“Fuck, I don’t know.” Peter’s voice is shaking.
Sebastian takes the coffee from him and puts it down on the counter. His hands slide around Peter’s ass, cupping his cheeks. Then Sebastian squeezes gently, and it’s enough for Peter to feel a tugging at his rim.
He presses his hands to Sebastian’s chest, clutching onto him, needing him closer.
“You’re lovely. I want to chain you up and keep you. I’d let you sleep in the bed, Peter. I don’t keep good sluts on the floor. Do you know why not?”
“Sebastian, I… Why not?” He tucks his face into Sebastian’s neck and sighs in relief.
“Because sluts need to get fucked. That’s what they’re for, sweetheart. And I’d always want you close.”
Peter manages a nod. He’s in way over his head. He’s wandered into something he can’t begin to comprehend. Sebastian isn’t like normal people. Sebastian is the human equivalent of heroin. Peter had a taste, and now his brain is permanently rewired. He’s an addict. He doesn’t know how he’d ever go back to not wanting this.
Him.
“Arms around my neck, filthy thing.”
“Sebastian,” he whispers and obeys. “Not filthy,” he says, pressing kisses into the underside of his jaw.
“It’s a compliment. I like you filthy. Smelling like come and sex. You smell like my little slut. Do you not want to be my slut anymore?”
Peter shudders. It’s awful. It’s so awful, and he’s hard again. Sebastian pulls him closer, feels Peter’s cock against his stomach.
Sebastian chuckles. “That’s what I thought. Filthy fucking slut,” he says affectionately, kissing Peter on the nose.
He moves briefly, flips the piece of toast in the pan, and then grabs Peter again, pulling him close. It’s safety.
“Do you know how to cook?” Sebastian asks, his hand rubbing circles over Peter’s lower back.
The change in subject throws Peter off. “I… not well.”
“You’ll need to learn then. Choose a recipe every couple of days and make it. I’ll help you choose one if you want. You’ll take a picture of it when it’s done and send it to me. This here? French toast is easy. I love it. I could eat French toast twice a week for the rest of my life and be happy. And after fucking you and giving it to you like you need it, I’m hungry. Always make sure you have what you need to make it for me. Berries are nice. Keep frozen ones, too. And orange juice in case I want a compote. Fuck it, start getting champagne, too. If I’m here on Sunday, we can have brunch. Mimosas are awesome. Do you need to write this down?”
Then he moves again. Toast out of the pan and onto a plate, and another one dipped and put down to cook. Peter reaches for his coffee and has a sip. He stares out the window. It’s nice out back. Sunny but cold. Sebastian expects him to have things on hand for him. During the week and the weekend.
“Are you joking?” Peter asks, not turning around.
“No, I’m very serious. Disobey and you will not like the consequences,” he says. There’s a hint of a smile in his words. “Maybe you should disobey. Fuck, I’d hurt you so good.”
Peter’s stomach flips, and his hand clenches like he might be about to get into a fight. He risks a glance. Sebastian is beautiful. He needs to see Sebastian’s face as he’s getting fucked. He has to see the moment when he comes because Peter feels so good inside.
It’s a horrible idea.
He shouldn’t want it again. Who is he now? Peter looks out back again, blinking against the vivid light.
“You need to plant. Your yard is a disgrace.”
“I don’t… I never had one growing up.” It’s hard to keep up with Sebastian. His happy exuberance. Peter’s never felt stupid. Sebastian runs a hand through his hair. Peter can see him out of the corner of his eye. He’s like an unpredictable animal, and Peter is keeping tabs on him.
It reminds him of being deployed. Standing around a dusty village, everything looked fine and calm, peaceful. And then a car would blow up or a man would pull out a gun. They always had to be vigilant.
Sebastian’s hair is just this mop of brown curls that are all over, even on his forehead. All from Peter touching him and the exertion of the sex they had.
Peter reaches up to touch his hair when he comes close, and Sebastian leans into his hand, letting Peter touch him as much as he wants to. He makes a sound, like a purr, and bumps into the touch. Peter's lured in, and before he knows it, he’s trapped against the counter and his balls are resting in the palm of Sebastian’s hand.
“Your pupils went wider. And you’re leaking against me. So fucking easy. I’m really glad. I love you being a slutty, needy mess, you know?” he says, like it isn’t a big deal to just say that. “So, you didn’t have a yard growing up. What, is that an excuse?”
“I… no. Maybe.”
