author's notes: a Seblaine Cruel Intentions AU, with some tinkering on the plot here and there. it helps if you've seen the movie, but i don't think it's absolutely necessary. i worked with the original script for some scenes, just for fun. title taken from 'Satan's Seventh Bride' by Helicopter girl. thanks goes out to xsaturated for some brainstorming sessions over characterization and casting options, to tanisafan for her cheerleading and enthusiasm, and of course, always, to Inwenalas, for beta-reading :)

warnings: drug use, sexual situations, explicit language, dubcon

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SAY, CAN I TEMPT YOU?

chapter one

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1

INT. THERAPIST'S OFFICE – day

"Has anyone ever told you that you have killer legs?"

Dr. Del Monico sighs. The boy currently on her couch could easily be mistaken for a perfectly sane and well-balanced high school graduate: hair carefully waxed in a single wave upward, dressed in an expensive black and white suit and tie, legs crossed.

Dr. Del Monico has learned better.

"Let's try and focus, Sebastian."

Sebastian's eyes linger on her legs where they're peeking from under her knee-length skirt.

"I would love to photograph them sometime."

Instilled with a healthy dose of confidence from an early age, Sebastian Smythe always knew what he wanted, and that was decidedly different from what people wanted from him. There were things everyone could agree on: he was well groomed and well spoken in the appropriate company, he prided himself on keeping his suits spick-and-span and spent a fair amount of attention to his looks. His lifestyle —the rich and affluent part— came to him through birth; the sexual preferences too, of course, but differed greatly from the ones his parents hoped he'd exhibit.

His sexuality however was one point of contention his father or subsequent stepfathers were never able to accept. Unfortunately for them it was one concession he refused to make.

But what can he say—he's a people pleaser; when his mother and stepfather decided he needed therapy to 'straighten' him out he went along with it; he liked his trust fund and had grown accustomed to his lifestyle, so he'd resigned to appease them.

Now, six months into therapy with Terri Del Monico, his weekly appointments haven't meant a damn thing. He hasn't changed, never planned on it in the first place, but as long as his parents believed it was working, well, it was fun watching the doctor fume over some of his statements, yet not being able to do anything about it. He provided her with a fairly impressive paycheck, after all. An income, it turned out, she had been supplementing with all sorts of things she was not offering him.

"Sebastian!" Dr. Del Monico scolds. "How is it that after six months of therapy you haven't made an ounce of progress?"

Sebastian meets his therapist's eyes and smirks. "Have you ever considered that maybe there's nothing wrong with me?" he asks, having ascertained that despite being open-minded about a great many things, there's a bit of a racist and a homophobe inside dear Terri. "Not that you've bothered telling my parents that."

"Your parents want what's best for you."

"My mother hasn't given a shit about me since she remarried, and my stepfather only cares about what I do when it threatens his reputation."

"Which you have on countless occasions by exposing yourself to scandal and—"

Sebastian's eyes narrow on Dr. Del Monico's face. "Scandal in whose eyes?"

"This isn't a joke," Dr. Del Monico exasperates. "Your parents spend a lot of money to send you here. I'm trying to help you."

"Oh, don't worry, Terri," he says. "You've been a big help."

If not only for convincing his stepfather that he was capable of sticking something out—it might not have been the most ideal gig, but it's been fun watching Terri's cheeks turn every shade of red over the course of the past six months; the doctor-patient confidentiality clause made it all the more fun.

There's only one other who knew that many secrets about him: his journal.

Dr. Del Monico huffs. "You think you can come in here with that cute little smirk on your face and try and flirt with me."

She shakes her head. "It doesn't work, Sebastian."

Sebastian uncrosses his legs and sits forward, leaning his elbows down on his knees. He winks. "It works a little."

"No, it doesn't." Dr. Del Monico squirms in her seat. "I see right through you."

Sebastian doesn't release her eyes—he's often wondered what it would be like to watch the good doctor come, watch her carefully constructed mask fall free, dig his fingers in that tight little body and make it shiver and shake, coax filthy nonsense from her lips when he fucks her hard over her desk, making her beg, scream—

"If only you did, Doctor."

Dr. Del Monico snaps her notebook shut and scrambles out of her seat. "I hope for your sake you grow out of this immature phase."

"Ouch."

He gets up from the couch and walks over to where Dr. Del Monico lingers near her desk, maneuvers himself behind her, invading her personal space.

