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byesexualbucky · 3 years

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take me home, take me home

pairing: sebastian stan x fem reader

notes: 5k of smut. 18+ only. also, please do not take after seb in this fic. use a condom.

It’s a weight lifted, driving out of the city. You don’t notice it on your shoulders when you’re going about your daily life, rushing through New York, half your day on the C train and the other half weaving through tourists on the streets to get to where you need to go. You thrive on it, and he does too, you know—but there’s something that happens once the city traffic clears up on the Bronx River Parkway, when it turns into the Sprain Brook and then to the Taconic, when the road opens up ahead of you and the trees rise on either side and Sebastian puts his foot on the gas just that much harder and you exhale, tension rising off your shoulders, a smile you hadn’t expected pulling at the corners of your lips as you let your sunglasses drop onto your nose, tinting the road in front of you a gorgeous red and brown.

Sebastian feels it too, you know him well enough to pick up on his emotions, his stress, his relief, even when he doesn’t say them out loud. He reaches over and turns up the stereo just a tad, Bruce Springsteen just a little louder, and then drops his hand on your thigh, fingers warm on your skin, brushing against the hem of your sundress.

You like it like this, when you can look at him while he drives, blue eyes darting from the road to meet yours every few minutes. The sun is hitting the bridge of his nose just right, illuminating the smatter of freckles there that no one else gets to see, because no one else gets to get this close, gets to have this much time, uninterrupted, looking at him. You kiss them every chance you get, but sometimes you still feel like that’s not enough.

“You’re staring, sweetheart,” he glances over at you, smile pulling at his lips too, and you laugh, warmth settling in your stomach as you kick your feet up on the dash of his brand new Range Rover. Or, rather, your brand new Range Rover—you bought it together, just six weeks ago, your first big purchase as a couple after four years together. It hadn’t occurred to you that all your friends had started doing this long ago, joint purchases with their partners: houses, cars, vacation homes. You’d just kind of settled in with Sebastian after a few months together, when he cleared a handful of dresser drawers for you and made space in the second closet in his bedroom, the one that had once housed his winter coats. Those coats hang in the foyer now, next to yours, dog leash looped over them. It’s stayed that way for four years.

You’d bought this big car with the thought of buying a second home together upstate some time soon, even though big cars don’t make sense in the city. It’s a nightmare to park, absurdly expensive, and stressful to maneuver through tiny streets, but when you think about why you chose it, about the way Sebastian asked the salesman if a baby’s car seat would fit safely in the back, a few years in the future, you don’t feel any regret.

“What about it?” You ask him, reaching for your iced coffee, settled in the cup holder between you. It’s starting to get chilly, August slipping into September and the nights getting cooler, but New York holds onto summer until nearly October most years, and Sebastian’s got the seat heaters on anyway, because he knows how much you love them. The iced coffee is a nice chill to your system, a little jolt, a reminder that you promised to stay awake with Seb for the whole drive upstate.

“It’s distracting,” he says, eyes on you again, just for a split second. “Can I have some?”

“You have your own,” you say, but you lean over anyway, holding the cup up to his face so he can take a sip, lips wrapping around the straw softly, a gentle tug of butterflies in your stomach. It’s been four years, and he still does this to you.

“Yours is better,” he tells you when he’s done drinking. “Thanks, angel.”

“Order this next time then, weirdo,” you settle back into your seat, but it doesn’t bother you, really. You reach for his drink, shoved in the other cup holder, and take a sip for yourself.

It’s exactly the same as yours.

It’s dark when you pull into the hotel in Hudson, three hours north of the city. You’d rolled the windows down when Sebastian pulled off the highway, letting the soft August air rush into the car, bringing with it the smell of a late summer evening, of warmth and stillness. It’s quiet now, so much quieter than you’re used to, the radio lowered to just a whisper, the sound of the Rover’s engine the loudest thing around. Sebastian cuts the engine and the headlights go with it.

“It’s pretty,” you tell him, eyes on the large, white farmhouse in front of you. It’s blanketed in the dark, but you can still see the windows, illuminated golden from the inside, and you can almost feel the warmth too, can imagine how it’ll feel tomorrow, everyone together, drunk, glasses in the air, cheers on your lips. “They made a great choice.”

“You can see? I can hardly make out anything,” Sebastian laughs, scratching gently at his stubble. It’s coming back strong, after he shaved for his last movie, and the rub of it against your inner thighs last night is still tickling the back of your mind. You wonder if he’s got enough energy after the drive. “Guess I should call the eye doctor when we get home.”

“Nah,” you tell him, reaching over to pinch his cheek. “I’m just imagining. Romanticising it, you know.”

