#are you aware that what you are doing is indistinguishable?????????? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

usedpidemo · 2 months ago

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Diplopia (Itzy Chaeryeong)

You don’t recognize these roads anymore.

Uncertainty continues to cloud your mind as you closely follow the car in front. Most days, it’s the typical van housing the stars—down to the model, the wheels, the black paint job. In your time following them, the vehicle never changed, to the point where you have the plate number on speed dial.

Tonight is different. Instead of the usual activities, be it a fansign, festival or radio program, you’re following her home.

—————

The moment you step forward to have your album signed, the four girls’ eyes immediately light up.

It isn’t the usual fan excitement idols have to put on in public. Instead, an excited energy coming from a place of recognizing something familiar—someone that they’re close with.

Except you’re neither family nor friend. By all accounts, you’re just another fan completely indistinguishable from the rest.

Even as they’re preoccupied with catering to the others’ requests, they’re exchanging glances, whispers among one another.

You take a seat in front of Yeji, the first in line, curious.

“What’s going on? Am I missing something?”

She brushes it off nonchalantly, only casually smiling, a professional in masking her facade. “Not much. Just happy to see you,” she says, before adding her signature on the page and sending you off.

Same question, same result when it comes to Lia. You could have sworn they were all eyeing you intently moments ago.

Even the charismatic Yuna is playing coy with you.

To be fair on their end, this is the fourth time this promotional cycle that you’re doing this song and dance. And there’s some within that crowd who are basically seeing them every other day. You’re not the most egregious fan in that audience.

“What’s going on? Am I missing something?” you ask Ryujin, confused by her humorous expression, a stark contrast. The others didn’t budge in the slightest when you tried questioning them, only telling you the same thing: that your presence makes them happy.

Fortunately, Ryujin is in the business of self-sabotage today.

“Ask Chaery—ow!” is her reply before getting cut off by a swift elbow to the rib from her seatmate, Yuna. She starts laughing along too.

“Christ—will you shut up? You’re gonna ruin the surprise! Wait—ah shit.”

Yuna realizes the mistake she’s made, and she can only grin and blush in embarrassment, falling face down on the table. To the untrained eye, it’s an amusing scene. None of the audience, not even the ones beside you understand what the commotion is about other than typical member to member playfulness and tomfoolery.

Finally, you come face to face with Chaeryeong, unbothered relative to the others. Her eyes light up upon recognizing you once again.

“Ryu can’t help herself, huh,” Chaeryeong remarks teasingly, her brows crinkling in playful annoyance at her senior as you slide forward the album. Shifting her quiet, unassuming frown into a subtle grin, she adds her respective signature, slipping a thin sticky note beneath the signed page. “Secret’s out. Check it once the fansign’s done. I’ll be waiting.”

Curiosity immediately gets the better of you as you try flipping the page, only to be stopped by Chaeryeong’s slap of your hand.

Well aware of the cameras and her audience, she maintains character while whispering a warning to you, a secret only shared between two close acquaintances: “After the fansign, dum dum. Don’t make me regret this. The managers don’t know.”

“Can you at least give me a hint?” you ask, your nosiness growing bigger by the second.

She leans forward, her eyes glinting with anticipation. Noticing the camera hanging from your neck, she points her finger forward, saying, “Make sure you hold on to that camera for me, will you?”

The managers and staff lead you back into the audience. Her eyes don’t linger as you’re dragged away, focusing on the next fan in line, acting like this conversation never happened.

—————

For the most part, the rest of the fansign proceeds as usual, with you taking your usual pictures of the members—especially Chaeryeong. Most of your gallery is dedicated to her. Apart from a few fleeting moments of shared eye contact with your camera, she pays no attention to you, posing primarily for everyone else.

Finally, the members bid farewell and leave to the back. As you and the other fans are guided out of the auditorium, you open the newly signed album, peeling the sticky note wedged on the photobook.Two important instructions are written in cursive, strictly meant to be read by you and only you alone:

> Look out for a gray four door once the vans drive by. Follow me

> DON’T TELL ANYONE OR BRING ANYONE ELSE

Heading outside, you and the crowd watch several black vans driving off, presumably containing the members. Being that it’s already nightfall and with the cars having heavily tinted windows, no one can call their attention aimlessly trying to wave them goodbye.

For a good minute or two, you thought you were being played. As the crowd disperses, another vehicle stops at the red light, perfectly fitting the description given on the note. It passes by completely unnoticed and undetected—except by you.

You anticipate the car to drive away too, and it does—until it pulls over to the side in the distance, far enough to be overlooked by everyone else.

And then you remember something else from that note, a third instruction:

> P.S. Only five minutes or else I’m leaving without you

Thankfully, you’ve parked your own car right in front of the theater, a walk across the street away. Getting out proves to take longer as several other vehicles are trying to leave at the same time as you. You’ve never been more tempted to blast that horn; this is more stressful than the usual late afternoon traffic jam. There’s a greater sense of urgency. Higher, more personal stakes. Every second wasted waiting in line is another second separating you from Chaeryeong.

Even after escaping the parking area, there’s the red lights. One after another, you’re forced to stop, slowing your already short sprints. More time being wasted. To make matters worse, the road you’re taking is glaringly quiet. You’re cursing these signs, cursing the government for stalling for time, as if their primary design and purpose is to fuck you up.

You end up running past these lights, unable to take another second longer. No one’s stopping you, nor is there anyone in the vicinity who can. There are cameras catching you breaking the law, but you don’t care anymore.

Mercifully, the car is still there, sitting idle with the lights on. Pulling up beside the vehicle, you flash your blinkers, roll the windows down, hoping she recognizes you. You earn no reaction, instead the car merely drives off, leaving you to follow close behind.

The next hour and a half has been spent driving and driving. Passing through avenues then motorways, you’re leaving the city far behind in your rearview mirror, until you’re the only pair of cars traveling along a quiet suburban neighborhood. Considering they’re wrapping their latest promotional cycle today, logic would dictate that the group stay together a little more before dispersing, but you didn’t expect them to branch off right away.

No wonder the members were already sharing vacation plans and destinations earlier.

Cruising past one street after another, every townhouse looks the same, down to the layout, dimensions, everything. Based on all the utterly dark interiors, it’s safe to say barely anyone lives here.

Even some of the apartments you’ve been in look nicer compared to how barren and lifeless this neighborhood is.

It’s not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of celebrity homes.

Eventually, the car ahead pulls into a driveway of a distinctly nicer villa, one that has moderately rich written all over it. Anyone can tell that a celebrity, or at the very least, some wealthy person retreats here, but perhaps that’s the point: you’re in the heart of the suburbs, free from the fast-paced chaos of city living.

From the driver’s seat, someone emerges. You can recognize that familiar sharp glare. It’s none other than Chaeryeong herself.

She’s staring in your direction, at your car. Though you’ve been following her tail closely throughout the lengthy drive, you pulled back once she pulled into the driveway, leaving quite a considerable amount of space to maintain privacy. Then, she walks in. Lights open throughout her house, the only home brightly illuminated on this street.

Figuring that it’s an invitation, you pull up directly in front of her house.

Rolling your window down, you take the camera resting on the passenger seat. Shaky fingers right on the trigger, her house in center view, you end up not taking a single picture. Not for lack of storage, but rather an unwillingness to have something personal in your collection. The girl who shows out in the public eye is one thing, but addresses and private homes are entirely separate matters.

You feel it’s best to keep those two aspects apart.

You end up putting the camera away, curious about its purpose, about what she really meant about the need for it.

Staring up at her villa, you finally spot her again. Chaeryeong’s standing near the balcony, curtains open, giving you a clear view of her figure from the side, as well as her profile. Even from a distance, you recognize all the details about her. So incredibly pretty. She doesn’t seem to notice your presence outside nor does she bother to care.

Still in her fansign wear, her last performance outfit, consisting only of jeans, a skimpy top, and a thick jacket. Going against your oath, you try reaching for the camera again, but you suddenly stop.

To your surprise, she slips the jacket off, revealing her bare shoulders.

Your eyes widen, then your jaw slowly drops. She fiddles with her jeans before walking out of sight, much to your dismay.

Now you realize the purpose. What a wasted opportunity. And yet, you’ve already taken dozens of mental pictures off that little show alone. This is meant to be for your eyes only.

Looking on, Chaeryeong reemerges into view, this time strutting around the living room. She’s hardly wearing clothes, only covered by skimpy black lace, matching colored suspenders holding up thigh high stockings. The windows are just as open, curtains similarly drawn back, granting you full access to her unbelievably tight, slender body.

She puts down a platter of snacks on the coffee table before taking one from the pile, holding it up for display.

Your mouth is watering, craving not the delicacy in her hand—but for her.

The first snack she gives a slow, deliberate lick. A popsicle. Her tongue slowly glides up the frozen morsel, stimulating your mind, leaving nothing to the imagination. She repeats the motion a few more times before taking it into her mouth with an intentional hollowing of her cheeks, eventually sucking and munching down on the treat. All while flaunting her toned figure as if it were a photoshoot, which is probably what the camera was meant for. Your hands are nowhere close, instead pulling on the zipper of your pants, moving of their own accord.

Even though she doesn’t seem to pay attention to you, she clearly knows what she’s doing.

Next, she takes the second snack, one with a much more obvious connotation: a banana. She playfully wonders what to do, slapping it across her cheek before peeling the cover and eating from the exposed tip. She positions the fruit in a way that it's tilted up, mirroring the growing tent in your pants. Her fingers coil around the sides, her eyes fluttering close as she slowly indulges on the snack, slowly driving the length into her mouth till it’s completely consumed.

It may have only been a minute, maybe less, but you can imagine how the sensation would linger. Maybe hours.

Finally she grabs the last snack: a hotdog. She lays back on the couch, crossing her leg as she casually nibbles away, foregoing her natural seductiveness for a quick bite before wiping all the crumbs off her finger before getting up and leaving.

Meanwhile, you’ve spent the whole time just watching her in awe, utterly speechless.You don’t regret not taking a single photo, knowing this little private scene is permanently seared into your memories.

You can never look at Chaeryeong the same way ever again.

Moments later, the front door swings wide open, with Chaeryeong standing there in all her glory. She stares you down, her gaze sharp and hypnotic, before walking away without uttering a word.

You fell under her spell a long time ago. Now you’re following her like a moth to a flame.

Without care for guest etiquette, you enter the house, losing sight of Chaeryeong as you continue to struggle with your trousers. Looking left and right, you try to find her to no avail, when suddenly you’re dragged into one of the rooms, feeling a tugging, inescapable tug on your arms.

“Did you enjoy my little show?” she whispers, tone sultry, a leg naturally wrapping around yours. She’s breathing on your neck, softly nibbling your skin.

Cornering you, you fall backwards and onto the couch.

It’s a different couch, different room, with the curtains covered, hidden away from the outside world.

You merely glance up, still utterly speechless. Her sexy glow is on full display, feeling herself like she always has, perhaps even more so in private than in front of the flashing cameras. Based on her subdued reaction, this isn’t the first time she’s seen this exact reaction.

“Where’s your camera?” Chaeryeong quickly changes conversation right as you’re about to hit your tipping point, her hands gripped to your knees, leaning forward and closing the gap between you two, her sharp glare freezing you in place. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you holding it just now. What did I tell you earlier?”

“Shit, I—I didn’t think this would happen,” you sputter, swallowing your throat. Even blinking proves to be impossible under her suffocating control.

Chaeryeong narrows her eyes. Stares right into your soul. Her usually soft, little smile on her lips disappears in real time. You can feel her nails dig sharply through the fabric of your trousers, scratching you. Deathly silence permeates longer than you can imagine. It’s a terrifying position to be in.

She bites on her lower lip, thinking of what to do.

Then, the idea hits her like lightning.

“I’m normally a lot more ruthless towards people like you. I mean, simple instructions. Hold onto that camera. Easy! A kid could do it without a second thought. Why can’t you?”

If you could open your mouth right now, you would justify that it was under extraordinary circumstances—such as this one—but you recognize the wrong answer could send you to an early demise.

“I would ask you to leave and tell you to forget this ever happened. But since I’m in a good mood today, I will let it slide tonight.”

You still can’t breathe a sigh of relief; her ironclad grip has spread to your crotch.

As soon as your lips quirk ever so slightly, her nails burrow deeper into your skin, almost forcing you out from your seat and yielding out a cry of pain that could have been ear shattering, if not for your self-restraint. “However—I can’t let you go completely unpunished. You must face the consequences for disobeying me. Got it?”

“Got it,” you spit, frantically nodding along, begging through your eyes for her to loosen the grip as the pain becomes unbearable. She acquiesces, drawing her hands back.

Now you can actually breathe.

But the freedom lasts for merely a moment. Chaeryeong struts around the room, putting on music through some speakers, her hips swaying in a natural yet hypnotic rhythm. From behind, you get a close-up view of her plump ass peeking through an incredibly thin thong. She then returns to you, shoves you back against the couch before squatting down on your lap in an abrupt manner, leaving you gasping for air.

“Just because I let you watch doesn’t mean you have to be a sitting duck,” she says, grinding her hips slowly against your helpless erection, aching and throbbing beneath your pants. Sultry as it sounds, it’s a serious matter, one with so much on the line. “You didn’t seem all that lazy when you were taking pictures of me earlier. What happened? Do I look too sexy for you now?”

Chaeryeong lifts herself off you again, her waist and flat tummy presenting themselves in your face. You try to grab, but she quickly sideswipes you, teasing and playful. She spins around, her plump cheeks raised up in your direction—and then she smothers you on the couch.

Pulling back, she looks over her shoulder, completely by surprise, gyrating her hips, giving you exactly what you want. “Well? Are you just gonna sit there or what?”

Truthfully, yeah. You can sit back and admire her in this position all night long.

As you try to dive headfirst into her plump cheeks, she lunges forward, leaving you sucking on air. She then grabs you by the chin, tilting your face up. There’s a contemptuous, disgusted air on her face, judging your patheticness. The contrast between you couldn’t be any more clear. She’s so well refined, even in her most risque appearance. Meanwhile, you look hungry, down horrendous, foaming at the mouth—literally.

“Maybe I really should take a girl home one of these days,” she mutters to herself, thinking of other ways to drag you down. “But since you’re tired, I’ll spare you the extra effort, sleepy head.”

Chaeryeong shoves you down on the couch, lifting your legs off the ground and onto the sofa’s arm. The control she has on you cannot be any more overstated. Crouching on her fours, arching her back, she hovers atop you with a coy smile. Sexiness looks natural on her, but behind that fatal sultry attitude, her idol sensibility rears its familiar head, perfectly balancing the line between entertaining an imaginary audience and one person.

It’s a lovely, surprisingly sweet view before the lights completely go out.

Climbing over your defenseless body, her thighs close in between your face. Slamming down without care, pressure builds—and builds—until you’re kicking and squirming. She hears your muffled cries, your helpless groans, and mocks back, not letting up.

“What’s that? Can’t hear you over the sound of your tongue shoved up my pussy.”

At first, everything proves to be a struggle. You have no control over your movement, hands included. She’s forcing you to bear the weight of the world: countless hours of practice, interviews, and fanservice, including now. If she wanted, she could crush you with her thighs alone, and she wishes she could; she’s not going to outright tell you. Mercifully, upon closer inspection, she’s wearing the thinnest line of panties imaginable, it barely qualifies as underwear.

With the meager space you’re graciously provided, you slip your tongue between the narrow line between fabric and skin–and Chaeryeong keens.

Even her little cries are as pretty as her too.

The edges of her nails dig into the fabric of the couch, barely scraping your arms. She hisses sharply as you gradually acclimate to the tension she’s forcing on you, burying your tongue into her aching core. Her nectar tastes incredible, like water in the desert. You’d tell her that if you weren’t so preoccupied taking all this glistening sheen generously into your hungry, greedy mouth. The way her body trembles, quivers with every little touch, every swipe at her throbbing cunt, setting off one fire after another, it’s enough to drag her down with you.

“Oh—fucking shit—fuck—”

Her thighs hunker down, reinforcing the already airtight lock you’re imprisoned in between her legs. She’s one wrong move away from snapping your neck by sheer force alone if you weren’t dying from asphyxiation already. It proves to be nothing but a mild inconvenience. You’re hungrily eating out her intoxicating cunt, drinking away at her alarming flow of juices, maintaining a pace that feels just right.

Desperately trying to find some semblance of stability, she rolls her hips, but that only worsens her state—and better for you.

Gripped to the sofa’s headrest and on the cushions, the friction makes it easier to make a grander mess of her. You match her frantic pace, lapping away at her folds without a care, a retaliation of sorts. Her cunt is an addicting vice you can't get enough of, regardless of her juices spilling relentlessly past your mouth.