"Same time next week?" he asks, tracing a finger down her arm. It's a line he hasn't allowed himself to cross up until now, but he's well aware of what she's about to say.

It was only a matter of time before the doctor decided he wasn't worth her time.

"No," Dr. Del Monico says, turns around harshly, pressing herself back against her desk. "This is going to be our last session."

The phone rings.

"Your daughter on line 1," the secretary sings over the line.

Sebastian smiles, placing a more respectful distance between him and his therapist.

"Tell her to hold," Terri says.

Sebastian takes a step aside and grabs a framed picture from Terri's desk.

"This her?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

Marley Del Monico-Rose.

He'd learned as much as he could about the girl the moment it became clear Dr. Del Monico would keep charging extra money without offering any additional services. Not that he particularly minded spending more of his stepfather's money, but somewhere deep down it seemed he did possess some semblance of family pride.

And so this simply would not do.

"Don't even think about it." Terri snatches the photo from his hands. "Marley is an exceptionally well-rounded young woman who happens to be attending Princeton this fall. She's way too smart to fall for your line of bullshit."

Sebastian shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. "If you say so."

"Would you please leave?" Dr. Del Monico asks, making a wild gesture toward the door.

Sebastian purses his lips, taps his fingers against them a few times and nods. Yes, this would be his cue to leave. Because he knows what Marley's calling her mother about.

He winks at Terri one last time and heads out the door, a pronounced "Asshole" following his exit.

Young Marley Rose, Sebastian muses as he makes his way into the elevator, more her father's daughter than her mother's, long brown hair that curled upward right before it reached her ass, a cute button of a nose and an overall sugary sweetness to her that she definitely did not inherit from her mother. The only thing she did get from Terri was an oversensitivity to other people's criticism, resulting in an eating disorder she tried desperately to hide.

That had been his way in.

He'd played the long game, waiting, abiding his time, showing his interest in her subtly with looks and smiles and conversations about some of her favorite things. She'd laughed at his jokes shyly, stared down at her feet while brushing her hair behind her ear, but once he started pouring compliments – has anyone ever told you your eyes are gorgeous, you should smile more often—it's infectious, you have killer legs, did you know? – her eyes went wide, smiles even wider and he had her full attention.

Then he'd caught her puking her guts out in the bathroom and coaxed her deepest insecurities out of her – you have no idea the pressure I'm under, keeping up my grade point average and juggling my extracurriculars with my mom watching my every move – and he'd held her close and told her everything would be okay, made sure she knew she was beautiful—

After that it was only a matter of time before he talked her out of her clothes. It was almost too easy, really—he'd started by photographing her legs, the quiet notes of encouragement soon making sure her shirt came off, her bra, her panties, and before long he had enough nude pictures of her to fill a few albums.

A photoshopped version of one of the more explicit pictures was now on the Internet for everyone to find.

"Sebastian!" Dr. Del Monico's voice resounds throughout the building as soon as he hits the lobby.

He puts on his sunglasses and turns, staring up at the hysterical woman raving at him from the first floor.

"You're gonna pay for this, you little shit! You sicko! Pervert! Who do you think you are?"

And he stands there, smiling up at her while her fists pound at the glass and she shoos away the security guards when they try to calm her down. It might not have been his greatest victory – there's a far greater challenge he's chosen to take up – but this tang of revenge tastes sweetest. A young girl now found herself sexually empowered and one money-obsessed therapist got knocked down a notch. All in all, the exploit had been well worth his time.

"What's her problem?" a lilting voice asks, and his concentration slips toward the boy who joins him by his side.

Blue knitted cap. Thickly framed glasses. Youthful appearance.

"I have no idea," Sebastian says. "Sounds like someone's in need of some therapy."

The boy giggles and sidles closer to him. "I'm Chandler."

He chuckles low in his throat; as much as he appreciates a boy who takes the initiative, he's suddenly reminded why he'd decided to take on a bigger challenge.

"Sorry, honey." He grins. "I'm busy."

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2

INT. CLARINGTON TOWNHOUSE – HUNTER'S OFFICE – day

The townhouse located on 2 East 79th Street and 5th Avenue came into the Claringtons' possession when Patrick Clarington married his first wife. Beatrice Elliot was set on living within the city limits and there was little luxury Patrick denied his wife. Originally built in 1898, the chateau was designed in limestone in the French Gothic style, consisted of three different floors, and remained Patrick Clarington's home after his wife passed away and he remarried Sandra Smythe, née Pillsbury.