“It is romantic,” he glances over at you, eyebrow raised, and you feel yourself flush, your cheeks rising red, your stomach flipping over itself again. You know he loves seeing you react like this, so you let yourself succumb to it, like a high schooler with a crush. It’s fun. Sebastian always keeps it fun. “It’s a wedding, I mean. Is there anything more romantic?”

“I dunno,” you roll your lips together to hide a smile, “but I can think of a few things we could try.”

Sebastian laughs, full and loud, the laugh that trails off into a gaspy giggle at the end, his hand coming to rest on his stomach as he settles down. It makes you feel giddy, buzzing off his energy, off him.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he leans over to plant a kiss on your mouth, pulling away with a soft bite to your lower lip, a promise of more later. “We should at least check in first.”

And, so, you do. Sebastian carries both his bag and yours to the front desk, tells the receptionist you’re here for the Mackie wedding tomorrow, and leads you down the hall to your suite, tall and so gorgeous, his front pressed to your back as you unlock the door and step into the dark room. He drops your bags right at the door and you almost protest, almost tell him you have bronzer in there that could crack if he’s not careful, almost check to make sure the bottle of wine you packed didn’t break, almost, almost, almost. But he gently kicks the door closed, presses his thumb to your lips, and kisses you without even bothering to turn the lights on, and all at once bronzer is the furthest thing from your mind.

It hadn’t even occurred to you to feel jealous. When Anthony asked Sebastian to be a groomsman it was nothing but excitement, and when his fiancee Maeve explained that she couldn’t ask you to be a bridesmaid you hadn’t felt disappointed, or hurt, or anything, really. She has so many sisters, it would’ve looked ridiculous to have you up there too. You had fun with the planning anyway, giving feedback on the boys’ suits and helping Anthony with his vows, and not once, over the past ten months of planning, has it occurred to you to feel jealous.

Until now.

Until you’re standing alone in the rows of seats, next to Maeve’s sweet cousins, watching your boyfriend walk down the aisle with one of the bride’s sisters on his arm. You know it’s nothing, you know this is how weddings work, and you know you’re being irrational. But it doesn’t stop the twinge in your lower stomach, the tightness in your throat, the shame, prickling at your eyes that you’re even feeling jealousy at all.

They walk down the aisle, Sebastian fit like a daydream in his tux, Maeve’s sister gliding in her forest green gown. Sebastian catches your eye as he walks past, winks just for you, and you feel so stupid, so selfish, so sick, for just a moment.

You reach for the white chair in front of you, resting a little bit of your weight on its back, and you let the feeling pass.

By the time Sebastian finds you at the afterparty, you’re well on your way to drunk.

He’d found you first after the service, kissed you quickly as Anthony and Maeve were pulled into hugs and kisses and congratulations, and then disappeared for official pictures with the bridal party, whisked away with a quick kiss to your temple, a quiet “don’t have too much fun without me, love,” before he was gone. You’d ended up making your way over to the reception with Chris instead, just a short walk up the road from the tiny, red church to the big white farmhouse. He slung an arm around your shoulders after Sebastian rushed off, jokingly asked what a girl like you would be doing alone in a dress like this, and led you toward the party.

And Chris is fun, really, one of the best people to have by your side at any kind of party—he’s a magnet, impossible not to like, boisterous and bright, shoving cocktails into your hand every time he notices you’re carrying an empty glass. He’s got you four deep and spinning around to Dancing Queen by the time Seb reappears, shouting both your names over the music to announce his arrival.

“Hey,” he’s smiling, his crow’s feet sending a little lightning bolt through your heart, “that’s my date, Evans.”

“You abandoned her,” Chris tosses his arm around your shoulder again, pulling you into his side. You let yourself flop against him, drunk, and just the tiniest bit bitter that Seb was gone for so long. “Not my fault, man.”

Seb shakes his head, reaches his hand out for you and you take it, of course, because you can’t imagine any world in which you wouldn’t. His hand is warm and safe and familiar and you let him tug you gently into his arms, into the triangle of his chest that’s exposed by his button down, open at its top four buttons. You press your cheek to his skin, and his free hand comes to rest on the small of your back.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, soft lips pressed to the crown of your head, and you forgive him immediately, without any hesitation. “We took so many pictures, everyone wanted to make sure they got the perfect one. And then Anthony got me a drink and I was chatting with him and time got away from me, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” you swear, looking up to meet his eyes. He really does look sorry, and worried, and it breaks your heart just the tiniest bit. “I understand. It’s his wedding. I had fun with Chris, anyway.”