Overwhelmed by the pleasurable sensation coursing throughout her lithe body, Chaeryeong twists and contorts into a stretched out figure of limbs and cries. Furniture is easily replaceable. The position you’re in happens once in a lifetime. This idol, whom you’ve dedicated your personality and entire life around, meeting her dozens of times and taken countless photos of for the world to see, is now reduced into a helpless, melting pile of flesh and moans, keening in ecstasy, her echoes bouncing endlessly in the comfort of her personal home, and it’s all thanks to you.

Very few can say they’ve made Lee Chaeryeong cum.

“Fuck!”

A single word is all she manages, and it’s perfect.

Letting out this thunderous cry, her body goes rigid and tense, as if something has snapped within her. Right then and there, a fresh wave of arousal gushes over your face, falling all at once.

The throbbing never ends. You lap it all up. Every last drop.

Despite the endless amount of slick you’ve consumed and time drinking from her well, it’s not enough. You’re left wanting more.

“Jesus—” she mutters, heaving between deep breaths, slowly peeling herself off you then collapsing to the floor. “I didn’t think you’d be this good.”

Despite her orgasm ripping through her body to shreds, Chaeryeong is the first to recover. She surveys the damage. Slick all over your pressurized face, so much more on the couch, your tongue actively licking up whatever mess it can clean, which doesn’t go far.

There’s no shame on your lips when she looks at you. Contentment is etched on your lips. You could die happily right then and there.

Her cheeks are completely flush, taken completely aback by your effort. Her panties are in tatters, utterly soaked, more valuable being thrown away than as actual clothing. “Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought.”

Satisfied as you are, her gentle, sincere compliment makes your heart race faster than the pressure being crushed beneath her ass.

But the sweetness lasts only for a moment. She can’t settle down. There’s so much you have left to give—and she’s going to force everything out till you’re an empty husk. You’re only getting started.

“Get up,” she says, less of a command and more a call to action, lifting you off the sticky couch with her resounding strength, leaving you behind to stand on your two wobbly feet. “Now strip.”

Her words seemingly fly through deaf ears. You stare aimlessly back, stuck in a neverending daze, unable to come to your senses. Chaeryeong is not having any of that, glaring you down with piercing daggers. The night is fleeting; time is of the essence.

She pulls you by the hand and drags you to the bar counter across the room, facing you to remove your shirt in a few swift motions. The pants come off faster, already unbuttoned and unzipped, leaving only your boxers.

“Fucking slow fuck,” she spits, nearly ripping your undergarment while pulling down, giving your now freed cock a punishing, ironclad squeeze, forcing an agonizing groan from your lips. “Just because you did one thing right, you think you can have it your way now? Pathetic.”

Chaeryeong drops to her knees, pressing her tongue against the tip of your throbbing cock. The brief, feathery contact is enough to send mind numbing chills down your spine. It’s no surprise that when she takes you into her mouth, you almost crumble immediately. The feeling is too overwhelming, you don’t even get a glimpse of the filthy sight.

It shouldn’t be this dangerous.

The pull on her long, raven hair happens impulsively, as if you had some control—which you desperately need.

A flick of her tongue here, a swirl there—Chaeryeong is a meticulous worker, slowly picking you apart in calculated, intricately designed moves. Every little thing she does is performed like there’s so much weight behind them, no different from dancing and singing on stage. It’s all in the little details: the tilt of her head, the satisfactory hum from her lips, the cold, unforgiving glare she gives when she’s sucking you dry, seeking your approval, refusing any answer other than ‘fuck yes.’

If you could function as normal, you would reason to her that you’re relishing the moment, savoring every second—but she seems to have your mind read like a book.

“Thank your lucky stars you seem to have everything I need.” She slides her tongue up your length, kissing the tip again. You’ve been off the ground ever since with no way back down. “Good ass mouth, big fucking cock—”

She suddenly stops when you tug on her hair again; it’s a harsh pull. Momentum grinds to a complete halt. Your heart drops at the realization. You anticipate her to retaliate appropriately, especially when she rises from her knees.

Instead, she mostly relents, but not without gripping your balls tightly, yielding another heavy groan out of you. A warning.

“You wanna pull on this hair? Fine. I’ll give you this one then.”

Spinning away from you, Chaeryeong unhooks her bra, tossing it aside to be forgotten. Leaning forward, she bends over the counter, back arched, ass up, her swollen lips in clear view. Her favorite position.

She doesn’t need to say a word to tell you what to do.

The invitation leaves you more hesitant than excited. You’ve realized just how frightening Chaeryeong can be. That is why you’ve been relatively silent and are quietly following along since entering her house.

Looking over her shoulder, knowing she isn’t railed at this point, her eyes glare at you with a raging fury, one borne of annoyance, as if you were testing her patience—and you are, to some degree. “Where’s that fucking bravado, huh? I’m letting you hit this pussy from behind, and now you don’t wanna do it?”

“Well—”

“Zip it. Now you want to talk?” She snaps, facing you again to grab your cock. Pressing your shaft up and down the entrance of her folds, she grits her teeth, gasping and sighing. Staring daggers into your soul, she continues between deep breaths, “Look at this,” she says, pertaining to your cock, slick with her saliva, slowly entering her dripping cunt with her guidance. “It’s not rocket science. Does this look challenging to you? Never had sex with anyone before?”

You can only shake your head, as much as you want to refute. Her house, her rules.

Chaeryeong slams her eyes shut as your cock impales her to the hilt. She’s leaning back on the counter, screaming out loud to prove her point. “See? Not—that—difficult.” she whines, her aching cunt stretching against your cock, engulfing you in suffocating heat. Slowly pulling you back like a sword plunged to your abdomen, you watch helplessly as your shaft reappears, lathered in slick and saliva, with time moving at a dangerously slow pace.

She hurls you forward that you’re leaning together on the counter, your naked bodies creating irresistible friction. It’s not as romantic as the movies or shows make it out to be.

“Stop staring at me like that.” Chaeryeong pushes you away before turning around, irate from perceiving you, having to guide you through your first sex session. “Just—fuck me already, dip shit.”

Grabbing her by the waist, you take your sweet time to admire her delicately crafted curves and her supple ass, bright red from crushing your face. Still, it only serves to upset her; she can’t stop herself from making snarky remarks about you. “Pretending like you want to appreciate me now when you’ve been jerking to all those photos you’ve taken of me. As if I don’t know—”

She suddenly yelps, her body dragged forward on the counter as you enter her from behind like she wanted it: hard and fast.

“Never thought you’d be such a mouthful Chaery,” you comment, hooking an arm around her shoulder, the invigorating warmth of her pussy making you shudder. “And I always saw you as the quiet one.”

“Just because—you’re fucking me—doesn’t mean—” Chaeryeong struggles to get her point across as you get into a steady rhythm, your hips crashing into hers, her ass creating this wet, audible wave as you pound her. “Ah—oh fuck—”

“Doesn’t mean what, Chaery?” you hiss against her ear, giving her ass a rightful slap.

She lifts her head, her hands gripped on the table’s surface, keening—and moaning.

“I—ah—this feels so fucking big inside me—”

You lean forward, whispering in her ear, before giving her ass cheek a well-deserved slap that ripples through the room. “This is nowhere near my first. Didn’t you hear me and Yuna backstage that one time? I should have known something was up the second she was blushing at me.”

“One time? Shit—I guess I forgot—o-oh fuck—dammit Yuna—”

“It’s on me for not figuring out everything right away,” you remark, holding her tight as your personal lifeboat, pushing yourself deep into her, foregoing any sort of foreplay or pleasantry for hard, relentless pounding. “Not the first time I’ve been inside an idol’s house and left with their panties, either.”

Chaeryeong is unable to respond, mostly due to your cock rendering her speechless, reducing her to a pliable mess of moans and screams. Her fingers drag across the wooden surface of the counter as you take her body to use at your leisure. You have absolute control, a stark contrast to where you were only mere minutes ago, and you’re going to reinforce your authority.

To think you were scared of her. The real Chaeryeong is right in front of you. Ass up, face down, bent over, screaming all sorts of profanities and lewdities that would have burned at the stake.

You’ve got her raven locks wrapped around one hand, the other on her ass. It’s a difficult balancing act. One minute you’re pulling on her hair between thrusts, making her cry out in pain and pleasure, the next you’re slapping her ass in retaliation for her attitude, having seen just how easily she folds at the slightest touch, whether it be your mouth or your cock. Either action leaves you so addicted, you have to remind yourself to slow down and focus on the important matter at hand: fucking her.

It shouldn’t be said, but here it is: her pussy is so intoxicatingly tight. Even with how copiously wet you are, gliding in and out of her feels like an impossible challenge. To make matters worse, she meets your every thrust with the crash of her hips, sending you further down a dizzying spiral. Chaeryeong loves it—loves the feeling of both dishing out punishment and receiving it. You pull on her hair again, another reminder of who’s currently in command, but you both know that’s not gonna last long.

Especially when you feel so close—your own undoing happening a lot sooner than you hoped.

Still, she feels so good that it’s not any bit worth stopping—not that she’d ever want that, anyway. You’re resorting to other measures to keep some semblance of control alive: you’re squeezing her chest, feeling her taut nipples,lifting her leg off the ground, biting on her nape—anything to stave your mind off the very thought of cumming, because any sign of weakness is her opportunity to ruin you.

“Are you gonna cum yet?” Chaeryeong asks—innocent in sound, but in your heart, a taunt. A challenge.

You respond by slamming into her cunt like you always have: rough and merciless. She’s your toy, after all.

Her echoes remain louder than your grunts and moans. It’s a good thing her neighbors are completely nonexistent. The houses around might as well not be there.

So much runway to fuck, to cry out in pleasure.

“Almost,” you shamefully admit, against your own wishes—and to her delight. “This fucking pussy—Chaery—oh my God—”

You seize her by throat and face her down on the counter, your thrusts unceasing, unrelenting. You’re winding down; the end is in sight. She smells of sweat, sex, and active perfume from earlier, and it’s a perfect concoction. Slapping away at her ass, watching it ripple with each hit and thrust, her back arching in new, twisting angles, your cock perfectly sandwiched between her slick folds, you’re taking all the mental pictures you can get before this lovely view disappears for good. It really is a damn shame, but here’s your silver lining: no camera can truly capture how glorious this scene looks, especially from your eyes.

“Gonna cum,” you sputter, pouring on the vicious strikes on Chaeryeong’s supple cheeks, desperate to cling on. You can’t deny it any longer; your body is in absolute rapture, begging for release.

“That’s it. Use my fucking pussy,” she snaps, her voice airy and hoarse from all the moaning and screaming. “Fuck all your cum into me. Don’t waste a single drop.”

You have no intention to, especially with a cunt that’s so tight, so hot, it’s practically inviting you to unload everything.

And so with a handful of strokes, you finally fold. Burying deep inside her wanton cunt, your cock throbs violently, blasting thick shot after shot of sticky, white cum just as she wanted. Chaeryeong’s name burns through your lips like a permanent mark as you climax. The release feels more like a consequence than relief. She’s something you can’t clean yourself of—and probably never will. A stain that will follow you for the rest of your life.

Still, she welcomes you with open arms. Her pussy milks you worth of every little drop, squeezing and quivering in your wake. You end up letting go of everything: her hair, her waist, your entire load. The only thing willing to stay is your cock impaled deep inside her soaked cunt, but even that thin connection snaps. Even though she’s bent over, having taken all the pounding, pulling, and punishing, she’s the one that ends up on top.

Pervading silence fills the house, in place of the unrelenting noise. Slumping forward, you lay on top of Chaeryeong, meeting her in the middle: your bodies intertwined, filled and satisfied.

Brushing her hair aside for a better look at her sweaty, flushed profile, you both look into each other’s glazed eyes with a warm smile. You prepare to give her a kiss, when suddenly, little footsteps can be heard.

Someone’s standing in the hallway.

Her voice echoes throughout the house. “You left the front door open again, sis. You should really close them before going down on your guests.”

A woman stops directly in front of your room, her appearance cut close in Chaeryeong’s image. The girl beneath you waves at her with an innocent smile. The pornographic position you’re in is anything but.

She doesn’t look too surprised.

“Fucking me wasn’t enough, huh? You just had to fuck my sister too.”

Climbing up the stairs, Chaeyeon sighs wistfully, exhausted from her own busy activities. Chaeryeong slips away from underneath, following her sister closely. She can’t help but shoot a playful grin at you upon realizing your secret.

“I’ll fire up the showers. You can join us if you want.”

—————

The shower wasn’t meant to provide some form of reprieve. In reality, it’s an excuse to keep the fire burning, especially down in your loins.

The faintest contact leaves you weak, nearly crumbling to your knees as you join the two women in the shower, leaving you open for their enjoyment. Even with the hot water pouring over you, you remain frozen in place, trapped beyond saving. The Lee sisters take you in as a guest should be: with all the touching, kissing, and teasing you so desperately crave. Running water fills in background noise as the two siblings drop to their knees, taking one side for themselves, each with a stake in your cock.

You get hard again. Impossible not to be when they seem to have a gauge of what makes you tick. Two girls who have firsthand experience handling your cock in their mouth: one who can effortlessly go through the motions, the other still fresh and eager to find new ways to break you in half. Both tilting up with a pair of lust-filled eyes, eager to get your approval. They don’t really need it; you had already given them your soul the moment you walked into their house.

“Fucking hell,” you manage to groan out—your eyes and head rolling all the way back as far as they can—as the two sisters take turns filling their hungry mouths with cock deep down their throats. The girls each let out a satisfactory hum of their own, pumping and squeezing you for a share of your load, certain you’ve still got plenty for two. To think you were insatiable when it came to eating out Chaeryeong’s pussy and ass. It was only scratching the surface of how rapacious they can be.

Even with all the space the showers provided, you still feel small before Chaeyeon and Chaeryeong. More importantly, it was clear that, in their eyes, you were mainly an outlet of release and nothing else.

“Was he always like this?” Chaeryeong watches her elder sibling busy pumping your shaft away with her deft fingers, drawing more cum out of you, making up for lost time. Watching you this vulnerable—this whipped—makes you all the more intriguing in her eyes.

“Sure enough, yeah.” Chaeyeon laughs. It wasn’t that long ago you were held in a position like this: same girl, same scenario, but in a bathroom stall of all places. Now in the comfort of their home, you were clear to let out all that pent-up desire with cries of pleasure. You moan her name like it’s a prayer, and both girls chuckle at your wanton cry.

“How long?”

“Since I debuted solo. He’s always present in my fansigns. Didn’t he tell you?” Chaeyeon gives this cheeky look to her younger sister, an approving nod. “One time he told me he was now following this girl group, and I asked him who it was. Didn’t specify anything. I should have known right from the start.”

“Wasn’t only me he was fucking, I just found out,” Chaeryeong remarks, tone degrading. You’d be so red with shame right now, if it already weren’t the case. Whether it’s because of the steam or their unpredictable touch is up for interpretation. “And no, he’s never brought it up. I’m just finding out right now. But if so, he gets around—and he gets around good.”

“If there’s anyone you should trust, it’s me. He thinks he’s clever hiding this from you. I can hear that moan of his a mile away.” Chaeyeon smiles as she turns off the water, your bodies barely touching soap and shampoo, focused on leaving kisses and scratch marks instead. The soap in your eyes forced them shut to tell what’s happening, other than their near-indistinguishable voices and the blurriest of movements. All you know is their presence creeping up when you least expect it. “Come along, dear.”

Before you know it, you find yourself shoved onto a flat yet bouncy surface. A bed. It rumbles for a few moments before you feel your body tearing apart. In the midst of this uncertain commotion, their combined laughs and whispers fill the air.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

Even when you can hardly tell who’s giving the command, you comply. Lo and behold, your arms are stretched and tied on opposite ends of the headboard. Your legs are spread wide, your cock glistening with spit and sheen, hard for the second time. The Lee sisters are kneeling on parallel sides of their own, around the edges, laughing at your precarious, defenseless position.

It’s in your instincts to try and break loose. Of course, it fails miserably. Their laugh grows more uncontrollable and hearty.

“Not a chance. We’ve covered all bases so that even if you escape, you’re not making it far.” Chaeryeong speaks with a heightened air of arrogance.

You furl your brows. “What? What do you mean—escape?”

“Don’t even try to run,” says Chaeyeon. “You—you’re not going to run?”

As if that was ever part of your plan.

“Why would I ever? I like you both!”

You’re speaking the truth, and it might just end up saving your life.

“I don’t think he’s buying it. You know, maybe he just really wants us.” Chaeryeong tries to whisper in her sister’s ear, but you can still hear it all.

Chaeyeon nods. “You might be right.”

The older sibling crawls up the bed, tracing a path to your neck with her nails, leaving a lengthy trail on your skin. It’s as every bit sexy and seductive as the first time, even more when she’s completely bare. Chaeryeong mimics her, her arch more eye-popping. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree when it comes to their bloodline. “Since you want to stay, I propose a little game. Are you with me?”