For the past three years the house has been occupied by the newly composed family: Patrick and his son Hunter, Sandra and her son Sebastian, and a handful of servants who ran the household.

The only floor currently in use was the second one, where Hunter and Sebastian had bedrooms on opposite sides of the hallway, each with an adjoining office where they could do their schoolwork, and a generous living room they shared to receive guests.

Hunter, the eldest of the two, preferred to receive his guests in the office.

Shelby Corcoran and her daughter sit in separate chairs, Hunter seated behind his desk.

"I can't tell you how happy we are that Rachel will be attending NYADA with you this fall," Shelby says, smiling at him kindly. "We faced some really tight competition."

Hunter smiles, "Your name on her application was a plus, no doubt", taking note of the 'we' in Shelby's statement; it's not uncommon for ambitious parents to live vicariously through their children, though in Shelby's case it could be something akin recapturing lost glories.

"That's why we're here, Hunter," Shelby says, reaching over for Rachel's hand. "I've heard from previous alumni that children with—"

He raises an eyebrow. "Privileged parents?"

"I've made a name for myself on Broadway." Shelby nods. "But I don't want that to hinder Rachel's education in any way."

"Then you came to the right place, Mrs Corcoran."

"It's Ms Corcoran." Rachel rolls her eyes, throwing her mother an accusatory look. "She refuses to get married."

"Rachel," Shelby cautions.

Of course Hunter knew that. He made it his business to know as much as possible about the people he involved himself with, both professional and personal. Shelby Corcoran was rumored to have dated several men over the course of a few years, but after some digging (and a few bribes) Hunter found out she'd been with the same man for the past eight years. Maybe the polls had decided it was bad for both parties to get married, maybe it was the vanity of wanting to keep her own name—no tabloid ever connected the name 'Corcoran' with the name 'Anderson'. On top of that, Rachel carried her biological father's last name, Berry, whom she was close to despite the fact that he and Shelby had parted ways the moment Rachel was born.

"My apologies, Ms Corcoran."

"No need." Shelby waves a hand, before turning to her daughter. "Rachel, Hunter is the University President's son. He's in a unique position to guide you through this. Listen to whatever he has to say and you'll go far."

Rachel Berry looks to him with big doe eyes filled with expectation.

"Honestly," Shelby says, returning her attention to him. "How do you do it? Where do you find the strength to juggle everything?

"I was raised to be ambitious and driven. Two qualities that serve me well at NYADA."

Hunter gets up from his chair, walking over to the shelf on the wall that displayed all his trophies; sports, show choir, dance competitions—the shelf couldn't hold all the accolades he'd amassed in his lifetime, and more were soon to follow. Competition coursed through his veins as surely as his blood was red.

"And two years of military school helped."

Rachel's eyes go wide. "You went to military school?"

"It was my choice," Hunter says, picking up an old family photo. His mother smiles at him from behind the glass. "After my mother died I drifted, lost focus for a while..."

His throat closes around a thicket of memories, so he puts the photo back down. This isn't a time to get sentimental, not when he's reeling in a new unwitting victim. Luckily a good sob story never chased anyone away.

"But I knew she'd want me to keep chasing my dreams. So I went to military school, voluntarily."

Shelby blinks away tears. "That's beautiful."

"I should warn you, though," –he rounds his desk and leans back against it, arms crossed over his chest– "I expect nothing but the best from the students I take under my wing. You'll have to work hard and there'll be no slacking."

"That won't be a problem." Rachel smiles wide, inching forward to the edge of her seat. "I've been preparing for this since I could spell out NYADA with my lettering blocks. It's the only thing that matters to me."

"So no boyfriend back home to distract you then?"

Rachel's face falls. "No."

"Boys are a distraction," Shelby says.

Rachel stares down at her hands.

"Don't worry, Rachel," Hunter says. "All of that will fall into place when the time comes. Who knows, you might snatch up one of the fine gentlemen matriculating at NYADA."

"Not your stepbrother Sebastian, I hope," Shelby says.

Hunter looks up in time to see Sebastian –speak of the devil– lean against the doorframe, a playful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Why?" Sebastian asks. "What's wrong with me?"

Sebastian remembers Shelby all too well from one of his mother's extravagant luncheons at the Schuester estate. He'd snuck off with one of the wait staff for a quickie in the broom closet—it wasn't his fault the boy couldn't keep quiet. He can't say he blames Shelby for wanting to keep him away from her daughter.

