Sebastian Stan Character One-Shots

Your Love is Like a Drug

You sat at the bar, the loud music thumping through the crowded room. A drink sat in front of you on the wooden surface untouched, crystalline droplets of condensation carving paths down the sides of the glass.

You felt nauseous. Your entire body was alight with hyper focus, before you came you had popped a Xanax to calm your nerves. It hadn't helped. Your stomach was in knots.

Maybe he wouldn't show, and you could just relax and finally move on.

You scrubbed your face with both hands, regretting even coming to this place. It was stuffy from all the bodies moving around, everything felt tight.

You knew you should leave. You should pay your tab and walk out the door. Nothing good ever came from seeing him. But he was like a drug you couldn't quit. Always chasing after the next fix, desperate for the high of being in his arms.

He could never give you what you really truly wanted. He wasn't the type to settle, to grow roots with someone.

No, Frank was anything but.

He was like the sickly-sweet taste of nicotine. He was the shot of adrenaline to the life you felt you were sleepwalking through. He made you feel alive.

No matter what, if he called, no matter how long it had been, when you'd hear his voice on the other line, you'd drop everything just to see him.

"Fucking pathetic," you muttered, finally taking a drink.

You loved him—deep down—you knew that's what it was, underneath the addiction.

You just didn't know how to quit him.

And you didn't want to.

Someone sat on the stool next to you and your entire body lit up. That first hint of his scent, like leather and spice, hit you and that feeling of longing in your chest sparked into a flame.

You turned and your eyes met his ocean blues. You leaned on your hand against the bar and took the sight of him in.

His hair was a bit longer than the last time you saw him, curling slightly at the ends. His face was covered in several days of scruff. You drew your bottom lip between your teeth as you watched his tongue dart out to wet his own.

You knew exactly what he could do with that slick muscle behind his teeth. Your body heated at the thought. You have the rest of him a brief glance. Ratty white t-shirt beneath a leather jacket, dark jeans covering his thighs.

You needed a hit. You yearned for a taste of your favorite drug.

"Hey," he finally spoke, and you let his voice wash over you.

"Hey," you responded, staring into his eyes, watching them flicker back and forth between yours. You didn't miss his inspection of your body. He didn't try to hide it.

You wondered idly if he felt the same desperation you did to mold yourself to his body. If he was imagining wrapping you in his arms and taking possession of your lips.

You wondered if the reason he always called you when he was in town was because maybe, just maybe, he was just as addicted as you were.

You convinced yourself that was true as he placed his large hand on your leg. The warmth from his touch shot through you, your muscles clenching and wetness pooling between your thighs.

"You gonna finish that?" He asked, nodding towards your drink.

You had forgotten about it honestly.

"Be my guest," you murmured, and you watch the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled softly. He leaned forward to take hold of the glass and you could feel his breath on your neck as he did.