“Yes,” you nod, tense and nervous, sweating starting to pour down your face.

“Let’s play a game I’d like to call, ‘Guess the Sibling.’ I’m gonna place a blindfold and you’re gonna have to guess who’s bouncing on this cock,” Chaeyeon continues, going down your chest and giving your erection a playful slap. A little more force and she could have ended you. Mercifully, it’s only one flick. “If you guess right, then you get the rest of the night with us. Use us any way you want. But if you don’t—”

“—Then we’re gonna have our way with you,” Chaeryeong interjects. “And trust me, you wouldn’t want us to have our way with you.”

“What did I get myself into?” you mutter, wondering if the situation you’re in is a consequence of your actions. You’re not a bad person, per say; even the two girls would admit this. You’re just like any other fan—mostly: enjoying their songs, spending alarming amounts of money into merch and events, buying your way into fansigns, and taking photographs of the idols you love. You’re so spoiled, you end up sharing that love with others.

At best, this was stuff of urban legend, of myths, of over the top fantasies. None of this was meant to happen.

Yet here you are, tied up on a bed by your two favorite idols in the world, ready to be used like a toy for their personal use—and pleasure. In the little time you’ve personally known these two, you didn’t expect them to be this obscene and assertive. You won’t be able to look at them the same way after this—if you can even get out alive.

Chaeyeon wraps a thick cloth around your eyes, completely blocking your vision. The last thing you see is Chaeryeong kneeling before you, spreading them wide, rubbing her hands up and down your legs.

“I would say good luck, but I’d like to think you’re familiar with us that this should be easy for you,” Chaeyeon remarks before giving you a quick peck on the cheek. “Look at that. Your friend over here is a little too excited.”

You wince at the airy touch. Unsurprisingly, you can’t tell what’s going on, guided only by familiar sensations, patterns and recognizable sounds. Still, you can’t really tell their voices apart. It doesn’t help that they both have long flowing dark hair either.

Taking this deep breath, anxious about what’s about to happen, they still catch you off-guard. You scream a guttural cry, feeling the weight of the world crash on your hips. “Oh f-fuck!”

Right there, you hear a sharp, ear-piercing whine—a shout that rips through the bedroom. Your cock is bulging through something far tighter than normal. Not even your previous experiences with Chaeyeon ever went this far. “O-oh shit! S-so fucking—tight!”

“You heard her. Deeper, babe.”

Your hips move instinctively, as if activated by her voice. Either of them works. They live in your mind rent-free. It’s only natural to follow them like your life depends on it, and considering your situation, it’s quite literal.

Despite how slick and wet you are, it proves to be a struggle at first. It resists, pushing back as hard as it can, but you don’t relent. Feels good enough to be worth saving. An impossible challenge at first, you eventually feel it—your tip sinking deeper into her hole, inch by inch. As it penetrates the girl on top of you, her whine climbs a pitch higher, then higher, until she’s outright shrieking.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—so fucking big, so fucking big—”

She’s running her words fast, as if her mouth’s aimlessly mashing on a keyboard. The same harsh feeling stretches through her tight, smaller hole, until eventually you bury yourself to the hilt, and she keens.

“Oh my God—o-oh God—fuck!”

She struggles to acclimate to the new presence deep in her ass. She can’t stop it, nor can she ever hope to contain it. There’s only person who’d want it this bad from behind.

“Feels good, right Chaeryeong?” you guess, gritting through your teeth as the suffocating sensation also overwhelms your senses.

Right then and there, she begins to move. Lifting herself off you, dragging her plump cheeks along with brute force, threatening to tear your cock off too—until she squats down on your hips and creates much needed friction on your end.

There’s no denial or direct admission, but you know in your heart of hearts that you’ve won. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree when it comes to the Lee siblings. Both dangerously hot sisters with toned bodies worth admiring and worshiping. Such a shame that your hands are bed bound right now, otherwise you’d be all over them. Chaeyeon or Chaeryeong, it doesn’t matter—they’re equally deserving of every lick, every touch, every thrust out of you.

For now, you will have to settle with her ass.

“Harder—a little more—right there—” she manages to spit between hip thrusts and grinds. You happily oblige, relishing the sensation of her tight hole, vigorously flexing and pulsing against your cock. She moves frantically, as if desperate to shake you off. All the more reasons to be loose and free, so you can feel her slinky waist with your bare hands. Still, she’s compliant enough to keep bouncing on your lap, drowning in her own ecstasy to care about comfort, only more pleasure.

“God, this ass feels so fucking amazing—Chaery—” you tell her, a statement so obvious, but worth saying regardless. The slick, satisfying sound of flesh slapping flesh bouncing off the four walls, the shockwaves of her skin rippling on your groin, and her elated, blissful moans more than makes up for the lack of sight. And perhaps if you can cum sooner, you can see the light at the end of the tunnel quicker.

But it’s not enough. Chaeryeong can—and will—drain you of all your worth, especially at the frantic pace she’s going. Her ass owns your cock with a vice grip; again, she feels incredible, and you’re bound to each other, down to your souls.

There’s only one way you’re getting out.

“Get on top of me, Chaen.” You call to her, knowing she’s lurking around the room. You can also tell that she’s eager to get her share of cock.

Chaeryeong continues to bounce relentlessly, , your pace leisured and measured for maximum longevity. She lingers for a few moments, till you feel that weight on your lap suddenly disappear without cause.

“My turn,” says Chaeyeon, landing her tight asshole straight onto your cock. No preamble, no preparation, just crashing out. This time, with a much smoother, more effortless entry compared to her sister’s. She lets out this whiny, feathery moan in response to being filled for the first time, with you only mildly groaning in response.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” you remark.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes you are.”

The room goes silent for a moment—except for the heavy breaths of one collapsed Chaeryeong.

Light immediately pervades your newly freed eyes, having the blindfold taken away. On your right, Chaeryeong slumps on the bed face down ass up, her puckered hole glistening and freshly leaking. A bottle falls off the edge and onto the floor. Elsewhere, Chaeyeon’s body rests on your waist, your cock buried deep inside her tighter entrance, clearly demanding your attention.

Except she’s completely facing away from you.

“Was she—”

“Yes.” Chaeyeon sounds annoyed—devastated even—that you’ve managed to outsmart her at her own game. “I can’t believe you really went after my sister. Was I not enough for you?”

“You are. It always meant to be you two from the start. You’re both hot.”

She sighs.

“Can you at least—at least—fill my ass up?” Chaeyeon looks over her shoulder, frowning. “Please let me have one over her.”

“What do you mean? I’ve given you everything,” you reply, recounting all your previous experiences with her. “Backstage, in your apartment, in your car—hell, even in a goddamn public bathroom stall. What else do you want from me?”

Just as Chaeyeon is about to open her mouth, her sister interrupts. Voice hoarse and cracking, she says, “Just go. You were his first. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, you heard her. I don’t mind. Besides, I’ve got the rest of the night to take her as I please, right? Like you said?”

There’s not much else to say. You can see the faintest smile on her lips as she looks away.

Likewise, your smile fades when she lifts herself and slams into you, hard. Filling her needy, wanton hole with your cock. Just off this one swift motion alone, you recognize that Chaeyeon is much more desperate.

Using all that pent-up need and desire as fuel to power every ram onto your cock. Her mark lingers on—far longer than Chaeryeong’s. It’s much more personal. You can feel how badly she wants you—needs you—beyond sexual pretense. The idea of you taken away by the one other person she loves the most—it sets her off, motivates her to prove that she’s worth more.

Unlike the playful and fun Chaeryeong, every thrust, every roll, every grind Chaeyeon does is intimate, passionate. Pounding into her tight ass, you can see pleasure course throughout her body, trembling in one violent aftershock after another. She’s uttering these little pleas, gentle desires while riding you hard. “More—like that—please—please—don’t stop—please—”

Chaeyeon knows you’re the one responsible for making her feel this way, make her feel all sorts of emotions. Love, hate, jealousy, anxiety—they’re only scratching the surface of just how much you mean to her. She’s unraveling, and fast. The only way she can find release is, as you expect, through you. An outlet for all her feelings.

You’re quite literally stretching her out, both physically and emotionally.

As you watch your first love fall apart like this, you can’t help but feel remorse. Chaeyeon is pretty, and so is her sister. They’re the splitting image of each other, and you wouldn’t feel like a fool for mixing them apart, despite the repeated statements from them not being twins. It’s only because of your strange obsession with the two that you can tell them apart.

That, and your complicated relationship with Chaeyeon, as idol and fan.

Ultimately, she can take it. She’s been through a lot, way more than anyone else you know, and she’ll get back up again. Including now.

So it stands to reason that she can take your pounding better than anyone else.

Gripping her hands on your knees, she rides you vigorously, dictating the pace, without much care for comfort. The clench is asphyxiating, borderline inescapable, but you’re still gliding in and out effortlessly, watching your cock disappear and reappear in her ass. As the flesh ripples and slams down with each thrust, the lewd sight alone is enough to upend you prematurely, if not for your resolve keeping you fastened to the earth.

“God—you’re too good, Chaen—” you hiss, closing your eyes in a last-ditch effort to avert your thoughts elsewhere. Anywhere but her ass and the tension suffocating you—but it’s not enough. The sloppy, wet sound of your bodies colliding penetrates even the most fortified parts of your ears.

“So fucking good, right?” Chaeyeon tries to straighten her voice in an effort to assert herself, only to find it crack, much like her idol facade. “Say it—I’m better than Chaeryeong. Say it!”

Even though her sister is lying beside you, every word is spoken loud and clear. You’re terrified.

“Do I have to repeat myself, baby? Say it!”

You don’t really have a choice. She’s riding you hard and fast, threatening to pull the plug two different ways, one far more unsatisfying than the other.

“Say it!”

“You’re better! Better than Chaery!” you shout, matching her erratic pace, dangerously treading on the line of no return.

It finally sets Chaeyeon off—and ultimately ends her.

Everything rolls into one emphatic word.

“Fuck!”

Her body goes rigid, fingers still gripped to your skin as she unravels on top of you. She’s screaming your name up to the sky—or in this case, the ceiling—and she cums. Hard. Freely flowing clear slick gushes around and past your cock, shredding through the last of your already broken defenses, urging you to let go.

Through the madness, you’re still relentlessly pumping into her, until you’ve fallen back into darkness again. It’s what she would have wanted.

Impaled to the hilt, you let out the deepest groan from the depths of your stomach as you cum into Chaeyeon’s ass. Blast after blast, you shamelessly empty every last drop inside her tight, sensitive hole, partly relieved—but mostly frustrated because your hands aren’t gripped to her supple flesh right now, ensuring she receives it all.

Despite her orgasm shredding through her body till now, she lifts herself off you in a single swift motion, much to your agony and despair. Resting on the edge of the bed, she’s positively glistening from her ass, dripping and leaking with your cum.

You helplessly watch your cock throb and throb till it withers again.

“God,” is the only word Chaeyeon can muster after everything, still unwilling to face you directly. Chaeryeong lazily rolls out of bed to rejoin her, resting her head on her shoulder, their hands intertwining.

Silence fills the room after a tense, lengthy period of sex. None of you are willing to break it.

You can only wonder what’s on Chaeyeon’s mind.

After a while, the two sisters get up and try to leave the bedroom, presumably to clean up—but not before stopping and realizing the elephant in the room.

They’re a far cry from when you first gazed your eyes on them. As you watch Chaeyeon and Chaeryeong free you from their binds, there’s this tired expression in their eyes. Not the typical post-coital gaze you’re all too familiar with; there’s a sense that they’re just about done—with everything.

Including you.

Chaeyeon offers you the same invite she gave previously when she first saw you with her sister in the living room. “Join us if you want to clean up. I’ll fire up the showers.”

—————

You pretty much spend the next hour doing that.

Beneath the running water, your bodies are cuddled up together, hardly cleaning up as intended.

Chaeyeon’s softly embracing you from behind, while Chaeryeong’s right in front of you, her chest pressed against yours. Both women lazily rest their head on your shoulders, their fingers tracing lines all over your skin. Beneath all the soap and shampoo lie kiss marks, nail scratches, and everything else in between to make you theirs.

They’re not asking for much, only for you to stay.

You first give Chaeyeon a kiss on her forehead, then Chaeryeong on her cheek.

Perhaps you’ll find a way to make room for both.

You have the rest of the night to figure that out.

—————

(A/N: Fuck yeah hiding a threesome as a surprise tactic/for shock value. I had a version of this that I scrapped during my slump month but decided to revisit it. It's been a long while since I've done one of those fan x idol stories. Sometimes you just want to write shameless pwp, but even this ended up taking a rather unexpected and emotional turn. Yikes. And it's all because I forgot to add one kink. Glad Itzy are five again, title track kinda lukewarm on. Thank you for reading!)

#kpop smut #itzy smut #chaeryeong smut #itzy #chaeryeong

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alastor-x-reader-stories · 3 months ago

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"Bite Me" - Alastor x Reader - Part 3

prev first

“Hey, Alphabet.”

Alastor’s eye twitched. He swiveled his head around 180 degrees, grinning down at the short king that had approached him.

“Hello, Lucifer! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The king leaned more heavily on one leg, spinning his cane with his left hand. “Charlie’s getting kind of worried about one of the residents, so she asked me to look into it.”

“Aaaannd?” Alastor said, snapping his neck as he tilted his head.

Lucifer said your name. Alastor’s ears twitched.

Something was going on with you? Charlie was worried? What had happened-

“So what the fuck do you want with ‘em?” Lucifer said, raising an eyebrow.

“Pardon?” Alastor straightened up his posture as he spoke, turning to face the king completely.

“You’ve been stalking them for the past, like, two weeks.” Lucifer said. He spun his cane back towards him, nestling it under his arm as he motioned with his hand “Let me remind you: you’re not allowed to harm residents of the hotel.”

“I wasn’t aware I was attempting to.” Alastor said, eye twitching yet again.

“Then why are you following them- oh.” Lucifer cut himself off abruptly, seemingly having an epiphany. The fallen angel’s eyes widened, light gleaming in them “Oh! OOOOOH!”

“….what?” Alastor said, not following the king’s train of thought.

Lucifer was bouncing on his feet, grinning so wide it rivalled the Radio Demon’s. His eyes were practically sparkling “I know what’s going on~!” He sang, elbowing Alastor in the side “Y’gotta be straightforward, bambi!”

Alastor took a large step back and took a good amount of joy watching the king fall into his face. He cleared his throat, tilting his head slightly “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re implying.”

Lucifer rose from the floor, propping his chin up on his hands while kicking his feet behind him “You, y’know, want their attention!”

“That’s absurd.” Alastor hissed.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“None.”

“You sure?”

“Lucifer if you continue this pointless back-and-forth I will rip out your wings and grill them.”

Lucifer actually paused, letting the side of his head hit the floor as he studied Alastor. There was a bright flash of sparkles and the king appeared on Alastor shoulder in the form of a snake (with a hat). “That kind of sssoundsss like a threat they came up with.”

Alastor chucked Lucifer off of his shoulder. The king poofed back into his usual self mid-air and hovered there. “SooOooOooo…. Do they… y’know?” Lucifer giggled, fanning his hand outwards as rainbow-colored magic filled the space between them “Inspire you?”

“This conversation is pointless and I’m leaving.” Alastor scoffed, making true of his statement by immediately shadow-ing away.

Lucifer landed on his feet and put his wings away. Seems Bambi either doesn’t realize or is too stubborn to admit it out loud. Well. If there was one thing Lucifer learned about the glorified bellhop…

Is that man was made of 105% spite.

Later that day at dinner, Lucifer forsook his usual seat in order to sit next to you. While some of the residents were mildly confused by this (as usually people never ventured from their self-assigned seats), no one particularly cared.

You paid him little extra attention either, simply moving on with the meal as per usual. However, seated across from you, Alastor’s eyes were narrowed intently at the king. Lucifer grinned and dusted off the old charm.

“Heeey, y’know, I was wondering…why are you in Hell to begin with?” Lucifer said, propping his chin up on his hand “Surely an angel like you just got lost?”

Charlie spat out her drink on her end of the table and keeled over while coughing violently, Vaggie frantically rubbing her back to get her situated. Once she was all right (giving a shakey thumbsup), you gave the king a bemused look.

“It’s rude to ask a person of indistinguishable gender what got them hell-bound.” You hummed.

Lucifer paused in his response, too concerned with Charlie’s situation. She gave him another thumbsup and he hesitantly turned his attention back to you.

“Sorry, can’t help myself.” He lidded his eyes, leaning slightly closer “I simply can’t help but want to learn all about you~”

You put a hand over his face and pushed him back “Personal space.”

“Fair.” Lucifer said with one finger up, his voice muffled by your hand.

You retracted your hand and rolled your eyes “Well, I’m not a super share-y person…I mean I’ll do it during Charlie’s redemption activities but that’s about it.”