"Afternoon, Ms Corcoran," Sebastian says. "Nice to see you again."

Shelby regards him with enough disdain to start a small fire with her eyes. "You remember my daughter Rachel?"

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure." Sebastian smiles slyly, regarding Rachel with some interest—she's a bit short for his taste, but that's not necessarily a disadvantage. His eyes draw down to her legs, crossed neatly, adorned with an impressive pair of heels. "My, Hunter told me all about you, but what a blossoming little star you are."

"Sebastian," Hunter warns.

Sebastian looks up at his stepbrother, and falls silent.

"Well, I think we'll be going now." Shelby gets up from her chair.

She smiles at Hunter, "Thank you so much for your help," but doesn't spare Sebastian another glance.

"Not a problem," Hunter says. "Rachel, I'll email you about your curriculum."

"Thank you," Rachel says. "It was nice meeting you."

Sebastian waves. "Au revoir."

Hunter and Sebastian watch as one of the staff leads Shelby and Rachel out of the office and down the hallway. As soon as they're out of sight Hunter rolls his eyes and takes off his blazer, loosening two buttons on his shirt. It does grow so tedious, playing the nice guy all the time. He wanders back to his desk and opens a drawer, pulling at a hole to reveal a false bottom—he takes out a small mirror, topped by a razor blade and a small bag of coke.

"I'll email you about your curriculum?" Sebastian asks as he walks over to a cabinet in the far corner of the room. He puts his journal and the magazine he'd been familiarizing himself with on top of the cabinet, before reaching inside for two glasses and a bottle of scotch.

"Just taking the poor girl under my wing." Hunter lines up a line of coke, cutting it in half, and snorts two lines. "Parents called while you were out."

"Great." Sebastian walks over with their drinks, placing one of them on the desk. "How is your impotent father enjoying Bali?"

"He suspects that your gold-digging whore of a mother is servicing the pool boy," Hunter answers, putting his things back in their hiding place.

Sebastian sits down on Hunter's desk. "Good."

"What's wrong with you?" Hunter asks, regarding his brother closely. It's not like Sebastian to be in such bad spirits around him. "Therapy not going well?"

"I'm in a rut." Sebastian shrugs, takes a sip from his glass. "I'm sick of sleeping with these closeted gay boys worshipping at the altars of their straight Republican fathers."

He glances at Hunter over his shoulder, hoping the words set something off—it's no secret between the brothers that Hunter keeps his sexuality hidden from his father—but Hunter doesn't respond. Maybe he's losing his touch. Or is it that Hunter is in a really good mood?

"And what about the insipid Manhattan debutantes?"

"Equally boring." Sebastian sighs. "Nothing shocks them anymore."

"Well, you can relax." Hunter picks up his glass. "I have a mission for you."

Sebastian eyes his brother. "And what might that be?"

"I want you to seduce our young Rachel Berry."

"Why?"

"Word around town is that a certain Brody—"

"This isn't still about Weston is it? When are you going to let that go?"

"Don't tell me you've never tasted the bitter tang of defeat and not wanted payback, brother," Hunter snaps. "That directing position should've been mine."

"Oh, I see," Sebastian says, still amused by the curious turn of events the 'Cassie situation' – as he so delicately refers to it – had taken. He'd only met the woman once, but he praised himself lucky he hadn't decided to pursue a career on the stage. "So this is really about you sleeping with Cassie but losing the position to someone who didn't have to."

"I put a lot of effort in Cassandra July, Sebastian. I made great personal sacrifices to keep her happy."

Sebastian often wonders exactly what 'great personal sacrifices' meant to Hunter. Cassandra close to tortured Hunter his entire first year at NYADA, probably because being the President's son had quickly put him on her radar—how exactly he'd managed to loosen her tight-laced panties was a secret Hunter determined to take to the grave. Sebastian might be flexible in who he fucks, but Hunter's far pickier.

"And then she turns around and has Brody co-direct the summer production with her. That hurt my feelings."

Sebastian smiles. Is his stepbrother at all capable of feelings?

"But when I heard that Brody had fallen for none other than Rachel Berry herself—"

"So that's what this is about."

Hunter gets up from behind his desk. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. When I'm done with Rachel Berry she'll be the premier tramp of the New York area. And poor Brody's little princess will be damaged goods."

"Why go after Rachel at all?" Sebastian grabs Hunter's glass for a refill, making his way back across the room. "Cassie's the one who chose Brody."

