and a growing agony gripped your chest, a cold tightness that suffocated. You needed to get out. Now.

Without bothering to change clothes, you crossed the room and opened the door. The hallway was deserted, the dim lights casting distorted shadows on the floor. The air was freezing, biting, raising goosebumps on your skin.

Your bare feet made little noise against the floorboards as you descended the stairs. But then—you stopped.

On the other side of the window, something moved.

Your gaze locked onto the tower beside you.

And that’s when you saw it.

A body. Standing at the window.

The shock hit you like an electric current. Your chest heaved in panic, your mind snapping with the certainty that this couldn’t be happening.

But it was.

Before you could react, the body plummeted.

Your scream tore through the night, echoing until it faded.

Without thinking, without processing, your feet carried you forward, bursting through the sanatorium’s main doors. Inside, lights flickered on in the windows, voices rose in a growing murmur, but none of it mattered.

Your gaze was fixed on the rocky ground. On the lifeless body, on the head crushed against the stones.

And then, you saw it.

On his wrist, a small bracelet.

The name engraved there made your stomach sink.

Elias Faulkner had committed suicide right in front of you.

⭑ @bloody-spades ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lacy1986 ; @chey-h ; @supersquirrel1996 ; @zozaline ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @do-it-jakey-baby ; @flowery-mess ; @youcanreadmy-mind ; @tikosblogg ; @gothic-pumpkin ; @badomensls ; @themorticians-world ;

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pretzel-box · 7 months ago

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It was agony, a suffocating darkness that seeped into Sebastian's very bones. The air was cold, damp, and reeked of iron and decay, clinging to his skin like death’s breath. Fine droplets of water dripped from the cracked ceiling, each drop echoing in the silence as they ran down his tangled raven hair. He lay sprawled on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor, every breath a battle, his claws dragging uselessly against the ground. The sound of nails scraping the floor was sharp, almost desperate, as though he could claw his way out of this nightmare.

But there was no escape.

His body twitched involuntarily, wracked with pain, his muscles burning from the strain. Each tremor was a reminder of how far he had fallen, how close he was to the end. The walls of the Blacksite hallway felt too close, like a cage collapsing around him, suffocating him. His chest heaved, breaths shallow and ragged, trying to grasp onto the impossible hope that this didn’t have to be the last moment of his life. Then, the silence was shattered.

The metallic click of a safety being disengaged, the distinct, final sound of a shotgun being loaded.

His heart lurched in his chest. His head lifted weakly, the effort alone almost too much. You stood before him, an imposing figure in the dim light, the edges of your form blurred in shadow. Your presence was suffocating. He tried to meet your eyes, to search for a trace of mercy, but they were hidden beneath the shadow of your hood, obscured by the darkness. He didn’t need to see them to know—they were cold. Empty. Devoid of any humanity.

He was nothing to you.

“M-Mother… save me…" His voice cracked, barely more than a whimper, trembling with fear and desperation. His mind slipped back to a distant memory—his mother’s warm embrace, her fingers gently stroking through his hair, her soft voice soothing him.

“The monsters won’t hurt you now, my angel. You’re safe."

But that was a lie.

There was no safety here, no warmth. Just this cold, terrible place. The walls seemed to inch closer, pressing in on him, trapping him in this corner like an animal waiting for the slaughter. His pulse roared in his ears, the gun’s barrel now inches from his forehead. The metal was ice-cold, digging into his skin. Your grip on the weapon was steady, your movements deliberate. The way you held it—calculated, calm, merciless—made his stomach twist in terror.

He wasn’t a god here. Not anymore.

The breath hitched in his throat as he tried to speak, his words breaking into a pitiful sob. "Please—"

The blast of the shotgun echoed through the hall, cutting off his plea, shattering the fragile hope that lingered. And then, silence.

#roblox pressure #pressure #sebastian solace x you #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace fanfic #pressure x reader #pretzelthoughts #sebastian solace

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theealbatross · 11 months ago

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love is the most twisted curse of all (shadow trio headcannon)

Plot | How the Shadow Trio expresses their love and the price they willingly pay for it.