“And that’s okay!” Charlie chimed in, “I appreciate your efforts!”

You gave her a thumbs up. Lucifer took the pause to glance at Alastor, to find the deer man only paying half attention. Well. That wasn’t what he was aiming for. Absentmindely, Lucifer picked a fry off your plate and chomped down on it.

“Dad! That’s not your plate.” Charlie said, motioning awkwardly.

Lucifer was going to apologize (he’s a bit of an airhead, he knows…) but you made the funniest goddam squeak he had ever heard in his life. Never had he seen anyone so comedically offended by someone eating their fries.

He couldn’t help it- he laughed.

“Dad!” Charlie squeaked “Don’t laugh at them-!”

“S-s-sorry Char-Char but that SQUEAK- Oh my lord…”

He wasn’t the only one laughing. The spider person was joining in, throwing arm across your shoulders in a friendly manner while you seethed in silent resentment. Bar cat chuckled a bit under his breath, Vaggie and Charlie were both trying to suppress their giggles, and Nifty was howling with deranged cackling. Alastor took a drink from his mug but didn’t react much more than a slight snort.

“Lucifer I am going to fill your socks with mayonnaise when you sleep.” You muttered out.

Everyone burst into more hysterical laughter.

Except Alastor.

Who broke his mug in his hand like it was made of crackers.

At the sound of shatter ceramic, everyone’s attention shifted to him.

“Whoops!” Alastor grinned, shrugging non-chalantly as blood dripped down the hand that now had shards of ceramic in it.

“OhMyGosh, Alastor!” Charlie yelped, jumping to her feet “I’ll get the first aid kit-“

“No need, Charlotte!” Alastor hummed, getting to his feet. He reached over the table and picked you up by the back of your shirt like a kitten, tucking you under one arm as he walked off with you. “This one is responsible for the mug shattering, this one will take care of the wound.”

“Wait- Alastor-“ Charlie took a step to follow, but you waved her down and gave her a reassuring smile. Charlie hesitated a moment before sitting back down.

The table fell into an awkward silence. Lucifer was vibrating in his seat while grinning. Nifty was doing the same thing. The rest of the table-people wondered if they were somehow communicating this way.

Meanwhile, for you, Alastor had you held like a suitcase as he entered the kitchen, setting you on your feet.

You dusted yourself off and made for the cabinet the first aid kit was in. Alastor, frankly, had no plan other than to get you away from that joke of a king. So he was left standing their awkwardly as you patched his hand up gently. (He could’ve done it himself, it didn’t even hurt, he just did not want you wasting those ‘threats’ on that stupid lawn-gnome looking bastard)

“There you go.” You said, putting the unused first aid materials back in the kit and the kit back in the pantry.

Your name left Alastor’s lips.

You looked back at him, head tilted slightly.

His treacherous mind abruptly shoved forward the memory of you biting him. Teeth sinking into his shoulder, his blood on your face and the cold look you gave him afterwards. His heartbeat started to race. It was so different from now, your big eyes looking at him softly as though you could warm his entire soul with your gaze alone.

How amusingly two-faced of you…

“Alastor?” You said. He jolted back to the moment, tilting his head.

“Aplogies. Thank you, my dear.” He hummed.

“uh. Sure.” You said, tail flicking in irritation. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told!”

=============================================

Deer man's in denial.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #fluff #humor

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shrillestceiling · 8 months ago

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I have been seeing the exact same take regarding Marcille and it's been making my brain wiggle all weird. On the one hand "Marcille is blind to Falin's autism driven goofiness" is objectively funny, but it's also something that you can only believe if you haven't been paying attention (or, I guess, do character analysis less than a tenth into a story). Marcille is very aware of how Falin and her brother are alike.

Like, that's indistinguishable from her reaction to Laios wanting to eat monsters. Half her interactions with the Touden siblings is telling them not to eat things.

She knows exactly what she signed up for.

#dungeon meshi #falin touden #marcille donato #farcille #it's them #the autism siblings

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nouearth · 3 months ago

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love in the making.

grant gustin x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. the talk of the town is the production of a new picture starring hollywood's elite star, grant gustin and his co-star, you! as the chemistry between you and grant escalates, so do the tabloids, and the executives aren't happy. what will happen to your relationship with grant when the studio takes matters into their own hands?

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 13.6k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 mid 1950s!au 〳 coworkers!au 〳 movie star!grant 〳 up and coming actor!reader 〳 smoking 〳 yearning 〳 slow-burn(?) 〳 gossip columns 〳 soap opera type of drama 〳 sexual content: top!grant, bottom!reader, anal penetration, breeding, kissing, spitting, blowjob (r!giving), praising, body worship, snowballing.

The leathery smell of cigar permeated the room. Grant added to the thickness in the air with several puffs, then suddenly modulated his breath when he realized it was his turn to run through his lines.

“Pardon me, Katharine. Your voice was so mesmerizing, I nearly fell to a slumber. Where were you when my mother ran out of bedtime stories to tell?” Grant cleared his throat, fulfilled by the laughter scattering from one person to the next while Katharine Scott, the leading lady of the picture, turned scarlet.

He began reading his dialogue.

It was half of the truth. Grant just didn’t bother mentioning that you’d been on his mind since the minute you walked in and introduced yourself -- that would’ve garnered a peculiar reaction. Aside from the screenplay, Grant’s eyes often meandered to you when they needed a break. The words on the script were beginning to scramble like alphabet blocks.

Before the tables were pushed together for the read-through, he noticed how your feet were crossed at the ankles, toes tapping to a rhythm he never noticed. In moments where the writer consulted with the director about the wooden dialogue, Grant could hear your muted taps speed up. Were you nervous? You had to be; you only had your foot in the industry for barely more than a year -- which was apparent.

You still had that humility in your smile.

Maybe it was frustration? Grant chewed on a pen he was holding as he attempted to decipher those pursed lips of yours. It was the color of flesh -- as it should be -- but why did he find them so… entrancing? It wasn’t just the color that got to him, but also the texture. They looked soft, really soft, as you ran through your lines with Katharine. Soft like your voice when you said your name for the first time. Soft like the grip of your handshake, which Grant knew you were well-aware of because you suddenly tensed your fingers at his fingers, nails into his palm, to compensate for your lack of callous. Soft like the ham and cheese bagel he had this morning, you would bite your own lip from how indistinguishable the bread roll and your mouth were from one other.

He chewed harder at the thought. Why does Grant want to see that happen?

“Grant? It’s your line.”

When Grant’s vision focused harder on your lips, he realized your mouth was aiming directly at him. Separating and closing, all for him. He immediately perked up.

“What—oh. Right. Where were we…” Grant felt warmth creeping up his neck, rubbing at it to ward off the heat. He only made it worse as it climbed to his chin and mouth, the taste of heat almost perceptible when he fought it off with a lick of his lips. “Gross, what the hell is—“

Metallic, acidic, and bitter on his tongue -- it was a taste that made him fully alert to the blue stain on his script. Then quickly after, the peculiar heat dripping off the corner of his mouth.

“Grant, you have—“ He watched you conceal a gasp when he turned to you, but your eyes -- everyone’s eyes -- made it perfectly clear that he needed to break this habit of chewing pens.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will excuse me…”

He should’ve listened to his mother when he was little.

“Just my luck…”

Grant was bent over the sink, scrubbing away at his face with a soapy hand. He was dressed down to his undershirt, figuring he’d address the stain on his dress shirt later in the evening.

It was almost like there was an invisible force field around his chin because the ink stain was refusing to wash out. Grant was certainly in a better position than before, but he could still make out that splotch of grey-blue, muted from his unrelenting efforts to look somewhat presentable again.

“Grant, you all right? I’m coming in,” He recognized your voice immediately and perked up at the prospect of seeing you again, even if he really ought to know better than to be happy to see someone in this predicament.

Especially a handsome one.

“I think it’s coming off, you think? Could be my flesh that I’m tearing away at, but if it works…”

It was natural to glance at someone when they enter the bathroom. Humans are naturally inquisitive people. Innovation and evolution weren’t the result of keeping to oneself. What wasn’t natural was staring, particularly when it came to a man’s face, which seemed to have been exasperated from adrenaline.

You were panting and heaving as you made your way to counter. Grant took notice of your necktie, swinging from side to side with every step you took. You must’ve forgotten a tie clip. If not, then it must’ve fallen sometime between the moment he left the room and you entering the bathroom.

He had to admit, you looked—

“Keep at it and you’ll find the city of Atlantis,” you stifled a chuckle when Grant washed off the soap suds again, only to reveal what many would presume to be a rather strange five o’clock shadow.

Well, half of one.

“Speaking of finds,” he grabbed a handful of paper towels to dry his face, then nodded towards the paper bag that you had set on the counter. “What’s the loot?” Grant asked, partly because he wanted to distract you from watching him any longer and because he was simply curious.

Once again, inquisitive people drove evolution. In this context, Grant would like to get to know you more -- for the sake of the motion picture, of course.

“Went to the general store and thought you might need these,” you began unpacking the bag one by one.

A package of bar soap, a tin of cold cream, and a modest bag of assorted fruit chews. “Soap? We have soap right here.” Grant recognized the logo on the bag, there was a candy store west of the studio lot. He wondered where you went first. Did you get hungry during your brisk shopping trip, or was the general goods store on the way and you needed to kill time?

“Yes, well, that’s hand soap. You need Ivory soap, which is hydrating and better for your face. Hand soap will dry you out.”

He also wondered why you were helping him out. Not that people don’t go out of their way to help a celebrity of his status, but often, he could tell when someone was contriving flattery.

“What about the tin?” Grant asked. With one hand, he picked up the tin and analyzed the engraved packaging against the light.

You began rummaging through your bag of fruit chews. “Cold cream. It’s what my mother uses to remove her makeup. Use that before you wash your face. It should help melt the stain,” Pink wrapper, it was a strawberry chew. Grant deduced that it also must have been your favorite flavor since you searched high and low for it, flicking past the greens, blues, oranges, and yellows.

Replaying it back in his mind made him chuckle. He had been inside the candy store before, usually spending a few cents on chocolates for his dates. Still, the store was a marquee for locals who wanted to self-serve their candy bags and that hadn’t gone unnoticed. A buffet of confectionery to put it persuasively, which made Grant laugh again at the thought of you picking out the strawberry chews.

You could’ve avoided the trouble by not packing the other flavors at all.

“It’s for women… ‘She’s engaged, she’s lovely, she uses cold cream,’” The irony of the tagline shared a brief fit of laughter between you and Grant.

It felt good to hear you laugh, even if it was quite apparent that you were restraining yourself to lower the chances of choking on a fruit chew. Death was inevitable as much as it was arbitrary, and Grant was not letting a handsome man like yourself be the first case of ‘death by candy, and a badly timed joke.’

Besides the point, you were benign. Your knowledge in women’s beauty products caused a case of interest, and that made Grant want to excavate your formality even more.

“You look like you belong in the Looney Tunes, Gustin. That should be the least of your worries,” he watched you primp yourself in front of the mirror, minor adjustments to your hair where the gel had fallen loose. “Anyway, I’ll get us some lunch. They said we’ll resume in a bit. You like salami? I know a place that makes a great Italian sandwich. Good fries too.”

With autumn approaching, the weather was only getting windier. By dint of the way a strand of hair fell delicately over your forehead like the stem of a cherry, Grant figured he should make amends with the upcoming season if it meant he would be seeing more of you fixing your tousled hair.

“Actually—wait for me, yeah? I prefer dining in for lunch, can’t stand soggy fries,” Grant opened the tin of cold cream and was instantly hit with a whiff of nostalgia -- something of gardenia and vanilla all at once. He must have smelled this at his mother’s vanity at some point in his life.

“Well, you must hurry because I had nothing but double the allotment of caffeine. I feel like Lucy in that one run where all she had for dinner were mints,” you were referencing an episode of I Love Lucy, adjusting your tie in between glances.

He slathered on the white paste and rubbed at the stain on his chin. Grant wouldn’t have guessed this was part of a woman’s nightly routine. If he ignored the floral notes, the product resembled shaving cream for the most part.

“‘There’s nothing quite like a good after-dinner mint,’” Grant quoted a line from the same episode you had mentioned. In retrospect, he was glad he shelled out a couple hundred bucks for the hottest commodity of the decade. He had never seen someone’s eyes light up the way yours did.

If the building was set on fire and everyone had to be evacuated, Grant wouldn’t have known by virtue of your radiant smile -- it was disorienting. Whether or not he would’ve made it out in time… the matter of the fact was that his fate was entirely dependent on you, and Grant was surprisingly at ease with that proposition.

You cleared your throat when it registered that the stare shared between the two of you had stopped you in your tracks, Grant in his. The silence was almost tangible. Grant wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at your eyes, then your nose, and then your lips again. That information served no purpose, only to embarrass him with the strong chance that it might’ve been too long.

Much too long for him, he began noticing your delightful cologne and not the smell of floral and vanilla. If he took a step closer, maybe he could—

“You can wash it off now. I’m curious to see if it works.”

For now, Grant was content on watching you at arm’s length, eating your favorite piece of candy and laughing as you tidied yourself.

It seemed like he was only beginning to scratch the surface.

It had only been a little more than a week of principal photography, but Grant was quick to inform himself of the director’s social cues. Sucking in his bottom lip meant that something regarding the scene was off -- whether it be the lighting, the wrinkle in a shirt, the fumble of dialogue, or the stiff movement of the actors. He was a meticulous man, stopping a take when Grant’s hair wasn’t as slicked back as he had envisioned. Imposing at times, but the general kindness kept the set rather freeing.

Today, Grant received a firm nod behind the camera.

“You got a light?” Grant asked with a cigarette between his lips, patting his pockets only to leave with empty hands. He pulled a chair next to where you had been studiously scribbling notes on your script. He couldn’t have read it if he tried -- and he had tried once -- chicken scratch hadn’t left your fine motor skills anytime soon.

“Uh-huh. Every apartment has one if you find the right landlord,” you said dryly, flashing a cheeky grin and continuing to annotate the script in your hand.

“Cute,” he snickered while you fished a lighter out of your pant pocket. It wasn’t your scheduled smoke break yet, it was often reserved right before lunch. You figured that you mind as well get one out of the way since the clock was nearing lunch time anyhow.

Lighting up your cigarette, you drew in a breath of tobacco and felt it cloud over your brain after, tempering the stress signals with warmth. “Here,” your thumb remained on the flint wheel while your free hand hovered over the flame to block the desk fan. The wick of fire bridged the distance between you and Grant as you both leant forward to ignite his cigarette.

His hand rested on yours, gently bringing the lighter closer to the end of his cigarette stick, and stabilized itself until the tobacco was lit.

It shouldn’t have felt intimate. It was probably from the smoke, wasn’t it? The type of buzz that made Grant hallucinate all and everything around him -- black crows if he was in a troubled sate. In this case, it was the tremble of your hand when Grant held it, unsteady like the lighter’s flame before you had capped it. It was the look you gave him, aggravated if it was from most men, but almost imploring on your end. It was the silence that bestowed between the two of you, the type where Grant knew you could tell he was staring at you now, because you began scribbling arbitrary patterns on the margins of your script.

He should probably tell you that the scribbles were merging with your annotations, but Grant had to be careful. Otherwise, he was going to open his mouth and give you an earful of lunacy, starting with “Your hands are cold” and ending with “Can I hold them for longer?”

“So, what’s for lunch today?” You asked, stretching your arms overhead. Grant watched your fingers closely as they fanned out and held nothing but air.

“I could go for a hamburger. You?”

“Something light for me… think I’m coming down with a bug. My stomach suddenly hurts.”

Grant regretted letting go now.

“We missed you at shooting today. And yesterday. And the day before that. Mainly Wilder though—he likes how you can get scenes done in one take.”

You were caught off-guard hearing Grant’s voice through the handset. Even if he was calling from the other side of town, there was something about his presence that made you sit up and spruce up your surroundings, not forgetting your own appearance, of course.

“Well, that’s comforting. I’m sorry—how exactly did you get my telephone, Grant? Where are you calling from?” It must have been the hoarse sound of your voice that made Grant laugh into the handset. You could see it now, his smile.

“Don’t worry about that—and from my hotel. What you should be worrying about is your health. Why are you still up?” Grant started out lighthearted at first, but then muttered, like the weight of his concern strung his voice along.

Really, you ought to sleep. The positive of being sick meant that you could leisure all day and not feel guilty about watching television, even if you had outdone your daily average by a margin. The negative? Your senses were heightened by tenfold, which was ironic because your sinuses were blocked. That didn’t matter whatsoever. What did matter was that you kept waking multiple times throughout the night because your bed was either too warm, too cold, too soft, or too hard.

Now, sleep was as elusive as seeing Grant. It had only been a couple of days, yet you began to feel off -- which could be another symptom of the flu in hindsight.