"She's a washed-up Broadway wannabe who drinks too much," Hunter answers absentmindedly, eyeing his beloved trophies. "She caused her own downfall before and she'll do it again. Brody, on the other hand—"

"—could get in the way of your blossoming career," Sebastian realizes. He knows his brother as well as he knows himself, even though Hunter likes to pretend otherwise. After three years in the same house Hunter should know they're two of a kind.

"But any attack made on Brody could be traced back to me." Hunter tracks toward Sebastian. "And I can't allow that to happen. Everybody loves me."

Hunter halts behind Sebastian, eyeing his brother's ass.

"Come on," Hunter insists. He puts a hand down on Sebastian's shoulder, draws it slowly down his back, hands warm even through two layers of clothing. "She's easy on the eyes. A young virgin ripe for the plucking."

Hunter's hand moves further down, the other around his brother's waist, down his abdomen, making its way into the waistband of his trousers.

Sebastian's breath hitches in his throat when Hunter cups his ass, the fingers of his other hand inching inside his pants, coming achingly close to his cock with some well-applied pressure. He recognizes this tactic all too well—he's never used it on Hunter, but Hunter's employed it on countless occasions already.

It doesn't work every time.

"A tight, firm ass." Hunter squeezes Sebastian's cheek, his groin settling below his ass.

Sebastian stifles back a growl; Hunter always manages so much more control than him.

"Uncharted booty."

Hunter's lips settle at the back of his neck, the tip of his tongue ghosting over the shell of his ear. "Be her Captain Picard, Smythe. Boldly go where no man has gone before."

Has Hunter been listening to a word he said?

"I can't."

Any temptation disappears the moment he realizes Rachel Berry would be easy pickings. And he wouldn't mind seeing Hunter jump through a few hoops to get what he wants.

Hunter takes an abrupt step back. "Why not?"

"It's too easy, Hunter," Sebastian says, mildly disconcerted by the sudden lack of physical contact—Hunter plays him far too well. He supposes that's his own fault for making it so easy. "Get one of your moron friends to do it. I have a reputation to uphold."

"But fucking the therapist's daughter is a challenge."

Sebastian turns around. "She was overcharging."

Hunter's right, of course; Marley turned out too easy for a girl that profiled as a confident self-made socialite, a straight-A student, but in his experience it's those who smile the widest that turn out the most vulnerable. She reminded him of Hunter in that respect.

He reaches back for his magazine and presents it to Hunter. "This is a challenge."

"'QR Magazine. Young. Gay. Now'?" Hunter reads one of the taglines. "Since when do you read this shit?"

"Shut up and turn to page 12."

Reluctantly opening the magazine to the appropriate page, Hunter scans the two-page spread quickly. There are pictures of a fairly easy-on-the-eyes boy surrounded by four rows of text. "'Why I Plan To Wait by Blaine Anderson'," he reads out loud. "Is this Thomas Anderson's son?" Hunter asks, but the words on the page catch his attention before he can give it any further thought.

The first few paragraphs offered a short bio – eighteen years old, openly gay son of Senator Thomas Anderson, undecided on academic future – immediately followed by the start of a manifesto that outlined why he was waiting to have his virginity plucked.

"Jesus Christ, is he for real?"

"Daddy's pride and joy if you can believe it," Sebastian says. "Kind of anyway."

He guesses the Senator would have preferred a straight son, despite his platform supporting gay rights.

"Apparently he's a paradigm of chastity and virtue."

Sebastian snatches the magazine from Hunter's hands, reading through the article for what must be the fifth time. "Let's see—" he says, eyes scanning the page. "Boring, boring, boring," –he halts at a particularly funny line– "'I love my parents.'"

Hunter chuckles.

"Boring, boring, boring," Sebastian continues, skipping through the unimportant paragraphs. "'Making a mature decision.'"

Then he hits the line he's been looking for. "Here!" he exclaims. "He has a boyfriend named Kurt. Last name redacted for obvious reasons. Going out for a year."

He smiles wide. "Kurt understands."

"Kurt's a prissy fag with a stick up his ass," Hunter provides, sits down in the chair previously occupied by Shelby Corcoran, hoisting his feet up to rest on his desk. "Too bad Blaine is a senator's son and surrounded by bodyguards 24/7."

"Au contraire, brother," Sebastian says. "The virgin's father is so busy with his campaign that Blaine will be staying at my aunt's house to get away from all the commotion."