Tags: |dark-ish, unhealthy friendships/relationships, platonic (or not depends on your interpretation), codependency, manipulation, aged up, implied crimes, implied murder, slytherins can't love normally, implied seb x mc if u squint, traumatized!slytherins can't accept healthy love, seb and mc are dark wizards, auror!sebastian, my opinion only, might be ooc

[A/N: Photos (except two) are not mine! This is something short I wrote because i can't get it out of my head lol]

Ominis Gaunt: The Heir

. Ominis loves by doing what is necessary.

. A perfect Slytherin through and through, Ominis (whether he is aware or not) lives the closest truth to the Slytherin motto. Anything that is 'his' is protected at any and all cost.

. There is no heaven high enough he won't reach or a hell low enough that he won't crawl in if it meant saving the people dearest to him.

. Like the perfect slytherin heir Ominis is akin to a snake, his morality slithering and bending to fit his narrative. His bones creak, skin stretching as he wraps himself around his loved ones until they are untouchable.

. He is aware of his flaws but he is not so honorable to fix it. He knows the real world -- the darker side of the wizarding world's high society, one that his companions aren't too familiar with -- and he will move hell and high water to protect them from it in the shadows.

. Dark Spells being used a bit too closely in where Sebastian is stationed? It must be those damned dark wizards, Minister. Isn't Auror Sallow so gallant in facing those pests?

. Poacher corpses leading a trail to you? Surely, such stains of the wizarding world wouldn't be missed. The Hero of Hogwarts did us all a favor, it would be a shame to condemn such heroics.

. Suspicious rumors following his friends? Not while he was at the top of high society, manipulating reputations and snuffing out nonbelievers. Any tongue that rises against them will be cut.

. He is a Gaunt, and as much as he loathes the dark history behind his name -- he knows how to wield its power. He is the only one who can properly wield it and it is a sword he is willing to use -- if necessary.

Sebastian Sallow: The Prodigy

. Sebastian loves by monopolizing.

. As a boy who lost too much at such a young age, his entire world surrounds the few people he considers his own. And if you are one of his people know his whole world will surround you.

. He has to have access and knowledge of his loved ones at all times. In-depth, illegal, background checks on all people his pretty witch associates herself with? Fair game, it's for your safety, darling. Charmed pieces of jewelry that lets him know of your location at all times? Christmas and birthday gifts from him to you, wear it at all times or he'll charm it so it never gets removed. A ring that will transport Ominis to his side at the first sign of danger? Ominis you are far too important a person to put your life on mere Aurors hands, I'll handle it.

. Normal people would be put off but after all the things the three of you have been through, putting your lives and safety in Sebastian's hands is the best course of action. It is for your own good, after all.

. Sebastian is fully aware he has unfortunately been cursed with having brilliant friends with bounties in their heads in the underworld. Therefore, the best course of action would be the one to rule it.

. Living a double life as the honorable Head Auror and a dark wizard was not for the weak but Sebastian has always been used to compartmentalizing different faces for different facets of his life. A brilliant student, a delinquent, a doting brother, a traitor, a partner in crime, a merciless murderer. He'll wear any and all masks and become the monster he is required to be if it meant he got to keep you.

. Sebastian doesn't have a lot of people he loves so he will not ask for forgiveness in how he protects those that is willing to be loved by him. They're his -- his to love, his to protect, his to consume.

. And he'll let all the curses and corpses pile up into a mountain of sins before he'll lose anyone ever again.

MC: The Hero

. She loves through devotion.

. Once you consider them as a friend they can do no wrong in your eyes and if they do commit mistakes you will dig the deepest pit to bury it in with your own bare hands.

. Being told you were special, you were different, you were powerful at a very early age fractured your reality. The world is your oyster, it will be whatever you deem it to become.

. For what is power if you can't even help those you love the most?

. Do you want me to take care of 'it', Omi? You know I hate it when you strain yourself with politics. Someone tried to take Sebastian to court for excessive violence? Who is it? Are you going to handle it or should I? Why can't they just let him be?

. You will follow them blindly at whatever corner of the earth they are calling from. Anything that has to do with them is a priority of the highest order as far as you are concerned-- so much so that people have to go to Ominis and Sebastian first to convince them to convince you to help.