“It’s wash day. I’m soaking my clothes as we speak,” you flicked off the television to hear Grant better. The rain was pouring down hard on your window.

“You do your own laundry?” Grant asked. He sounded genuinely astonished.

Picturing his expression alongside, you couldn’t contain your laughter any longer. “I am an adult, Grant.” Your toes said otherwise as they wiggled in your socks in complete bliss.

Hearing Grant’s voice was a much-needed energy boost -- way more effective than the oranges you had been eating, but not on par with the programs you had been watching. He’ll get there soon.

“I usually have my housekeeper do it for me,” he confessed.

It was no surprise. You read all about it in the papers before, how the wealthy hires a live-in help, or a nanny if the household contained a family with more than enough kids. They were all cut from the same cloth either way.

“And have you noticed any silk ties going missing?” You asked in jest.

“Now that you mentioned it—“ Before Grant could finish, you laughed, picturing his expression screw into realization that he hadn’t worn his red necktie in a bit.

Objectively, it made sense. The last thing you would want to do is clean the bathroom after coming home from work. It was a luxury you would like to have the option to afford one day, but for now, having a housekeeper was merely that—an option.

You had a much more ambitious goal in mind, and that was making an impact on Hollywood. “Case adjourned.”

Grant’s laugh suggested defeat, and you were all too familiar of the long silence that would come after. If he was here face-to-face, you both would sit in the sound of white noise, or the beating rain in this case, and simply stare at each other.

You weren’t sure when or how it came to fruition, and in the end that didn’t matter—because it was nice.

It was nice to be free from all things interfering with Grant.

“What was for dinner?” He asked, instantly reminding you of the emptiness in your stomach.

“I overslept—well, as overslept as one could be when all they have on their agenda for the day is to die in bed while watching re-runs.”

“Dying to one of Lucille Ball’s shenanigans doesn’t sound too bad. If you time it right, the audience can laugh when you exhale your very last breath,” you laughed at Grant’s morbid mind. “I’ll come over then.”

“You don’t know where I live, Grant. And no, I might pass the bug to you. You’re the production’s biggest asset. We can’t afford any more delays if you fall sick too.”

“I do, actually. The apartment with the orange accents. It’s all everyone talks about because it’s so bright. And I’ll be fine, (M/N). I shot quite a bit of my scenes already. I know you’re a rising star, but the whole world doesn’t stop for you, sweetheart.”

Hearing Grant call you ‘sweetheart’, even if it was said in jest, had you thinking of several different situations in which he would say it again -- preferably in earnest.

“It should. All the take-out places in my neighborhood closed early. What I would do if I had the world in my palm…” From the couch, you looked solemnly out your window, watching blocks of buildings sleep in the shadow of the moon. Your stomach growled as the rain poured harder.

“Even as a dictator, you wouldn’t be able to stop me from coming over. I’ll be there in a split.”

“But it’s raining—“

The line ended with a buzz.

“You know, you don’t have to keep checking up on me, or even bring me food for the matter. I stocked up on some ‘TV Dinner,’” you took a whiff at the steaming bowl of lobster bisque, putting your sinuses to the test. Still nothing. Giving up, you took a sip.

“No wonder you’ve been complaining about your throat! At least buy the meatloaf one,” Grant poured you a cup of orange juice before putting the jug back, rummaging through your freezer after. “And since we’re on the subject… I’ll try one of these bad boys out.”

It was strange seeing someone in your kitchen, let alone your apartment. As unfamiliar was it was, you couldn’t lie and say that you hated it. It was easier to talk to Grant, on the couch and eating a meal together, than it was with a bunch of people interrupting their conversation for either one of them, sometimes both, to do another take.

“Have you ever been offered the chance of being a mystery guest?” After finishing dinner, you curled up on one end of the sofa while Grant sat on the other, arms sprawled over the back and feet cushioned separately by a foot stool.

You and Grant were watching a late night re-run of ‘What’s My Line?’ Four panelists had to question contestants to determine their line of work with only yes-no questions. Toward the last round of every episode, there would be a celebrity mystery guest in which the panelists sought to determine the identity of while blindfolded. For tonight’s episode, the panelists were still stumped on the first contestant’s ‘occupation’—which hardly seemed fair because it was then revealed that she was a victim of a knife-throwing accident.

They let anyone participate these days.

“I have. I wanted to partake in it, but the studio rejected the idea.”

“Why’s that?” You asked, aghast.

Frankly, if you were in Grant’s shoes, you wouldn’t have take ‘no’ for an answer. Anyone who was anyone guested on that show. And if you were Grant’s manager, somehow scarcely able to believe you would even have the energy to be in meetings all day, you would have made his dreams come true. All of them, no matter how absurd they could be.

“They thought I’d be confused at the questions given to me,” Grant sounded aggrieved. You looked over. In the guise of his smile, you could tell those words still affected him. “I think I’m capable. I just lose my train of thought in front of a crowd sometimes.”

Which made the passing thought of being Grant’s manager only a fantasy as the guilt suddenly festered -- you believed those horde of headlines insulting his intellect once. Luckily, it had since dissipated once befriending him.

“Well, when the day comes, I don’t want you to tell me,” you confessed. “Leave the surprise to the broadcast.”

Though, it wasn’t like you thought lowly of him or made any disparaging remarks on his character because of those articles. Rather, you simply pitied. You weren’t going to tell him that, however. He doesn’t need to know how deep your affection for his films and personages go. That he gave you the kick you needed to pursue this strange, yet fulling path -- you could taste the accolades right around the corner, even if you were still living in a dingy apartment.

The awful truth was that Grant also didn’t need to know that you had fallen harder for him -- the real him -- than any other roles he had played. Maybe it was his gorgeous looks that projectors couldn’t do justice. Or the clumsy nature that strangely fit his otherworldly persona -- something had to humble him. Or how he was doing this, bringing you soup every day and making himself comfortable in your own home, like it was his as well.

Or how he was looking at you right now, curled up on the other end of the sofa, his foot accidentally brushing over yours in midst of finding a comfortable spot.

You stretched your legs out when you suddenly felt tense in the body, turning away from the television set to face your body to the ceiling, your chin to your chest to keep your eyes on Grant, who began mirroring your position. It was like you two discovered telepathy for the first time; your leg occupying the gap between his thighs, Grant between yours. He turned the TV off like you had been wanting, filling the living space with complete darkness, and blindly skimmed his sock over your own.

Feeling his sock rub against your ankle stirred something inside of you, and it wasn’t reassuring that this urge only bloomed when Grant did it again. Once at your ankle, two at your calf. Whether this was his idea of a sick joke, you didn’t want that to be answered. Your senses were already heightened from the flu, the stillness in the room deafening, but the intertwined pairs of feet -- the sound of cotton caressing cotton -- alerting. Enticing.

It was an urge that seemed confined to Grant, you realized that when your body responded out of instinct and nudged his ankle and calf in retaliation. Not to get him to stop, but to silently convince him to resist -- because you were frightened you couldn’t any longer.

After a few more cycles of this—whatever activity you two were engaging in—Grant straightened his legs by your hips, seemingly complacent in this exchange by the sound of his chuckle.

“I’ll leave by dawn.”

“Good night, Grant.”

For the past couple of days, you had gotten into the habit of looking forward to Grant’s daily delivery of soups from a restaurant not too far from where he lived—three meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner respectively. You had to admit, as delicious as they were, you were beginning to exhaust your taste buds of anything broth related. Substance was much needed, especially for a bite of the sandwiches that Grant had graciously introduced you to a couple weeks back.

However, you were feeling better, and that was the most important part—actually, scratch that.

The most important part was who was helping you recover from this aggravating bug. Sipping on the last spoonful of tomato soup, in hopes that your next meal would involve using your teeth, you were itching to resume filming.

At least you thought you did before you flipped through the daily paper. It was a still shot of Grant—blurry, walking down a sidewalk, hand in one pocket while the other was carrying a bag. That was normal, you had seen many of those in your lifetime.

What wasn’t normal was that you recognized the restaurant logo on the bag, the row of evergreens surrounding the perimeter, the distinct branding of the entrance of the building he was near.

Even if the photograph was in black and white, you could tell the handles and windows were painted with a shade darker than white. It made for a rather intriguing backdrop if you could choose to ignore the tightening feeling in your chest.

You started to panic as it became more apparent.

Orange.

“Shit.”

You braced yourself and read the headline.

HOLLYWOOD PLAYBOY STRIKES AGAIN: GRANT GUSTIN SPOTTED AT NEW ALLEGED LOVER’S RESIDENCE!

At first Grant thought he must have misunderstood. When he picked up today’s daily, he was half-expecting a gossip column regarding another one of his romantic adventures with a former co-star, the other half wishing the paper had focused on someone else for a change.

Last month’s column produced a rather in-depth, and slightly creepy, overview of his dinner with Miss Patton. He knew he had good reason to feel peculiar about the waiter serving them. If it hadn’t been for Miss Patton’s desperate plea to get a meal in her stomach as soon as possible, Grant would’ve demanded a switcheroo, effective immediately. The lanky, young man lingered far too long and asked too many questions for his liking, his presence alone made Grant’s Negroni Spritz go flat.

Did Grant’s reputation need to take another hit after finally recovering from those multitudes of fender benders a year and a half ago? Probably not -- Grant didn’t need to endure another hour-long chastising session about how his actions could damage the movie studio. It was all bluff anyway. Grant and the studio head both knew that scandals ushered in huge numbers, record-breaking attendances when it came to his most recent pictures.

Either way, had he known his private conversation with Miss Patton would become… well, not so private, Grant would’ve committed arson to the studio the night of. At least the executives could file an insurance claim based on the physical damage. Grant doubted there would be much validity to the claim if the reason provided was his inability to hold his tongue.

Luckily, Grant had since stopped pursuing after risks. It was what made a dent to his once speck-less Mercedes-Benz in the first place.

Dear God… my sweet Iris, what have I done to you?!

What he wasn’t expecting was—

“‘The Gustin Effect! Hollywood Heartthrob Grant Gustin Helps Local Restaurant Sell Out… Soups?,’” Grant repeated to himself. He was sweating as his eyes went over the large serif font for the nth time like skates on ice. He had to give it to The Daily Spring -- it wasn’t exactly an intriguing headline, but it made his heart race knowing the context. Regardless, it wasn’t exactly how he wanted to start off his day.

He suddenly felt compelled to pour another packet of sugar into his coffee.

“Keep reading, it’s a rather heart-warming article,” Grant’s manager said through the handset with a peculiar enthusiasm, as if the man wasn’t scolding him a few days ago for wandering about without telling him first. “Looks like we’re back on track, don’t you think?”

“As my manager, you’re supposed to be—I don’t know—warding off any worries that I might have. Not unsettle me any more than I already am…” Grant frowned, tucking the handset between his shoulder and ear before briefing into the rest of the gossip piece.

“What are you talking about? This is great news!”

“‘Local restaurant ‘The Cloud Room’ saw an unexpected surge in business after a photograph was published in the newspaper, showing movie star Grant Gustin holding a bag of the restaurant’s soups while en route to a secret rendezvous.

The image caught the attention of the public, leading to a wave of curious customers eager to try the same dish, dubbing the star’s powerful influence as ‘The Gustin Effect.’

With lines stretching down the block for the past three days, the possibility of the effect faltering anytime soon seems slim to none. The owners are considering expanding their hours to accommodate the growing number of customers drawn by the star's casual endorsement.’”

There were several more paragraphs, but Grant couldn’t be bothered to read any more of it. A sudden migraine had been festering the moment he laid eyes on the headline.

“Christ, Kid. You’re on a roll these days. I’d have to use both of my hands to count the number of articles written about you this past week. It’s impressive. If we play it right, then the upcoming picture could be your biggest hit yet. I know you’ve been clamoring for this moment, Kid.”

“Listen, I think I should—“ he groaned, rubbing at his temples.

“Oh, Grant. It’s just your typical fling, wasn’t it? Usually you sweeten a lady up with chocolates, but I guess… soup has its merit too. Nothing to worry about.”

Throbbing -- Grant’s head was throbbing now. He didn’t have the freedom to be indifferent to other people’s opinions. In fact, his career relied on it—on the public, on his manager, on his manager’s manager.

“No, the thing is—“

Now his hands were clamming up. He could feel the handset in his palm slipping, but he tightened his hold—because that was what people in his line of work did, right? If he was on the game show you and Grant were watching the other day, one of the questions would have been:

“Do you portray yourself as who you really are in your line of work?” “Are you free to express yourself however you wished in your occupation?” “Would people like the real person behind this persona of yours? Your parents, perhaps? Grandparents?” “Would you risk the comfort of your career for love?”

“I’ll run it by with the studio. Thank God for your little lady’s soup obsession because they were on my neck for letting you off my leash.”

Maybe his manager was correct in inducing this fear of the press, of anything that provided a space for a cluster of inquisitive people who sought for a piece of his life to sell.

Grant braced himself and exhaled, “It’s not a lady.”

Because Grant would answer all those questions with a resounding ‘No.’

“What, your brother in town? Do you even have a brother? Oh, it must’ve been your father then! Well, that will certainly fare better with the heads—”

All except one.

“It was (M/N).”

All the things Grant wasn’t saying sat heavy in his mouth. He wasn’t used to holding his tongue like this. Under normal circumstances, Grant would ramble non-stop about his favorite pastimes, like going up to Colorado to challenge the steepest ski run, or modestly luxuriating near the poolside at his mansion. It always got the conversation to a flying start with you.

Now, all of his efforts of building some kind of relationship with you seemed to be in vain.

Since Grant had revealed to his manager about his frequent visits to your apartment, there had been a constant stream of articles, propagated by the studio, about his love life, about his philanthropic efforts, about his wishes to build a family with a loving wife and four kids; all in the effort to bury his truth had it ever leak.

They brought his past flings back to the spotlight, even if he hadn’t communicated with these women in months. They brazenly brought you into the picture, gossip columnists regurgitating all types of bogus stories such as: your ego-trip when you demanded filming to stop because of your illness, your tantrum on set when Grant forgot his lines, your need to berate your assistant when she was as little of a second too late in fetching your coffee.

‘Inside sources,’ they’d call it—when really, these were excerpts manufactured from the publicity agent’s fictitious and unpublished novel, later trashed somewhere in the building to start a new one -- to find a new story for so-called ‘journalists’ would hound you with.

Articles about the alleged feud between you and Grant had only gotten more vicious and scathing on your end, and all Grant could do was watch in agony as the studio lot became a media circus, increasing day by day, week by week, with more photographers and reporters desperate to encounter these alleged incivilities. As a newcomer in the industry, it certainly raised your profile, but it was also to the detriment of your reputation -- a fact that everyone was content with considering the amount of coverage the film was receiving.

He had held onto your presence as a small comfort throughout the past bleak month, but even that necessity was taken away from him. More executives began coming onto set under the guise of quality assurance as shooting headed for its last week. Their intention became very much apparent whenever Grant would be inconvenienced with another obligation of shooting for more publicity stills.

Upon realizing you had done all your promotional material in solitude, there was nothing Grant had wanted more than to join you by your side. More so, when in a cursory attempt to blend in with your surroundings, you helped yourself to the catering service and tried to become interested in the employees. Grant knew you didn’t have enough energy in you to exchange more than a “How are you?” and some complimentary words about the food.

You didn’t stay much longer for the wrap party.

Nor were you even welcomed.

He was rarely in a situation where he could physically harm someone, but seeing the headlines the past month, how ostracized you had become during the last few weeks of filming, maybe the circumstances of his life would issue a free pass to do such heinous crimes out of the goodness of their heart -- especially since it pertained to you.

“You shouldn’t be here, Grant. Christ—someone could see you! How did you get here without someone following you?”

Before Grant was being sharply pulled into your apartment, he was contemplating on whether he should greet you with a reasonable “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” a pleading “It’s all my fault, please forgive me,” or a simple “Hi.”

The door clicked shut, and Grant mentally slapped himself out of his thoughts. Instead, it was none of that.

“Everyone got wasted by nine,” Grant revealed lightly; there was some apprehension that any louder, he would break you based on your meek appearance. “Your eyes are red.”

You made a dismissive noise, brushing Grant off as you passed him on your way to the bedroom. “It’s only been a month and you’re already forgetting the color of my eyes, Grant? I’ve been telling you to go to the doctor.

Grant followed. By simply watching your back, Grant noticed your walk had changed. “Stop. Stop that.” You walked too fast for your own good at times, missing shops because you had tunnel-visioned toward the front, but Grant easily caught up to grab your arm and stop you in your tracks.

Or maybe he was just getting accustomed to your pace before shit hit the fan.

“Stop what?” You turned, facing him as you leaned against your bedroom door with crossed arms. At your lower eyelids, Grant caught sight of tears forming along the waterline. He shouldn’t think that crying looked lovely on you, so he kept that thought to himself.