He settles down in the other chair.

"Can you imagine what this will do for my reputation? Screwing a Senator's virginal son?"

A very good-looking virginal son, he'd noted; jet-black hair, hazel eyes, one killer smile, strong arms, and a penchant it seemed to accentuate those arms with some seriously tight shirts.

"He'll be my greatest victory."

"You don't stand a chance," Hunter says. There's a part of him that wants to grant Sebastian this victory, but the competitor in him wants to challenge his brother. There's only one sure-fire way of doing so: denying it. "This is way out of your league."

"Care to make a wager on that?"

Hunter shrugs. His good mood has taken a turn for the worse, so he doesn't want to give Sebastian his way too easily. "I'll think about it."

"Suit yourself," Sebastian says, and gets up from his chair. He grabs his journal and heads for the door. "I'll be in my study if you reconsider. Dr Del Monico and her daughter should make for an exciting entry."

"Ah yes, your precious journal." Hunter sighs. "Could you be more queer?"

"Could you be more desperate to read it?" Sebastian calls back, crosses the hall and pushes through the double doors to his own office.

Unlike Hunter's office, which is open and light and has modern overtones, Sebastian's office is lined with dark wood and has an overall more classic look. His mother had brought in a designer who took one look at both him and Hunter and he'd set up the rooms for them as if he'd known them their entire lives. Then again, for the money his mother paid the man could have very well been a psychic.

Sebastian drops his things on the desk, loosening his tie to get a little more room to breathe.

"About that little wager of yours…" Hunter's voice sounds from the doorway. "Count me in."

Sebastian turns, trying to determine whether or not Hunter's being serious, but he finds no reason to doubt him. "What are the terms?"

Hunter purses his lips. "If I win, then that hot little car of yours is mine."

"And if I win?" Sebastian asks, not ready to think about the possibility of giving up his car. It was his father's car, and even though they never had the best relationship, his Jaguar was one fine piece of machinery he'd have a difficult time parting with.

Hunter smirks and curls a hand around Sebastian's tie. "I'll give you something you've been obsessing about since our parents got married."

Sebastian's eyes dig into Hunter's: he'll have to spell it out before he agrees to any sort of bet. "Be. More. Specific," he enunciates clearly, eyes zooming in on Hunter's lips, so close to his own. He's kissed those lips before, licked and bit at them and there's been some groping, but it's never gone beyond that. Hunter isn't seriously suggesting—?

"In English?" Hunter gives Sebastian's tie a firm tug, sending jolts of excitement up the younger boy's spine. "I'll fuck your brains out."

Sebastian tilts his head, breathes in deep, refrains from licking his lips. "What makes you think I'll go for that? That car's a 1956 Jaguar Roadster."

"Because I'm the only person you can't have and it kills you."

Sebastian smirks, "No way", leaning in even closer.

The two inches he has on Hunter only ever prove useful in situations like these, standing taller than his brother, however slightly, but it balances out Hunter's constant insistence that he's the oldest of the two and for some reason that means he gets to make the majority of the decisions that affect both their lives. He's certain Hunter has some hidden agenda, wants to watch him walk all over himself to get Blaine's attention, maybe even attempt to mess up his plans with Blaine.

Unless Hunter's looking for some subtle way to tell him he really does want to fuck him. Which Sebastian hasn't been obsessing about since he met Hunter, but he'd be fooling himself if he denied that Hunter's been the subject of many a fantasy of his, his hands and his mouth, that well-trained body he keeps in excellent shape. Come to think, trying to get into Hunter's pants would probably be the biggest challenge—he could consider this wager of theirs a detour.

Sebastian meets with Hunter's unwavering gaze, eyes green like his, neither of them willing to give over control. Two of a kind.

A sly smile edges to the corner of Hunter's mouth. "I'll let you top."

It's Sebastian's first instinct to lean in for a kiss, but he knows Hunter will have none of that and he fears he might just say something he'll regret. So he pulls back and gauges Hunter's resolve. There's nothing in Hunter's eyes to suggest he's pulling his leg.

So why not? Why not take Hunter's wager, seeing as how it was his own idea in the first place. There's no way he's losing this. And the thought of fucking Hunter—

Sebastian grins. "You got yourself a bet, brother."

Hunter takes a step back, drags a thumb across his own lip, and holds out his hand. Sebastian takes it, shakes it, sealing their bet.

"Happy hunting, Sebastian."

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tbc

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