“Sure looks like it,” he says, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You love this smile, the one that’s mostly just for you, sharp at the corners and gentle in his eyes. You like the way it still gives you butterflies, even after four years of seeing it this close. He touches your cheek softly, thumb pressing against your lips. “You had a few drinks?”

“Just a few,” you say, but your giggle betrays you, and Seb laughs too. You can feel it reverberate through his chest.

“What’s your definition of a few?”

“I lost count,” you admit, glancing behind you to ask Chris. But he’s been pulled away, is dancing with one of Maeve’s cousins, and you turn back to Seb, who hasn’t taken his eyes off you. “You’d have to ask Evans.”

“You feel okay, right?” Sebastian asks, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

You nod, though it makes the room spin a little bit. “Totally, just drunk as hell. Which,” you tighten your arms, wrapped around his tiny waist, and let one hand wander down to the curve of his ass. “I think you should catch up to.”

“I can do that,” Seb nods, his eyelids fluttering as you slide your hands back around and then up his chest. You can feel his muscles react under your fingertips, and it sets those butterflies off again, this time with more urgency. You rest your arms around his neck, which encourages him to lean down just enough to kiss you.

“What do you want to drink?” You ask against his lips, thumb running over the back of his neck. He shivers against you, and you know you’ve won.

“This dress looks so fucking good on you,” Sebastian presses you up against the door of your hotel room, just enough to push the door shut and make the latch click closed, loud in the dark, silent room. He reaches around your body as he presses his lips to yours and you feel him turning the lock into place, hear the sound of sliding metal as he gently tugs at your bottom lip with his teeth, hand coming back to rest on your waist once he’s done. He pulls back, blue eyes blown out in the dark. “It would be such a waste to take it off.”

You shiver a little as his lips come to your neck—even after all this time, you can’t help what he does to you. It’s been hours since he caught up with you at the reception; hours of dancing around each other, his hands on your waist, yours trailing down his chest to toy with the buttons on his shirt. He’s as drunk as you now, and his kisses taste like red wine and wedding cake, and God, you can’t get enough of him, can’t stop thinking about how he looked up at the altar in his tux, how he looks now, dishevelled and drunk and turned on, and how it’s all for you. It’s enough to rile you up for him—you can feel it between your thighs. “If you rip it,” you muster up all your resolve before you inevitably turn into a whining mess underneath him, “you’re paying for a new one.”

He laughs into your neck, presses his nose against your skin lovingly, and pulls your back off the door so you’re fully enveloped in his arms. “I probably will,” he admits, and before you can work out what to say next he’s hoisting you up, hands under your ass, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to keep you secure. He’s so fucking strong it still blows you away, the way he can pick you up like this with no issue, the way he can walk you to the bed like he’s doing now, holding you up and kissing you stupid and set you down gently on the mattress like it’s nothing. You cling to his neck as he tries to pull away and he laughs again, leans back in for another kiss, all tongue and red wine and just the right amount of teeth. You’ve never known a better kisser in your life. You’ve never known a better man.

“Gotta let go of me, angel,” he says, lips moving against yours as he speaks. “I can’t get undressed when you’re hanging on like this.”

You hum against his lips, happy, just for a moment, to rest comfortably on this plush bed with your boyfriend on top of you. The weight of his body on yours has always felt like home to you—comfortable and safe and warm all the way down to your core, and some mornings it’s impossible to let him get up to go to the gym, for you to rip yourself away from him to get up for work. You make up for it whenever you can.

“Alright, okay,” Sebastian presses his lips to your temple, gentle and sweet, and shifts his weight just enough to get his hand between your bodies. You feel him pop open the button on his suit pants, hear the pull of the zipper.

“No, no,” you scramble, pushing at his chest so he lifts his head to look at you. Your red lipstick is smeared all over his mouth and neck, and you reach up to gently brush your thumb over the corner of his lips, smudging some of it away. “Not like this. Wanna see you.”

Sebastian laughs, shaking his head gently, eyes fluttering closed in loving exasperation. You get lost looking at his lashes sometimes, the way they brush the tips of his cheeks, the way they curl up at the ends, the way they tickle your skin when he presses his face to your cheek or your stomach or the insides of your thighs. You reach up to cup his cheek, pressing your thumb gently into the dimple on his cheek.

“You’re impossible,” he whispers, leaning down again to press his lips to yours. It’s a little slower this time, sweeter, and, this time, when he pulls away you let him go.