But it really did put him in a trance for a moment. During that moment of attraction, it couldn’t be helped that the open collar of your shirt also led various prospects nearly consume him and all of his being, making him take a step closer. His fingers brushed by the tip of yours, the wattage of the slightest physical touch making you flex your fingers like you were upholstered by secrets.

A month shouldn’t have felt that long, but this was the moment when it all came into fruition -- that Grant hadn’t properly spoken or seen you in a month. He remembered how he felt when you looked at him for the first time, something like a sensation coming painfully back to a numb limb. As torturous as it was, it made Grant feel alive.

“Stop pretending like you’re okay,” Grant swallowed hard, finding himself in a dilemma between wiping your tears for you or giving you the space you clearly needed, even if Grant had involuntarily done enough of that.

You scoffed, using the back of your sleeve to wipe your eyes. “I’m not pretending. I don’t even have stray cats in my balcony like I used to anymore to be okay for.”

“Stray cats would’ve brought you much more comfort than I ever could, I have to admit that,” Grant said, your face assuming an expression that led Grant to plausibly assume you would have disagreed. That, or he was simply toying with his delusions, knowing he couldn’t fathom the tangible truth of the damage his relationship with you had undergone.

He meant it when he didn��t want anything more than to join you by your side. Grant followed you to the sofa and sat next to you, knees and thighs touching. Hands—pairs of hand wishing they could hold you in between the passing silence.

“Why didn’t you call?” Grant didn’t think you mean for the reasonable question to sound as despondent as it did. He also didn’t think he has a lapse of control left, because you looked so fragile and nebulous—that despite his best efforts, Grant eventually slipped a hand into your palm because he was afraid acknowledging your existence would make you disappear.

He held you tighter.

“My hotel was under supervision… it’s not an excuse, I know. I should’ve tried to find a loophole. I couldn’t even write to you without the possibility of being caught. And when I was, they released more of those horrid articles about you. They were breathing down my neck, (M/N). I swear. I didn’t know what to do other than to… be complicit. I’m sorry. Truly. I’m a coward.”

“You’re not,” you sighed with eyes fixated on Grant’s hand in yours. “You have a lot more to lose than I do. I get it.”

He caressed his thumb over your palm, sparking some kind of will to exist by which he had the gentle squeeze of your hand to judge by. “Doesn’t mean it’s right, though. I don’t know, it all happened so fast. If I would’ve shut my damn mouth, none of this would have happened. I just—panicked. For God’s sake, it’s not like we’re…”

Lovers. Grant doesn’t think it was his imagination that something in you seemed to have unwound after the implication. If Grant hadn’t mentioned that he wasn’t great at comforting people, which he was confident that he had never told you, it counted for something when he was struck by the relief in your shoulders and hand, your palm seemingly sinking—but you didn’t have to fret, because Grant was there to catch you.

He was more capable at this than he had thought.

You chuckled over Grant’s reservation to even say the unspoken word, so you left him be. “My manager told me to lay low for the time-being and wait for the storm to pass. It’s nice to know I’m not fired or anything, they know it’s all deceptive.”

There was something so comforting in the ability to be physically touching you, in knowing that from here on out, Grant could simply take you by the hand, shut the door between the two of you and the rest of the world, and share your thoughts.

Maybe if all went swell, hand-holding wouldn’t be confined to a sad set of affairs. In Grant’s ideal world, holding your hand would also be the preface of something more, a bridge that allows him to cross his way over to you and explore all facets negative and positive, intimately so.

“We’re all pawns to the studio anyway. Vehicles that put in an extra floor to the building. Bad publicity is good publicity. It’s free marketing for the film. Scandals make stars, and you’re halfway there.”

Grant was sure of it. He had seen many other actors and actresses recover their careers with far worse rumors. The main priority was money, and as long as it didn’t stop the audience from filling up the theaters, there was no reason to drop a talent.

You brought your legs onto the sofa and crossed your legs facing Grant. “Is that supposed to be comfort me, Mister Fender Bender?”

“That was only three times—and, mind you, no one got hurt.” Grant followed suit. His bent knees pressed against yours. He had your hands opened in his palms as if telling fortune was second nature to him, tracing the lines embedded in your palm with an inquisitive index. “How am I supposed to comfort you, then? Tell me.”

Your hands weren’t much smaller than Grant’s, the fact had been known since the very moment you two had exchanged handshakes for the first time. Still, those beautiful appendages visited his dreams often. It hadn’t meant anything to Grant until one night, he was dreaming about the day he had his hand over yours as you lit his cigarette. The second night, he dreamed of you testing his temperature via the back of your hand to Grant’s forehead. The third night… well, Grant was ashamed to admit that his attraction had breached far into indecent territories by which helped him solve a night of endless tossing and turning in a matter of minutes.

Then multiple nights, because Grant since wholeheartedly accepted that this infatuation for your hands had actually preceded his deep affection for you.

Unless someone brought good reason that Grant should stop playing with your hands and obsessing over them, it wasn’t in his agenda to ever let go.

“You’ve done enough. I guess… I’m a little upset that I splurged on a new suit for nothing. I was going to wear it to the wrap party,” you huffed, idly playing a game of ‘Try To Catch Grant’s Finger.’ No prize money would be offered, just bragging rights—which did have some merit.

So far, you were losing.

Grant smirked as he managed to wriggle a finger out of your grip. Five points for him, two points for you. “Who said there can’t be one with just us two?”

“Cheater! And that’s called a date, Grant.”

“I would’ve stayed then.” Suddenly, the solution to end your pitiful evening slotted in place.

He sprung up from the sofa with a hop, smiling graciously at you. “Come on. On your feet. We’re bringing it to a place I know.”

For Grant to call his residence something as pedestrian and humdrum like ‘a place,’ as if all the great virtues and grandeur of the mansion had been entirely diminished because the construction of expanding his already-massive pool had been halted for whatever reason—you questioned, and was rather frightened to know, about what his idea of a party was. It soon became a momentary thought when Grant began giving you a brief tour around his mansion—and the amenities that came with it.

With its manicured gardens, gold-plated fixtures, towering columns that couldn’t have prepared you for the imposing entryway, Grant’s stately mansion exuded an aura of refinement and exclusivity, and you were in awe by the sense of splendor. You felt out of your element. It was extremely telling as you walked over the imported marble floors like they were made of crystals. Delicately caressed ornate sculptures stoned near every corridor because it would have been irresponsible for you to only observe the complex lines that made their forms so irresistible. It was the epitome of a lifestyle that you would never be able to afford, yet you weren’t jealous at all.

It was a spectacle for sure, but you couldn’t have possibly felt comfortable living with such large quantities of upkeep. Grant mentioned that his bedroom was his favorite, and that was what you could get behind. It wasn’t opulent like the rest of the resident was. It felt lived in, homely, comfortable, even though you were hyper-aware of the fact that his balcony practically contained another living space.

“Get changed in the bathroom. I’ll wait here,” Grant said, sitting on the end of his bed. You had never seen a king-size bed before, but the magazines weren’t lying when one of the print advertisements likened their mattress of that size to a cumulonimbus cloud.

The color of your bespoke formal wear spoke softly; champagne at the blazer and cedar at your slacks. The fabric so light, they almost seemed without substance. The great craftsmanship nearly made you empty a week’s worth of cigarettes in a day, but the tailoring of your suit, alongside the cut and detail, quickly separated you from the past appearance of a boy who had yet outgrown his father’s hand-me-downs to a well-dressed and confident man who paid his bills on time. Once you slicked your hair back for the final touch, you walked out of Grant’s bathroom to reveal yourself.

“I forgot my tie on your bed.”

Grant had opened his mouth to take another gulp of whiskey, but when he turned to look at you, his tongue was seemingly paralyzed in the back of his throat, suddenly coughing up the previous sip he had taken.

You laughed while you made your way to his full length mirror stationed by his closet. He was quick to follow behind, subsiding his raw throat with the last ounce of liquor and grabbing your tie on the way over.

“You look nice. Though, I didn’t take you to be someone who was keen on light colors. You always wore navy,” Grant said, turning you to face him by a gentle hold on your shoulders.

You tipped your head when Grant began to slip the necktie beneath your shirt collar. “Most of my clothes are from my father’s. I will say—as much as it made a dent in my wallet, it was nice buying something for myself for once.”

You tried not to be too obvious about looking at all facets of Grant; the careful attention of his gaze; the veins in his hands as he looped the cloth. In this moment, you came to realize that you wanted Grant in all the ways you were used to ignoring. This was different in the past, different from those peculiar exchanges between the two of you where playing footsie and skimming hands were simply done in the guise of naivety.

He caressed the green cloth in his hand while his gaze focused on yours, utterly complacent about how he compelled you to part your lips with a single look.“Well, you made a great choice. You look terrific. Handsome.” All so alluring, when he stalled further, slowly passing the fibers of silk between inquisitive fingertips. With one firm tug, Grant knotted the tie at your throat, pulling you closer to him in the process. “Beautiful.”

This was different because you knew Grant felt the same way.

“Beautiful?” You repeated for clarification. The word that came out of his mouth littered you goosebumps over your skin. Nobody had ever called you beautiful, you were sure you were the first man in history to be called as such.

You refused to believe this was a serious statement, but then Grant repeated cooly, “Beautiful,” and before you could counter, he pulled on your tie again, nearly closing the small distance between the two of you, and settled his lips on yours.

You collapsed into the kiss, like it was taking all the effort not to kiss Grant, and you were finally giving up. Grant knew that you wanted this, that by any sensible measure desperate for the taste of liquor to come from his mouth and pass into yours with the swap of his tongue. He knew it the way he knew that the Western End had the best suits in the city and that you needed a reservation for almost every restaurant in the district—it was a fact that he didn’t have to think about, and which everybody else knows, too.

You didn’t mean to make that noise come out of your mouth, but after suffering a lapse in Grant’s presence, his lips on yours felt like a whiskey sour on a hard day. It was much needed gift with the past few months you had been having. The softness and care in Grant’s lips made your breath shudder, one would think you had been laved by the cold sea, whereas you were actually melting, in Grant’s arms, gripping his lapel for balance.

“I missed you,” Grant said softly. He circled his arms over your hips, his hands sliding beneath your blazer because he needed to feel every muscle in your body tensing, to pull you impossibly closer to memorize how you fit in his arms.

You supposed you had to credit the liquor for his brazenness.

“I missed you too,” you collapsed into his arms, trusting the warmth of his embrace.

He kissed you in between breaths. “I missed you so much, I couldn’t function properly knowing you were hurting. Guilt was hollowing me from within,” Harder on your mouth, apparently coming to the conclusion that you relished in the roughness of his embrace, in the bruising link between your mouth and his, from the way you gasped and pulled more of him into you. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” Palm deep against his nape, you pushed his head toward the slant of your jaw because you needed to recover your breath. Quickly, before you would risk the chance of collapsing on behalf of lost time, dispelling your last remaining breath inside Grant’s mouth out of desperation to overcompensate.

“I told you it was fine, Grant—“ You groaned when he began nibbling at the underside of your jaw. By virtue of his unstoppable desire, Grant propelled forward, holding you tight, and you stumbled back into the corner until your back collided with the wall, the impact drawing out a pleasurable hiss from your throat.

“It’s not. It’s absolutely not. You nearly drove me into talking to a shrink about you.” You nearly stopped Grant to have a proper conversation, without all these interruptions. Between his kisses and the gripping, you were an incoherent mess if the tightness in your slacks had something to go by, but you instead followed along, entranced by how Grant could look so stunning when all he was doing was undressing you.

He started with the tie. “But then, that would’ve made matters entirely worse upon the realization that… I was so in love with you,” he whispered over your bare throat after sliding the cloth off. Next, was your shirt. “And that it can’t be fixed. I can’t be fixed. I can’t fix myself now knowing that you feel the same way. You do, don’t you?” Then, your undershirt.

You swallowed hard. “I do. I entirely do, am so much in love with you. Grant—” You struggled to get the words out without giving into Grant’s delirious kisses on your bare body. Maybe if you had stumbled, it would’ve delayed his ravenous appetite for your body a second or so longer—but even then, you weren’t sure if you were capable of witnessing and being at the hands of a man who was so clearly starving.

“Oh, Grant—that’s very…” Good. Erotic. Attractive. At least one of those words you were meant to say, but it would’ve been a relic of a bygone touch. Being mouthed at your perky nubs was as indescribable a feeling could get, but then when Grant began licking over your body, slowly sinking onto his knees as he worked his way down your torso, sucking spots and licking marks you hadn’t had the faintest idea about—you were reduced to the role of a whimpering bystander by which ultimately stripped your brain beyond words.

Grant undressed the lower half of you—all but your brown socks—and you had long accepted the fact that it was inevitable in showing Grant how much you enjoyed giving him free rein to your body. Your erection was strong, a reveal of flesh that made him suck in his lips to keep himself from ravishing you already.

“You’re leaking,” you wanted to hide and crawl in a ditch somewhere. It was embarrassing as Grant marveled over the thick trail of pre-cum that tagged over his fingertip when he curiously dipped a finger over your glans.

“Well, don’t comment on it…”It was like he read your mind, because Grant placed a warm palm on your stomach to prevent you from enacting on your wishes, ultimately trapping you in place by the gentle strokes over your cock. “Fuck…” you watched with bleary eyes, all sorts of feelings stockpiling to feed your endorphins

In turn, you felt your skin blossom with heat, patches on your neck and chest burning, because Grant refused to take his eyes off of you. He stroked your cock ardently while assuming an expression of treacly sentiment, like he couldn’t believe his dreams had become a reality. Watching you writhe over the wall, leak over his twisting fist, bite your moans into your hand; these were the exact amenities you would’ve have wanted had you sought for a mansion of your own. Not the towering stairwells, or the ornate carved fountain, or even a separate room for the live-in housekeeper.

Just Grant, his presence, and his magical touch. That was all you needed.

“Wait, wait. Grant, stop—“ You begged a second too late. Your balls tightened when Grant’s hand was only more relentless upon your desperate pleas. His hand massaged your thighs, lips mouthed at the underside of your sack. The prospect of you returning the favor for Grant—or better, with your mouth, hoarding what had yet to be revealed deep down your throat—made you shudder with a release. “Fuck—”

“It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to taste you…” Upon the violent tremble of your thighs, Grant scooted closer, deftly angling and pumping your cock over his open mouth, and let you shoot. You blinked past tears as you felt yourself spill thick shots in Grant’s mouth, over his tongue as he cradled your seeds like they were precious metals, and at the last second, over his face because you stumbled out of his grasp and caught yourself on the wall, heaving.

It had taken a moment for you to catch your breath, shutting your eyes as the tremor in your body would jolt from out of the blue. It was all too much, the sweet relief courteous by the man you loved. You were embarrassed by how quickly Grant had unraveled you, but that was certainly a testament to your attraction to him, or to his skills.

When you opened your eyes, Grant pulled you by the hips for another kiss. A strong embrace to control the tides in your body. Then, a wet and sloppy kiss to clarify that Grant wasn’t done yet, as he breached your mouth with his tongue and surprised you by passing cum into your mouth. It was an ongoing battle, the thick substance swapping from tongue to another, the bitter notes subsiding as more saliva snowballed into the mixture. Between the lewd exchange, Grant began undressing himself out of anticipation of what would come next.

“Swallow,” Grant broke the kiss with a whisper, resting his forehead on yours to feast his eyes on the very prospect of you fulfilling his demand. It was an immense pull of attraction, the slow cascade of his hand over your spine following along with it, that made you gulp the thick content in your mouth. He seemed satisfied when your throat bobbed, smiling. “Good?”

“I imagine yours would taste better,” you rested a hand over your his head, coming his hair back with your fingers until they reached the back of his neck, offering you leverage for another kiss—sweet and clean on Grant’s lips.

“I wouldn’t mind if you tried me out,” Grant was already down to his briefs, his eyes subtly pleading for the sake of his thickened bulge. Prior to noticing, you had been roaming your hand over his lean body. His bare chest, the well-defined muscles breaking you of your fantasies—because it was better than you could have imagined. Grant looked about two seconds away from forcing you on your knees himself, but lucky for him, you were just as eager.

Sinking onto your knees, you carefully pulled down his briefs. Slowly at first, to compose yourself, but then to test your patience, because the length of Grant’s shaft seemed never-ending. When you fully stripped him of his briefs, you had to take a scoot back in fear that his impressive cock would hit you in the face.

Grant was massive, the weight of his length making it stoop forward and dangle with every step he took. There was one protruding vein that nearly made you drop everything and sucked him off right then and there, until he was fully hard in your mouth and you could feel more veins throbbing—but again, you needed to show him some type of restraint, even though at this point, you doubted that he cared.

“So, the rumors are true, then?” Instantly, you were taken back to a gossip column regarding Grant’s size. Whoever tipped those writers off should win a Pulitzer Prize.