.There is no such thing as a good or bad anymore -- you will stand on whatever side they are on, and the rest of the world can decide if they want to stand with you or against you.

. There will be no such thing as a consequence if you had anything to say about it. And you had the final say about everything.

. All will always be well for you and everyone you love. You will make sure of it.

.You are special, after all.

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow fanfiction #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow headcannons #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt headcannon #sebastian sallow x reader x ominis gaunt #sebastian x reader x ominis #shadow trio

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libellule-ao3 · 4 months ago

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Blood will out 🐍

Rating : T | Ominis Gaunt x Unnamed MC (or F!reader) | angst | Established relationship | DAD!Ominis

Summary: Ominis Gaunt wrestles with the growing fear that his son might succumb to the family legacy he has spent his life trying to escape.

A/N: I believe that, as a father, one of Ominis’s greatest fears would be his child following a dark path, tied to the toxic legacy of the Gaunts. This idea led me to imagine his stress and doubts as he begins to notice possible signs in his son.

When I wrote this, I had in mind the French saying "Bon sang ne saurait mentir," which means that everyone is the product of their heritage, their lineage. Instinctively, I wanted to translate the expression as "Blood tells no lies," but I later discovered that "Blood will out" could convey a similar meaning.

I hope you will like it🤞

The silence of the night, heavy as a lead blanket, seemed to want to crush him. Ominis Gaunt sat in the darkness of his study, his fingers nervously stroking the ebony wand in front of him. In that touch, a man whose inner struggles kept him awake long after his son had fallen asleep sought comfort in vain.

His eyes were open to the darkness he could not see, but his mind was haunted by a ghost of memory: his child.

Twelve years old.

Too young to understand everything.

Too young, and yet…

Through the familiar pulsations of his wand, he could perceive the delicate hands of his son, fragile yet disturbingly assured, caressing the yellowed pages of a grimoire on the dark arts. It was no ordinary book. The child had stolen it from Sebastian’s dusty library, a deliberate choice, too precise to be dismissed as mere happenstance. Each turn of the pages felt like a whisper of their family’s cursed legacy — a legacy Ominis had fought so hard to bury.

A cold blade twisted in his chest as the question, implacable and cruel, formed in his mind: was this simply curiosity? The fruit of a keen and insatiable intelligence, too mature for its age?

Or… Was it the first venomous stirrings of an inheritance that refused to die, seeping into his son’s veins like an ancestral and irreversible poison?

He swallowed hard, his thoughts veering towards darker corners. There had been other fleeting moments, unsettling in their familiarity, where his son’s voice carried an authority that chilled him to the core. Too similar to the sharp commands of his father or the merciless judgements of Marvolo to ignore. In those moments, Ominis did not hear the innocence of a child. He heard the distorted echoes of spectres he had thought long buried. Even the most banal words seemed to bear the weight of a lineage clawing to reclaim its place.

Damn, Ominis was no longer certain of anything. Each moment spent near his son felt like a cruel wager, a precarious balance between the boy he knew and the shadow he dreaded. Ominis gritted his teeth.

Was it still possible to resist this fatal legacy? Or had he already lost the battle, despite all his struggles, prayers, and sacrifices?

A hoarse sigh escaped his lips. He closed his eyes, but this only amplified the chaos in his head. The cruel laughter of the spectres of his past flayed his thoughts behind his closed eyelids.

Manigoldo Gaunt, or the brutal authority of a father who crushed his childhood.

Atropa Gaunt, embodying the poisonous charm of the deadly flower that gave her her name.

His brothers and sisters, led by Marvolo, cold and implacable, perfect instruments for perpetuating the abominations of their lineage.

Ominis had thought he was different. For years, he had clung to the fragile hope that his wife’s love and blood would be enough to shape a different future for their son. But now... now that hope seemed distant, as fragile as the lingering scent of a wilted flower.

His breathing became jerky. The spiral of his thoughts accelerated, tearing him apart. His grip on the wand tightened, as if the polished ebony could anchor him against the storm within.

A creak.

The door.