He sits back on his haunches, straddling your thighs, and lets you watch as he makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt, leaving it hanging open when you reach up to touch his abs, to brush the tips of your fingers over the hills and valleys of his muscles, down to his hipbones. It never fails to make him shiver when you touch him there. With his shirt wide open and his pants undone he looks sinful, almost more intimate than if he was fully naked. You could lay here and watch him breathe like this forever, you’re sure of it.

“Enjoying yourself, honey?” Sebastian smiles, tilts his head to one side, and you feel yourself flush even more, your cheeks heating up and your stomach flipping over itself. He chuckles, and bends at the waist for another kiss. “So beautiful,” he tells you when he pulls away. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” you tell him, and he shakes his head, goes in for one more kiss to prove you wrong. He presses himself up into a plank and works his pants off one-handed as he kisses you, a frankly infuriating display of strength that would make you roll your eyes if it didn’t turn you on so much. You can feel him smiling against your lips, satisfied with his little show.

Sebastian tosses his pants behind him, into the darkness of the hotel room, and lets you reach up to help him shrug his shirt off, too. You make a mental note of the direction he tosses it in, so you can pick it up and put it on later, before he gets to it himself. Underneath him, you squirm a little, getting overheated now in your silk dress with Sebastian on top of you in nothing but his briefs.

“Like I said,” Sebastian smirks, noticing your discomfort, and trails his fingers from your ankle up the inside of your calf. Just above your knee he pauses, feather light, before ghosting his way up your thigh. “It would be such a waste to take this pretty dress off you tonight.”

“What’s your plan, then?” You try to maintain some dignity, but your voice is shaking, your chest heaving, and you know your cheeks are flushing up with anticipation. He’s always been good at this, the build up. And he always follows through, too.

“I think you can guess,” one side of his mouth lifts in a smirk, and he finally finishes the trail of his fingers, resting between your legs. You know you’re soaking wet, and you can tell by the look on his face that he’s happy about it. He presses two fingers against you, insistent, and you arch your back, baring your neck for him in pleasure. His lips attach to your neck the way you knew he would, teeth sharp and quick against your skin, his tongue, warm and wet, immediately following.

“So gorgeous for me,” he tells you, another nip to your neck, his fingers toying at the hem of your underwear. “Love you like this.”

And you love him like this, too: his voice low and gentle and just for you, his body heavy and warm and sensitive in the places only you know about, his cheeks flushed and his freckles bright and his body hair soft. All of him, just for you. Yours to love, like this, right now.

You don’t have the words to tell him like that—not in moments like this, when just his body on yours is enough to stun you speechless, enough to have you writhing and whining and begging for touch. You think one day, maybe, if he wants it too, you’ll have your own day like the one Anthony and Maeve had today: a white dress, a first dance, Sebastian choking up while reading out his vows. One day, you think, you hope.

But for now, this.

This: Sebastian, who’s worked your underwear off without you even noticing and tossed them in the general direction of his suit pants. This: your legs hoisted over his strong, sturdy shoulders, his toned muscles flexing and moving underneath you. This: his lips, pressing messy kisses to your inner thighs, trailing up, up, up, up, until he’s pressing those same messy kisses to the space between your thighs, his fingers working alongside his mouth, your dress pushed up around your stomach to give him the access he needs.

This: the way Sebastian looks up at you—his head between your thighs, his blue eyes flashing in the dark hotel room—and smirks against your clit.

You throw your head back onto the pillow, gasping out louder than you intended to, and Sebastian grasps at your ass, his fingers bruising, and doesn’t let up. He’s never cared how messy it gets, how much you soak his face, the sheets underneath you. He just keeps going and going, tongue, lips, fingers, nonstop until you’re coming, then coming again, then seeing God, then crying, your face wet with how good you feel and Sebastian’s lips and tongue slowing to a gentle stop, a sweet, loving kiss to your clit, a stark contrast to the way it all started.

He looks up at you again from between your thighs, lifting your head so you can see him properly, and it’s like you’re seeing God all over again: his cheeks flushed a gorgeous pink, his hair tousled from your fingers, his lips and chin shiny with the mess you both made. He looks just as fucked out as you feel.

Gently, Sebastian lowers your legs off his shoulders, hushing you comfortingly when you hiss from the stretch. He presses a kiss to each knee before pushing himself up your body to be face to face with you again, and you reach up to cup his cheek, to press your thumb against the space between his lips.

“Feel good?” He asks softly, pursing his lips for a gentle kiss to the pad of your thumb.

You nod, thumb moving down to touch at the cleft of his chin, his stubble rough against your skin. He’s hard between your legs, gently rocking his hips forward and back to get a little friction. You can feel him each time he brushes against you through his briefs. “Your turn,” you reach down to grasp at him through the thin layer of cotton, watching as his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a soft, sweet sigh, just for you. You want to hold your breath sometimes, when it’s like this, so you don’t make too much noise, so you don’t miss a single thing.