Grant shrugged, apparently nonchalant at the fact that he could practically cover the length of your face with such ease. “Had no idea where that came from, honestly…” Holding his thighs, you briefly trialed the theory out under the guise of kissing the underside of his thick shaft. Between licking the flesh, kissing his balls, and fondling his cock, you were also completely immersed in the smell of his cock. He smelled like pure arousal, a peculiar saltiness in your nostrils as you breathed him in, from unkempt pubic hairs to the leaking tip. Nonetheless, it was gratifying as your cock responded in several twitches.

“I don’t think I can fit you in my mouth,” you said, aware that you were grinning like a fool.

“It’s the effort that matters,” he chuckled, his hand smoothening over your head to rest on your nape, pushing your mouth closer to his hardening cock. With one hand braced on his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock, you felt Grant tense when you cradled the tip into your mouth with your tongue, sucking. “Your mouth is so warm, (M/N)…”

He was as salty as he smelled. The pre-cum coated your tongue nicely, resembling the taste of your cum prior, but somehow ten times more potent, as if you were drinking sex directly from concentrate. What was even nicer was how heavy your mouth felt when you took more of Grant in. It was like the weight of him had its own gravitational pull, separating your mouth wider to accommodate the massive girth like sucking a cock this big came second-hand nature to you. You reckoned that you should become quickly accustomed to it though, because you couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving Grant disappointed.

You and Grant were like this for a couple of minutes; Grant pushing out drips of spit with his mouth to add onto the wetness and you doing the same thing, pushing your saliva out and spreading the thick layer over his shaft with your hand to help ease the slide into your mouth. You could barely fit more than a few inches, your cheeks hallowing for as long as they could before the strain of the stretch had gotten to the nerves.

“Oh, fuck…” Grant moaned, having had enough of your sloppy strokes by robbing you of your recovery once more and greedily pushing his cock back into your warm mouth.

God, the way it looked… a reddened, fat swollen cock straining in the grip of your fist, a drop of pre-cum glistening heavy on the tip, a thick layer of saliva over the thicker size of his staff… the fact that you could see your own fingers struggling to wrap around his cock as you sucked him off—it all felt so very surreal, and so very real.

“You’re so big, Grant. Fuck…” You lifted your gaze and stared into Grant’s nebulous eyes. Somehow, it made the act ten times more obscene upon realizing that you were practically servicing him, on your knees, worshiping all facets of his body. His calves were toned against your lips, thighs sturdier as Grant made an effort to stabilize his stance following your teasing mouth working up his legs with ticklish kisses, then back to the head of his cock, where you began nibbling at the swollen head.

“Christ, (M/N)…”

He was always very expressive, but in the moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Dumbfounded, as you began using two hands to stroke what you couldn’t fit inside of your mouth. Swiveling and twirling his wet cock with your fists, all while you sucked and licked on his swollen tip, feeding into the rush that made his cock throb so hard in your mouth and hands, into the delightful sounds that revived your sensitive cock back with life.

Grant bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any sound. What came out were staggered breaths, clear evidence of his indulgence while his hips were moving without his volition. Your plump lips stretched wide around his pistoning cock, sucking and slobbering over the hot ample flesh, eyes wide and disbelieving, as if you couldn’t believe you could fit this much of Grant inside of your mouth.

It was endgame the moment Grant hissed and sunk in his stomach, flexing his abdomen under way—everything was building to the perfect eruption. You had your mouth opened, stroking him over your face to catch him with your tongue as he had done with you. Grant was close—so close that his face could make you spill for the second time of the night on the strength of his twisted expressions.

Your delusions consequently settled you in for a rude awakening when Grant suddenly pulled you up on your feet and kissed you hard, yet almost apologetically on the mouth. You whined against his lips, ultimately kissing him back because you couldn’t get a word in from how relentless he was being by which you couldn’t blame—the agony of being nearly relieved would’ve wrecked havoc on your mental state.

“I need to be inside of you first, please—“ Grant begged hot on your neck. He backed you into his bed until your backside collided with the mattress upon the push of his hand. Then your chest, when Grant took free liberty of your body and bent you over.

The first thing on your mind was that, “God, this mattress was lovely,” but the second you felt something wet spread over your hole, all the compliments you had reserved dissipated and expelled through a shuddering breath. You were blinded by the soft bedding, burying your moans into the sheets, but you could conjure up the holiest image of Grant spreading your asscheeks open and exploring you with eager licks.

“You’re so good at this,“ you sighed, curling your toes into your socks.

“You bring out the best in me, you know…” Grant muttered, squeezing your ass cheeks as a sign of affection when you looked over your shoulder and smiled at him. His mouth was much too busy to verbalize his feelings.

You wondered if Grant was aware of how obscene he had sounded—these wet, slurpy sounds that his mouth made while tasting your insides. His hot breath was beckoning, pushing your hips out by inclination for Grant to give you more. More, more, more. It seemed like he listened to your body because you stiffened immediately, barely suppressing a surprised gasp, when his slicked finger entered you.

You felt like you were in a free fall. Finally. This was exactly what you needed. Your mind went utterly blank, unable to comprehend the single digit curling inside of you. It was thought-annihilating, the way Grant had curled his fingers inside of you—two now, after deciding for himself that you had been clamoring for a bigger fill, that you needed to feel a stretch.

“Please, Grant—that’s enough, please. Need you,” you whimpered, self-conscious at the sound of his wet fingers slipping in and out of you. He liked playing with your body, screwing his fingers deep inside of you, only to yank them out because it made you yelp.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he brought the rest of your body onto the bed, bringing immediate relief to your legs. “One more.”

It made your tight hole beckon for more with a pucker.

With such control, forcefulness, and precision, your mouth fell open in a silent moan and your eyes went wide at the push of Grant’s third finger. You could barely keep your hips still, even with Grant’s efforts to hold you down with a palm on your lower back. It was all too much, your whole world seemed to have narrowed down to your sensitive hole; the sound of his hard fingers pumping in and out of you; the slick sounds obscene and alerting in your ear; the sweet stretch that made the discomfort all the worthwhile—because Grant was just as anguished as you were. You could hear him stroking his slicked cock, the anticipation of the inevitable building as you felt yourself loosened on account of his efforts.

You knew you were well-primed because your body still craved more.

“No more… need you,” you bit out, breathing unsteadily when Grant pulled his fingers out and flipped you onto your back. Your eyes naturally fell to Grant’s cock, and it looked as mouthwatering as it did a few moments ago. Your hole clenched at the likely chance that you’d be feeling the ramifications of taking such a well-endowed man well into the next day, and the day after that. “Please,” you begged once more, reaching low to prevail him with lazy to his erection.

“Other than getting over that nasty cold, I’ve never seen you so desperate for something,” Grant was kneeling on the bed, adjusting your position so your legs were wrapped around his hips, his cock teasing your entrance with careful ruts. You felt the head press ever so gently when he leaned forward and captured your lips for a soft kiss. “I find it really, really, really charming.”

“Mm…” Your fingers, tentative and slow, cupped the edge of Grant’s jaw. This was just the beginning, you realized. A new chapter for you and Grant where the idea of dropping hints of attraction was no longer needed because everything came unraveling, faster than you had anticipated, but nonetheless, it was exciting.

Grant put a free hand on the back of your neck, threading his fingers through your hair, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, securing his place on top of you. When Grant broke the kiss to look into your eyes, it made all the difference between lust and love as he slowly pressed his cock into your hole, unlatching some kind of internal safety mechanism within you until it had clasped over the plump head after getting cold feet.

“Slowly,” you groaned, sweating bullets beneath the shower of his kisses. You built up a strong resistance to Grant’s hips, reluctant, and to put it quite plainly, frightened to take him in stride. But it was Grant’s silent promise to take care of you that took the edge off your apprehension bit-by-bit.

Grant followed a pattern. He pushed deeper, paused, then found a place on your body to distract you from the discomforting stretch, reeled back a bit, then thrusted deeper than before, gradually opening you up. Adding on the pleasing strokes to your hard cock, you felt your muscles relax, the sweat bullets cooling your body.

“More…” you mumbled on his lips, and at times you regretted asking for it, because Grant made your stomach turn. His cock was so deep inside of you, too deep when the stretch nearly became unbearable, yet your cock pulsed and your hole clenched for the exact opposite.

You noticed he liked talking you through it especially, whispering bone-chilling compliments like, “You’re taking my cock so well,” “Look at you, you’re so beautiful…” and your favorite, “You’re driving me crazy. Do you have any idea how hard I’m restraining myself?”

Grant was listening to your body. He knew what it meant when you were clenching so tight around him, panting for him with that wide-eyed look of yours, supplying his broad back with unrelenting scratches. It meant that you weren’t full enough—it meant that you covertly indulged in the stretch he was providing you with.

It was the best and worst feeling in the world, because you knew with suddenly clarity that you wouldn’t be able to live without this. You would crave this feeling always, especially when Grant fully breached your hole with a thrust that filled you to the brim.

You were full. So fucking full.

“Oh, God—“ The cock in you was thick and throbbing, easily brushing your prostate without so much of a motion. You nearly passed out from how intense the sensation was, having your inner walls be massaged from within as Grant finally started moving.

“You took all of my cock, fuck—I knew you could. I know you so well,” Grant grunted against your mouth, pistoning in and out of you with hard thrusts. Your arms had dropped to Grant’s sides, fingers digging into Grant’s toned buttocks, trying to pull him deeper inside of you.

Instead, he reeled himself back.

Your legs dangled in the air as Grant pushed your knees to your chest, leveraging the back of your thighs hard to properly pile-drive his cock into your hole. Your feet sweltered in the confines of your socks, but you didn’t mind because you were getting accustomed to the humidity in the air.

Grant didn’t hesitate anymore. There was wild fury in his face, the imposing strength and passion managing to be its only rival as they equally sought for one purpose and one purpose only, which was to fuck you into oblivion. Grant looked dangerous, delirious, and you feared him as much as you wanted him. In your folded position, you spread your buttocks apart for Grant to see how well he was fucking you. How deep he was stroking your insides with his thick cock, making you gape when he completely pulled out, then making your body shiver—when he screwed himself in with one hard thrust, overfilling your guts.

“You put a smell on me, didn’t you?” His voice sounded spiteful, but what he does to you was pure love. He growled into one of your calves between pants, smooching and grazing his teeth at the toned muscle.

The bed creaked with every thrust of his, loud and heavy enough that you wouldn’t be surprised that the corridors of his mansion were echoing from it.

“F-fuck—if only. You would’ve d-done this sooner,” Tiny tremors and tingles exploded as Grant pummeled deep into your body and brushed over your prostate. You were stroking yourself to the sound of his ravenous moans, to the sound of his heavy balls slapping over your taint, to the sound of his sweaty thighs coming into contact with yours, warning you of a sensation of pin-needles sticking into the area by virtue of the thunderous claps.

Grant couldn’t have looked more beautiful than this. The gel in his hair loosened, letting delicate strands of brown locks to fall over his forehead. Every so often, he would push his fringe back with a careless swoop, and you whimpered at how effortlessly handsome he was at everything.

It lit you up inside, your body bursting with raw energy with the brutal impaling that Grant was feeding you. Your cock throbbed in your fist, and your hole squeezed at the unveiling of untamed passion. Grant must have seen the desire written on your face, because he was triumphant in the smile he had given you, leaning down to wake you from your state of stupor by means of a sloppy kiss.

“G-Grant, I-I’m so, I can’t—“ Grant took over your mind and body. He was everywhere, inside and around you. It was like you existed only for him, and his massive cock. His tongue pushed your lips apart and began cradling the flesh that had held your garbled moans from being remotely coherent.

“I can’t hear you,” Then, he fucked you like he wanted to gut you. Grant reached deep, hammering into your prostate every time his hips collided against yours. “Tell me, what do you want? I’ll give it to you. You know I will.”

Your eyes rolled until Grant could only see the whites of them. Your toes curled into your cotton of your socks at the contrasting affection in his voice. Your hands sprawled and crumpled a spot in the bed sheets, pulling and tugging hard enough for one corner of the satin bedding to untuck.

“Come. I need to come—“ you gasped out, struggling to breathe. Your world had shrunk to one sensation, the spot inside of you that had been gifted the ruthless beating of Grant’s cock. It was like he was chastising you for causing such feelings to stir inside of him. If that was the case, you needed to memorize the recipe, and quickly, because you were desperate to reduce the chances of ever being stripped of this sensation to a selfish zero.

“I’ll help you come,” he seized your body once again, hooked your legs over his shoulders, and pushed his total body weight on top of you. He blatantly disregarded the fact that your limbs had never been stretched this far before, but it was all worthwhile when Grant satisfied your longing by wrapping his warm hand over your cock and pumped. “I’ll make you come.”

“S-shit, Grant!” Each thrust harder than the last, his cockhead repeatedly hitting that golden spot, and your cock ached with desire in the lovely pulling of Grant’s hand. Your entire body seized, writhing as the familiar feeling in your stomach kept building and building without the intention to ever stop. It embarrassingly only took a few more strokes before you would spill thick all over his fist. All over your body, cumshots joining your sweat in layering your moist skin, when Grant kept stroking with the intent to empty your balls until they had tightened into your body.

Only then did Grant slow his thrusts and pull himself out. Did he change his mind about coming inside of you. Over your body? Face? You couldn’t tell what he was planning as you just began recovering from the daze your orgasm had put you into.

“You’re going to like this,” Grant grunted, pecking you on the lips before reaching down to angle himself back at your entrance.

Your gaze was casted with a mixture of utter bliss and wonder, chuckling. “What are you—fuck…“

Your hole felt warm and wet all over again when Grant pushed himself back inside of you with ease. Furthermore, it was a peculiar feeling, like there was an extra weight to his cock, the sound of the sticky substance—

You gasped, suddenly alert and clenching as you felt something viscous leak out of you.

Grant was fucking you with your own cum.

You couldn’t have been more turned on. Grant rolled his hips just right, slow and firm, coating your raw hole over and over with your seed, building back his stamina in the process. His cock pulsated in you. It was apparent that it was feeding into Grant’s satisfaction considering his gaze had been fixated on the translucent sheen of your cum passing back and forth on the girth of his cock and your internal walls.

“So beautiful…” Grant moaned out, clearly overwhelmed with the state of his arousal.

With every thrust, you swallowed him whole, the long glide of his thick, cum-covered shaft, the kiss to your prostate; you gyrated your hips to prolong his orgasm and allow him to recover his strength as Grant freed his hands from your body and tucked them behind his head, giving you free rein on his cock.

You rolled your hips, using your core to swing your ass forward and back on his throbbing cock, drawing out deep and guttural moans from the connection.

“Darling, (M/N), fuck—“ Hissing, he suddenly seized your waist and gripped hard, impaling you onto his cock with a rough pull, and you watched his stomach tighten, wrapping your legs back around his waist in preparation of his orgasm.

You watched in awe as you lost yourself in Grant’s fill. He came hard, gritting his teeth and digging his fingers into your thighs. It was a marvelous ache, both at your flesh and your hole, and you could feel his cock pumping multiple heavy loads deep inside of you and flooding your guts as reparation for your pain.

Even though Grant’s legs gave out, making him topple over your sweaty body, the strain in his thighs didn’t falter the desperate need to sow your insides with his warm seed. It was as if he was marking his territory, moving his hips slow and relaxed because he knew you were bound to him the moment he kissed you. Milking his cock inside of you was just a simple reminder, and you hugged his hard, spilling cock with gratitude.

His lips were slow and gentle, a contradictory to the merciless invasion of your guts. Nonetheless, you rocked on his shaft, blissfully spreading his love from deep within, and savored his shuddering breath.

“You’re heavy,” you groaned out, rubbing your hands from his shoulders to his sweaty back. Despite your complaint, you didn’t make much of an effort—if any at all—to push him away. It was peaceful like this, feeling his heart beat come to a somewhat normal pace while you two were stickily intertwined at the hip. “Some kind of confession…”

The sound of Grant’s muffled laughter into your neck made you smile. It was light and feathery, like the way you had always felt when you were with him.

“First kiss and sex, all on the same night. Who’s doing it like us?”

“No one. Absolutely no one.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

#grant gustin x reader #grant gustin x male reader #grant gustin x you #grant gustin smut #grant gustin x m!reader #grant gustin fic #x male reader #male reader #male reader insert #nou.fics #x reader #reader insert

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smokesandsonatas · 3 months ago

Text

Just wanted to pour some grief on the NRC boys.

Characters: Everyone in Night Raven College.

Warnings: Mentions of death. Slow death. Reader/Yuu is aware that they are dying. Headcanon after-effects of overblot. Gender-Neutral reader.

Not beta read.

Mors immatura

Your death rang hollow in the halls of Night Raven College.

You had vomited blood.