The sound, discreet as it was, was enough to break the oppressive cycle of his mind. His muscles tensed instinctively —a reflex honed by years of fear— but the faint scent of wildflowers and freshly cut grass reached him first.

She was there.

Silent as ever, she slipped into the room, rounded his desk and settled astride his lap. Her arms went round him, a gesture without expectations or demands, betraying an affection that no words could express.

No promises.

No useless words.

Ominis lifted a trembling hand, his fingertips tracing the curve of her shoulder and down to her elbow, grounding himself in her presence. His head rested against her chest, and in the silence broken only by his breath, he could hear her heart beating.

Slow.

Regular.

A rhythm that whispered a truth he too often forgot: he was not alone.

His arms closed around her like a castaway clinging to a piece of wood. Her smell calmed his anxiety, but didn’t make it go away.

She couldn’t do it.

And she knew it.

They shared the same brutal lucidity: certain burdens cannot be lightened. They could only be carried together.

A furtive, gentle kiss touched his hair. The warmth that enveloped him contrasted with the coldness of his thoughts. But even in that fragile moment, the acidic threat of his father crept into his mind, shattering the precarious balance. His arms tightened around her, a dull fear gripping his throat.

“Blood will out.”

Masterlist

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #ominis x reader #ominis #ominis x mc #ominis x oc #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis gaunt fic #Dad!Ominis Gaunt #unnamed MC but coded as Evelyne🪴

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snowyarcher · 1 year ago

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I thought about Astarion's life before he was turned, because it's fun to speculate about things we know very little about.

So, before Cazador he was a corrupt man in the ultimate position of power and justice - a courthouse. As a magistrate, he dealt verdicts according to his prejudices and ruthlessness. He doomed men, women and children. We don't know if he was taught to be that way. We don't know if he had a terrible relationship with his family. We don't know if someone broke his heart and made him into this merciless person.

One thing is for certain though, he was cruel before everything willingly. Then, Cazador happened and with him came a time when Astarion had to be cruel and doom even more souls to survive.

Yet, despite all that Astarion sees himself very clearly. He tells us all the things that we need to know about his past. He doesn't hold back on his cynical view of life or his thirst for power. He says that nobody ever cared for him or looked out for him. Nobody came to his rescue when he needed a way out. That's objectively true. He also admits his wrongs, if we don't ascend him. He says that he can be better than Cazador. He frees the Gur children and all the other victims. They deserve a second chance and they don't have to suffer just because of what he and Cazador did to them.

Sebastian was one of the few, he recalls, who was shy and innocent. He almost looks back at his first meeting with him with a bittersweet feeling. In a sort of "Maybe in another life..." manner. In his torment, Astarion was capable of perceiving the goodness within people. There were terrible people he seduced and there were also good people. And he chooses to free them all anyway.

The power of his redemption doesn't lie within our ability to empathize with a rough childhood or isolated existence. We don't need to know the past to deem him worthy of redemption. He proves us that he is worthy over time.

I love this character so much.

#somebody get this man out of my head #i hope his writer is well and creating more characters like him #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

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fandomfluffandfuck · 5 months ago

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I can't stop fucking thinking about premature ejaculation today, literally, I've been so distracted from everything, and it's probably definitely K's (@howdoyousleep3 's) fault with this fucking post (plus her broader, totally understandable, fixation with it 👀) that will haunt me for the rest of my days. So. Evanstan filth.

Chris was slotting his key card into his hotel room door but he isn't anymore and he doesn't know, honest to god, how he got from standing outside the room to lying flat on his fucking back on the plush, tightly made bed of that same room without remembering even a single rushed step but he is, he is, it's not even been a full minute, he swears, and ohhh--

Sebastian is here.

He's not supposed to be is the thing, though, he's got a thousand other places he's all but contracted to be right now; their schedules have been hell the last few months between their competing, demanding press tours for movies with such laugably different tones. Sebastian is doing two fucking press tours at once for Christ's sake, he doesn't have time for even a quickie. Chris feels like they've hardly heard each other's voices, seen each other's faces--they've not been calling, certainly not FaceTime-ing, just texting back and forth between the circuses of their limelight lives, just trying to keep it together while the world spins too fast around them.