“Yeah,” he sighs softly, his hips still rocking, and when you reach around to pull his briefs off he lets up just long enough to help you get them off him, to kick them onto the floor and gasp when you wrap your hand around him again. You can hardly see with how dark the room is, but you know the sight of him hard and desperate like you know the home you share together: without even having to think about it you know where and when to apply pressure, when to swipe your thumb over his head, when to pause, to give him a moment to collect himself. You know when to go slack, too, to let him fuck himself into your hand like a desperate teenager, and you know when to take control, to use your free hand to pin his hands back so he can’t touch, can’t get the friction he so badly needs.

He’s a whimpering mess in no time, practically incoherent, but when you pull your hand free and move to tie your hair back he shakes his head, his giant hand closing around your wrist to stop you. “No,” he tells you, breathless and beautiful, “I won’t last. Wanna fuck you. S’that okay?”

You laugh, as if it wouldn’t be okay, and Sebastian does too, a little break in the hot, heavy tension in the room. He leans down for a giggly kiss as you wrap your legs around his waist again, one hand reaching down for his ass to guide him forward, up, and in.

You let out matching sighs once he’s inside you, shuddering breaths because you can never quite get used to how good this feels, how safe and overwhelming and loving and explosive it feels to be with Sebastian like this. He presses a wet, sloppy kiss to your temple and gently bucks his hips, forcing another whimper out of you, a low groan out of him.

“I love you,” he tells you, lifting his head to meet your eyes. He’s so serious, his forearms bracketing you in on either side of your face, that it makes you want to cry. “I can’t stop thinking about how much I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whine as he builds up a rhythm, his thrusts driving you up the bed, your entire body wrecked underneath him.

“I kept thinking,” he says, his words punctuated by each thrust of his hips, “kept thinking about weddings. About us. One day.”

“Me too,” you’re amazed you can string even those two words together, what with the way your body and mind are short circuiting right now. He feels so fucking good, you almost think you’re hallucinating.

“I wanna marry you,” Sebastian says. He pauses for a moment, buried inside you. “I know we don’t need to get married to know we’re in this forever but—”

“Sebastian. Are you proposing to me while you’re balls deep?” You ask, because now you really do think you might be hallucinating.

“I—” Sebastian laughs, swallows thickly. “No, not really. I’m just—I’m just telling you. When I do propose, I’ll do it properly.”

“Right,” you nod, and when Sebastian thrusts gently again you moan involuntarily. “Not fair,” you say, arching your back anyway to give him a better angle. “I was digesting your proposal. You didn’t even give me a chance to—oh!”

Seb laughs, and does it again.

“I love you,” he says, picking up the pace until you’re incoherent again underneath him. “I love you so fucking much and I love making you feel good and I can’t fucking wait to ask you to marry me.” He grips your thigh, hoists one of your legs up higher, and changes the angle to make you scream. “That’s my good girl,” he smiles, buries his face into your neck, and, for the third time in less than an hour, he makes you pretty sure you’re seeing God.

You come like it’s the end of the fucking world, like the only thing left is Sebastian and how good he makes you feel. You’re holding onto him for dear life, his back muscles flexing under your fingers as he fucks you through it, fucks you until he’s coming too, shouting as he does. He collapses on top of you heavy and sweaty and wholly, utterly perfect. He collapses on top of you completely yours.

You lay there together for a few minutes, catching your breaths, until Seb rolls over and takes you with him so that you’re lying on top of him, taking you both a few inches from the mess you’ve made on the bed. You scrunch up your nose a bit at the sight of it and Seb laughs, tucking some of your hair behind your ear as he does.

“I’ll clean up and change the sheets,” he says, even though you know he will, because he always does. “How about I run you a bath? I’ll join you after.”

You hum contentedly, reaching up to run your hands through his sweaty hair. “You didn’t rip the dress,” you say. “I’d have felt it if you did.”

A smug look works its way across Sebastian’s face then, and he reaches down again to run his hands along your curves, down your body, until one hand works its way between your thighs again. “Good,” he smirks, leaning in for a kiss. “It means I won’t rip your wedding dress, either.”

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thank you for reading!! this was my first seb fic, I hope I did alright!! you can also find it on ao3 here and eventually it'll be up on my wattpad account too.

please feel free to hmu with questions, comments, whatever!! love u

also, it goes without saying but please make sure this never gets anywhere near sebastian ever. thanks.

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