Crimson streaks splattered your trembling hands, and for a brief moment, you stared at them in horror. Your breath hitched, panic rising within you, but soon, a strange, eerie calm settled over your body. You wiped the blood away hurriedly, rinsing your mouth as the metallic tang clung to your tongue. Deep down, you could feel it, your magicless body is finally paying its toll. It was in your bones, your heartbeat slowing, your fragile body unable to cope.

Your time was running out.

With dizziness clouding your vision, you left the bathroom, finding Grim eagerly waiting for you.

He didn’t know.

No one did.

….

Your sight had begun to blur, but you blamed it on the lack of sleep. The strain from fighting alongside the others, surviving every overblot, without the aid of magic, had taken its toll. The faces around you gradually began to warp into something sinister—shadows and streaks of color, barely recognizable. Faces twisted, shapes indistinguishable, until all you could see were faint glimmers of light.

You had survived seven overblots without magic. You had made it this far.

You would survive this.

Or so you told yourself.

…

You often thought about it—about what would happen if you died here in Twisted Wonderland or somehow returned home. In every scenario, Grim lost. In every outcome, he was alone. That thought crushed you more than anything else, a weight heavier than anything you’d ever borne.

You closed your eyes, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. The sharp taste of metal lingered on your tongue. You looked down to see blood, a tiny crimson droplet on the paper in front of you.

Followed by another drop of red, then another. Until your blood had mixed with the ink of your pen in your trembling hands.

You crumpled the paper and threw it away.

…

It was undeniable now. You were dying. Your body—magicless, human, frail—had withstood more than it was ever meant to. The overblots, the chaos, the endless strain had pushed you past your limits, and now your body was breaking. You grabbed your lip balm, pressing it against your dry, cracked lips, but the balm melted, unable to heal the itching, peeling wounds.

Death looms near over you.

…

You had collapsed.

When you woke up, the cold floor of the bathroom pressed against your skin. Ghosts had knocked on your door, asking if you were alright. You shouted that you were fine—you feel your throat tear as you do so, but when you glanced at yourself in the mirror, you saw the truth. Bruises covered your body, dark and angry—blood had burst beneath your skin. Your lips were cracked and bleeding. Your eyes… lifeless.

Then blood dripped slowly from your nose and mouth.

You are dying.

How would they react when they found out? The people you had fought beside, helped, befriended, all without the magic they took for granted. Would they even care? Hastily you returned to your bath, the water in the tub turning a disgusting mixture of brown and red.

…

In the hallway, you found a strange sense of peace. Despite everything, you had played a part here. You had healed wounds that went deeper than magic, helped those around you without any powers of your own. You watched Grim, running ahead, his laughter mixing with Ace and Deuce’s banter.

You looked around at everyone: Malleus walking with Lilia, deep in conversation, Vil and Rook sharing a private laugh. Leona and Ruggie exchanging teasing remarks. Idia—talking to Azul regarding club matters, with Ortho by his side. Kalim swinging happily beside Jamil. Trey and Cater following not far behind, lost in their own conversation. The Leech twins laughing loudly, their voices filling the hall. Riddle, Epel, and Silver having a quiet chat. Sebek and Jack comparing their strength, as they always did.

Your heart swelled. Grim would be okay. They would all be okay. They didn’t need you anymore.

"Grim," you called out, your voice steady but soft. A few heads turned in your direction, confused, including Grim’s. He blinked at you, tilting his head.

"I'm glad I came here," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

And then, you fell.

Your body crumpled to the ground, your head colliding with the hard stone floor with a sickening crack.

…

Crack.

The sound of bone on stone reverberating through the hallway. The air went still, thick with an eerie silence. All eyes were on you, lying motionless on the cold floor, blood beginning to trickle from your nose and mouth. A slow, dark crimson trail painted the stone beneath you.

For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then the first scream pierced the silence.

“Henchman!”

Grim’s voice cracked as he bolted toward you. His claws dug into the floor, dragging him closer, faster, panic ripping through him like a tidal wave—fur standing on end. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the blood pouring from your lips, staining the stone red, your eyes rolled at the back of your head, and the way your chest no longer moved with breath. "No, no, no, no!" His voice was a desperate plea.

Grim wasn’t the only one who lost control.

Ace was next, pushing Grim aside, his hands frantically grabbing your shoulders. "Get up! Get up!" His voice shook, but it wasn’t a tease this time—it was desperation, pure and sharp. Blood smeared his hands as he shook you, but your body didn’t react. “You’re fine, you’re always fine! Don’t—don’t do this!” Magic had started accumulating behind him, like a slice of a sharp card against frail skin.

Deuce collapsed beside him, his face ghostly pale, his hands trembling as he reached for your face, wiping away the blood from your lips with shaky fingers—all it did was smear your face in red. “No… please… wake up…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracking with a grief he hadn’t known how to feel until now. Tears slipped down his cheeks, splashing onto your clothes, mixing with the blood.

Riddle stumbled forward, his composure unraveling as he tried to get past his two subordinates now in hysterics. He pressed two fingers to your neck, searching for a pulse, but there was only stillness. “No…” His voice broke, and a tremor of uncontrollable magic sparked from his body, making the air ripple. “No, no, no. You can’t be—Wake up!” His voice rose into a cry, desperate and accusing, but the accusations were aimed at himself.

Leona stepped forward, his face twisted in rage and disbelief. "Out of the way," he growled, shoving the others aside as if they were nothing. His claws dug into your arm, hard enough to leave bruises. "You don’t get to leave. You hear me?" His voice was low, dangerous. He leaned in close—you reeked rotten, his breath hot on your skin. “Wake up.” His voice was a command this time, snarling through clenched teeth.

But you didn’t stir.

“Wake up!”

Nothing.

Leona’s eyes darkened with something primal, something dangerous, his grip tightening, magic sparking at his fingertips. “You’re not leaving.” His voice was a snarl, deep and guttural. “I won’t let you leave me.”

Behind him, Malleus’s eyes burned with an unearthly glow. He took slow, deliberate steps toward your body, his presence making the room seem smaller, suffocating. His gaze was fixed on you, and beneath his calm exterior, something twisted and dark brewed. “No,” he murmured, his voice like a storm cloud forming on the horizon. “This can’t be the end.” His magic flared, crackling in the air like lightning about to strike. “You will wake.”

Lilia, always watchful, grabbed Malleus by the shoulder, trying to pull him back. “Malleus, no—your magic is too unstable right now.” Even he, the one who had seen so much loss, struggled to contain the well of emotion building inside him.

But Malleus’s eyes glowed, filled with a dangerous desperation. “I will bring them back,” he whispered. His voice was sharp, cold. “I must bring them back. I cannot lose them.”

Sebek froze, eyes wide with disbelief, his entire world crumbling as he stared at your lifeless body. "Prefect!" he roared, voice trembling with desperation as he rushed forward, but his hands hovered, shaking, too afraid to touch you. For the first time, the brashness that defined him cracked, and his voice softened to a broken whisper. "This can’t be real..." Tears welled in his green eyes, his heart shattering under the weight of failure.

Beside him, Silver fell to his knees in silence, his calm exterior replaced by a hollow expression. He gently took your cold hand, his own tears slipping quietly down his face as he whispered, "You were supposed to stay with us..." Both boys were drowning in the same crushing grief—Sebek’s magic flaring wildly beneath his skin, fueled by helpless rage, while Silver’s quiet sorrow seemed to darken the very air around him.

Azul, watching from the side, taking slow steps towards your cold body, felt all three of his heart drop into his stomach. His thoughts whirled, a hundred ideas—contracts, spells, anything to fix this—each more desperate than the last. His eyes had split into two horizontal slits. “This can’t be real,” he muttered, his voice trembling. His mind raced through his memories of every deal he’d ever made, but nothing could reverse death—No! You’re not—!

Floyd’s laughter echoed suddenly, sharp and jagged. “Hehehe… little shrimpy’s just playing dead, right?” He leaned down, his long fingers grabbing your shoulders. His grip was bruising, almost cruel, as he shook you like a ragdoll—no response, instead blood had gushed out of your ears. “Get up. We’re not done having fun yet, right? Right, Shrimpy?” His grin was wide, but his voice cracked. “Come on, don’t mess with me like this.”

Jade was silent, his hand resting lightly on Floyd’s shoulder, his gaze fixed on you. He said nothing, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed the turmoil brewing inside him. His hand gripped his brother’s shoulders tight, as if he was also grounding himself against the shock coursing through his body. His eyes were fixed on you, cold calculation flickering beneath the surface.

Grim’s breathing grew heavier. His little chest heaved, his eyes locked on your body, the blood pooling beneath your mouth. He backed away slowly, his fur standing on end, his pupils shrinking into pinpricks.

It’s his fault.

The thought slammed into him, unbidden and cruel. If he’d been stronger—if he hadn’t needed you to fight for him—you wouldn’t be lying there now, still and cold. The rage bubbled up inside him, thick and dark, something feral.

“NO!” Grim screamed, his voice warping as thick, black flames exploded from his body. The ground trembled beneath him, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone. Black sludge began to rise, oozing from the cracks, his magic spiraling out of control as he overblotted. His eyes turned black, his tears mixing with the darkness pouring out of him. “YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME! I WON’T LET YOU!”

The flames grew, licking at the walls, dark magic pulsing from Grim in violent waves. The very air around him warped, as if the weight of his magic was threatening to crush the room itself.

The others barely noticed.

Malleus’s magic roared to life, his desperation turning to fury as he stood over your body, green lightning flickering at his fingertips. “This world… this place... It doesn’t deserve you if it takes you from me!” The darkness in his voice reverberated through the hallway, his magic on the verge of snapping.

Leona’s claws dug into the stone floor, his muscles taut, rage barely contained. “You will not depart,” he growled, his fangs bared. Jack had froze beside a wide-eyed Ruggie, who now trembles, their voices leaving the both of them. The beasts had gone cold, dissociating from reality.

Riddle stood frozen, shaking violently as his magic flared uncontrollably. His eyes flicked between you and the others, panic and helplessness overtaking him. “This can’t be!”

Even Idia, standing further back, his face pale, muttered to himself, his mind spinning into madness. “I—I should’ve done something. I should’ve—I can’t… fix this…” His words tumbled out in a frenzied whisper, as if his mind was collapsing under the weight of his thoughts. The familiar flicker of a tablet or the comforting click of his keyboard were nowhere to ground him now. His shaking hands reached for nothing, helplessly twitching as if trying to summon some unseen solution from thin air.

His usually distant gaze, now haunted, locked onto your lifeless body, his breaths coming in shallow, irregular gasps. "I-I... I should've been faster, smarter... anything... ANYTHING." His voice trembles, and he stumbled back, hitting the wall behind him like a marionette with its strings cut. His fingers dug into his hair, pulling at it as though the physical pain could stop the onslaught of guilt ravaging his mind.

Ortho rushed forward, his sensors going haywire as he scanned your body. “No… no… no signs of life detected.” His voice, usually so calm, so confident, trembled with panic, his little hands trying to support his dissociating brother. “This… this can’t be…” His mechanical heart raced as he looked up at his brother, but Idia was unresponsive, lost in his own spiral of grief.

Around them, the world seemed to warp and twist, the sheer weight of their grief and magic bending reality itself. The stones beneath their feet cracked, the walls groaned under the pressure of the overwhelming despair. The storm of emotions threatened to tear the very fabric of Night Raven College apart.

And at the center of it all, you lay still, blood seeping from your mouth and nose in slow, dark rivulets.

You were gone.

And with you, the fragile threads that held their world together had snapped.

The world had become a swirl of madness, magic crackling in the air like a live wire ready to snap. But as your blood spilled, that dark crimson seeping into the cracks of the stone floor, more footsteps echoed down the hall. A shift in the wind. Others arrived, drawn by the sound, the fury, the unmistakable metallic scent of blood that clung to the air like death itself.

Vil’s sharp gaze fell upon the scene first. His flawless expression cracked, just for a second, before his entire being seemed to tense, the air around him growing taut. “No… no.” His voice was a whisper, cold disbelief woven into every word. He dropped to his knees beside you, his fingers brushing your skin. Cold. Too cold. His lips twisted into a snarl. “This is unacceptable!” he screamed, the desperation in his voice mingling with fury. His perfectly controlled magic flickered, unsteady.

Rook followed closely behind, his usually composed smile twisted into something unsettling. “Trickster…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He knelt beside Vil, his eyes scanning your still form, the blood that stained your lips, the emptiness in your gaze. “Non, this is not how our story ends, I will not let it!” His hands clenched into fists as his magic pulsed in frantic rhythm, the usual elegance of his movements gone.

Epel was shaking, his fists white-knuckled at his sides. “No, no, no…” he whispered, his voice small, filled with disbelief. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, staring at the blood—your blood—that pooled around your head—shit, why are you bleeding everywhere?! He clenched his teeth, tears slipping down his face as he screamed, voice cracking, “WAKE UP! This can’t be happening! You promised we’d go back to Harveston together!” His eyes burned with the beginning of an overblot, the tension in his frame snapping as his magic rippled uncontrollably.

Jamil and Kalim arrived moments later. Kalim’s face was pale, the usually joyful light in his eyes dimming as he saw you lying there. His lips trembled, the words stuck in his throat. “No… no… You can’t leave like this!” His voice was barely audible, his shaking hands hovering above your still form as though afraid touching you would make it worse. Tears streamed down his face, his entire body trembling.

Jamil was deathly silent, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes told the story. He was calculating, desperate, thoughts spinning rapidly for a way to fix this, anything to undo this nightmare. His usually steady breath hitched, his magic swirling like a hurricane beneath the surface. “This… this shouldn’t have happened,” he mumbled, his voice low, filled with suppressed panic.

Trey was next. He saw the blood first, the way it dripped from your mouth, your nose. His hand covered his mouth, but his eyes betrayed his calm demeanor—shattered. “This isn’t right. They can’t… they can’t just be gone.” His voice faltered, the certainty crumbling away as he kneeled next to Riddle, who was still shaking violently, unable to tear his eyes from your body. Trey’s usual calm was gone; his hands trembled as he looked for any sign of life, but the stillness of your chest was all he could see.

Cater followed, his usual easy-going demeanor obliterated. “No way… no way…” His voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes darting from your body to the others. The red, the stillness, the sheer finality of it all twisted something in his chest. He dropped his phone—in his haste to be close to you. “Come on, don’t leave us like this…”

All around you, magic rippled violently—like a dam ready to burst. The boys couldn’t accept it. They wouldn’t accept it.

The stench of your blood was heavy in the air, metallic and cold, thick like death itself. They all felt it, tasted it. The scent stuck in their noses, their throats, clawing at their lungs as denial and rage took over.

The smell, the sight of your blood—your blood—on their hands, on the ground, on your lips, drove them all to the edge.

They couldn’t lose you.

Malleus’s magic lashed out first, the walls groaning under the weight of his unchecked power. “NO!” His voice shook the very foundation of the school. Green lightning cracked across the floor, a storm of dark energy coiling around him, suffocating. “I refuse to accept this! I refuse to let them go!”

Vil, clutching you, cried out as his own magic spiraled. “This cannot be how it ends!” His hands trembled, unable to reconcile the beauty of life and the hideousness of death sprawled before him. “You will open your eyes again!”

Leona’s magic exploded in fury, his claws digging into the stone, cracking it beneath his weight. “God damn it!” he snarled, his voice guttural, raw with unspoken grief. “Wake up herbivore!”

Grim’s overblot had fully consumed him, black flames scorching the floor as he screamed into the void. Snarling at anyone who dared touch your cold body. “YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME! I WON’T LET YOU!”

And just as it seemed the entire school would collapse under the weight of their magic, the teachers arrived.

Crowley stood at the front, his usually calm, distant demeanor shattered. “Enough!” he yelled, though his voice wavered—with fear perhaps, at the thought of a student losing their life under his supervision. A strong magic bursts forth his cane as he tried to snap back his students to reality. Professor Crewel followed, his face a mask of fury and disbelief as he forced his way through the students, his whip snapping as it cut through the swirling darkness. “Control yourselves!”

Professor Trein moved in beside him, his face pale but determined. “We must act quickly,” he muttered, his voice low and strained.

Even Vargas, normally brimming with energy and confidence, stood there, his usual bravado swallowed by an unbearable solemnity. His massive arms hung limply at his sides as he tried to process the sight before him—You, the human who had survived every challenge, now lay motionless.

Without a word, he strode forward, bending down to gently lift your lifeless body into his arms—Ignoring the snarls, and the hysterics thrown at his way. His usual strength seemed to falter as he cradled you, his broad chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. His gripped on you tightened, you had gone cold.

The chaos reached its peak, every student fighting to grab hold of your body, to deny the truth staring them in the face. But no amount of magic, no outpouring of rage, could undo what had been done. No force could bring you back from the edge you had already crossed.

Years will pass, and the world would move on without you, but the heart of Night Raven College would never fully recover.

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