Chris' head is spinning off his shoulders now. He's slammed his head back into the overstuffed pillows, his hair fanning out around him with a strand of it sticking to his forehead, sweating when, shit, he can't have been in the room for more than a minute or two, tops. He doesn't know if he pushed or Seb pulled--who led who to the bed? How'd they get here? How'd it become this?

Not that he can complain, he doesn't know and he doesn't fucking care how they ended up on top of each other, tangled together, knotted and beyond coming apart easily. He can't care because he's not even fully out of his shirt--it's half unbuttoned, pulled apart and pulled down to expose the upper half of his chest, flushed, normally pale skin and dark ink and a forest of hair, his necklace left astray, heated to his feverish body temperature and sizzling where it rests in the pit of his neck. That's not all, though. His shirt is rucked up to display even more of the scattered art across his skin, his abs clenching tight. He lost his slacks somewhere. Shoes, too. He was wearing shoes when he got in here, right? He had to be. Definitely. He wouldn't've--

It doesn't matter.

A moan comes tumbling out of Chris' mouth, and it doesn't fucking matter. His toes curl without even half of a muttled thought spared to investigating the sensation to rediscover if he's still wearing socks or not. And, oops, his boxer briefs are gone, too, now. Sebastian is stripping him of them impatiently, his hands frantic, greedy, as they slide down over his skin.

Bared, his cock hits his exposed stomach and Chris makes a sound that doesn't even make sense.

His mouth is open, somehow both too dry and wet with spit--almost drool. His bearded jaw has dropped so fucking wide it would be embarrassing if he could comprehend such a concept as embarrassment at a time like this.

This--

One leg bent at the knee, foot flat against the mattress, and the other leg curled indecently over his lover's shoulder as Sebastian's lips glide, slick and hot and unfairly erotic, against his cock, he's so hard so fast--responding to Seb's mouth like a subject of Pavlov, a damn dirty dog--that he's not even sure he was ever soft. How could he be soft when Sebastian is tilting his whole head into it? Getting fucking into it.

Woof.

He's merciless, mouthing at his dick, moaning like he fucking missed it. The weight. The taste. The mouthful. He must've missed it bad with how he's going at it, licking, dragging his tongue over it broadly, outrageously, then resting it heavily on his tongue, mouth open, sloppy, letting the tip slide against the soaked velvet inside of his cheek, bulging out pornographically, moaning, sucking on the tip, letting it slide deep shiveringly, impressively quickly. He's hungry--starved even.

And Chris' entire body clenches, uncontrollably, his muscles tight, helpless to not be swallowed up by it all. Then, just as involuntarily, Chris' hips buck up jaggedly.

Sebastian lets them, only groaning messily as Chris is enveloped deep in that lush mouth, deeper into that wicked throat.

Seb hardly even gags.

Fuuck.

Chris' neck arches harder, fighting and losing the battle against the flood of pleasure, feeling the sweet, hurting pull in his muscles and tendons past their usual use. Gasping, he can't get in enough oxygen to feed the bonfire Sebastian has sparked from just a match but grew impatient with, dumping gasoline on the whole fucking thing instead. Lighting. him. up.

Shit.

God, fuckin'--

It feels sofuckinggood.

His mouth.

Chris missed his mouth desperately, he missed him so badly, he was going crazy without him, now he's here and Chris can't understand it, did he take a plane? Did he drive from whatever fucking stop he was on with press? When? How long do they have? How is Chris supposed to think, to ask, when he can't even shut his fucking mouth. Groaning and gasping, then moaning. Endless. It's pure adrenalin and shock. Pleasure coursing through him so suddenly that it fractures him into a million tiny pieces.

Guh.

Sebastian is going to fucking suck his soul out of his body, going at him like that. It's not just the way he slurps and swallows and moans on his cock, though, it's how he's bobbing his head, taking it gorgeously, an inescapable, dire rush to every action, gagging, choking a little with his recklessness. He's filthy. He's gorgeous. He's--

"Oh. Oh," Chris can't stop any of the embarrassing sounds that are, just, coming out of him, spilling over, dripping down his chin, making a mess of his throat and chest. He's wet. Sweating. Spit. Dripping. "Wait," he's panting, moaning sharply, Sebastian's mouth is leaving scorching kisses down his shaft, his tongue flicking out to lewdly trace the throbbing veins, prominent on him visibly and psychologically, Chris' heart throbs in his chest, its beat pounding through his dick and rushing in his ears.

And Seb's just going, going, going--plunging deeper, getting to the base of his cock, slurping at his balls gluttonously, grazing them with his lips and teeth, sending tingling danger rushing through Chris like static.

"Baby-!"

He just keeps getting lower, using every weakness Chris has without even thinking about it, he knows his body too well, it's too, too good, so much, pulsing, rushing, boiling over.

"Baby, nno," he scrambles, his hands finding their way to Sebastian's gorgeous hair, pulling until he shivers and groans at the scalp-pin-prick pain, debauched, "I'm gonna," Chris struggles to use his mouth for something understandable, "oh, no, no-nnnghh, ugh, oh, I'm, w-we just st-AH-started! Wait!" He whines, "if you--'m gonna--"

His words turn from whining words to something entirely useless for communication, incoherent sounds of pleasure too good to not be afraid of it, razor-sharp around the edges, treacherous, all-consuming as Sebastian doesn't heed his strangled attempts at warning, burying his fucking face in him. He feels so fucking close to him that he might as well be inside him--reaching up through his gut to his chest to squeeze his racing heart--his nose pressed right up against that hypersensitive, intimate place behind his balls while his lips and tongue ravish his hole. He has no hesitation. No shame. He just--

Eats him.

He eats him out so fucking good, ravenous with that wet-dream mouth, that there's nothing Chris can do to stop it, even with his fist flying to the base of his dick to squeeze and choke off his embarrassingly early orgasm--it's all in vain. He can't stop it.

He's fucking cumming.

Spilling hard over his quivering stomach in all-consuming pumps that crash over him like storm-charged waves against the shore. His hips are pushed up so far--fighting it, squirming, trying to get away and get closer, and, shit, he doesn't even know what his body is doing as it's ripped out of him--that he nearly makes it to his bearded chin with his own release. It's wet and hot over his stomach, his chest, and his collarbones, almost his throat.

Christ.

With his chest fucking heaving, his lungs rasping, audibly struggling to get each breath out of his throat, Chris quakes through the aftershocks. Barely able to keep his eyes open enough to see Sebastian, buried between his legs, shuddering, and, oh fuck, thoughtlessly squirming against the bed, rubbing himself off against it, caught up in the same indulgent mood.

After another short, blurry, fast-motion moment, when Chris whines--again from too much pleasure, wishing for it to stop so he isn't so mortified, except for that last part, the mortification has already come, spreading itself out over his face like a proud, deep sunburn, then--Sebastian pulls away. His lips are swollen. Puffy, wet, and red. He looks as wrecked as Chris feels. Chris feels fucking scrambled. He's still half-humping the bed, whispering, heady, "Chris, Chr--" his voice catches in his throat "--Chris, Jesus," he spreads his legs wider, getting more friction, making Chris' sensitive cock jolt painfully at the obscene picture he makes, "you're so hot."

Chris feels hot. The blushing and embarrassed and squirming kind of hot, though. He kind of wants to fucking melt into the bed, it's been fucking years since he's cum with that little action and he usually prides himself on how he goddamn pleasures his partners first, then takes his, sometimes not even his own, he loves making others feel good and he's fucking good at doing it, bringing them to their knees, he's not like this, not normally; but, also, he really wants to surge forward, wrestle Seb flat onto his belly and get him back to tear into him. Right now, the best he can do, though, still recovering from the quick and dirty intensity of his shattering orgasm, is mumble, "your mouth," his face must be swollen with all the blood rushing into his tingling cheeks, "can't fuckin' help it, you drive me crazy," he excuses himself, shaky.

"Cr-crazy, nngh, yeahh," Seb echoes, losing it, melting from cocky and confident and in control to plain needy with all that good friction to his dick.

God, what a fucking sight he is, down there, between his legs, frenzied.

#fandomfluffandfuck #chris evans #sebastian stan #evanstan #rpf #real person fanfiction

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