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seventeenpins · 3 months ago

Note

⁵⁾ pressing the pads of their fingers into their lips in the aftermath, like they’re either trying to capture the feeling or banish it from memory

with x1!Logan pretty plssssss 😏

YES Ozzie omg thank you I love this ❤️

Forbidden Fruit

pairing: dbf!Logan x neighbor!reader word count: 3.4k summary: You’re a little obsessed with your attractive new neighbor. Unfortunately, he’s quite a bit older than you... And your dad's new best friend. content/warnings: non-mutant AU, unspecified age gap, written as x1 Logan, Scott is your dad (sorry), silence of the lambs spoilers???, yearning, tbh yall are as bad as each other, smut a/n: lmao this was supposed to be a drabble 🤷 ty to @ozarkthedog, the most perfect human 🩷

There’s a party roaring outside. As a general rule, your dad doesn’t like to throw parties often, but when he meets the man who’s moving in next door, he announces to you his plan. “Hosting a new neighbor helps to establish a good relationship!” he insists, and that’s that.

You’re sat in the living room, the space dimly lit, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon as the glow of your latest Blockbuster rental illuminates your face.

"You even old enough to drink?" comes a voice just outside the door frame.

You jump, beer sloshing gracelessly down your front. You turn to him, glowering. He’s silhouetted from the hallway and you can’t make out his face. “Yep,” you tell him, “I just have an immaculate skincare routine. Keeps me youthful.”

“So you’re hiding inside… because?”

You shrug. “Just like time to myself.”

He nods, and then strides over. He takes a seat beside you.

“Who are you, exactly?” you frown, looking him up and down.

“You mind?” he asks, smirking as he wiggles the beer you didn’t realize he was holding and nods towards the bottle opener. The audacity.

You glare and grab the bottle opener. He holds his hand out for it, but you withdraw.

“Logan,” he laughs, “Logan Howlett. I just moved in next door.”

“Oh,” you drop the bottle opener into his hand, remembering your dad’s words. Establish a good relationship. “Oh, yeah, my dad was really excited about the party. Hope you’re enjoying it.”

His eyebrows raise. “Your dad?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “Scott Summers.”

“No shit,” he frowns, “That guy sends a lot of emails.”

“That he does.”

Logan pops his bottle open. “Mind some company?”

“Long as you don’t mind watching Silence of the Lambs starting part way through.”

“Ohhhhh yeah, has he asked for a quid pro quo yet?”

“Aahh, a connoisseur,” you grin, “Yeah, just got past that part. I can rewind–”

“Nah,” he shrugs, “Let it play.”

You watch for a while in silence, but then start chatting again, swapping mundane questions.

“So, Scott’s your dad, huh?” he asks, after a while.

“He sure is.”

“When he said he had a daughter, I guess I assumed someone younger.”

“Same skincare routine,” you deadpan.

He closes his eyes, holding back a laugh as he shakes his head. “Sorry, sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” you laugh, “Yeah, he was still pretty young when I was born.”

“And what about…” he trails off, suddenly realizing tact may be appreciated.

“Dad’s a widower,” you explain simply.

Logan nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You sit in silence for a moment, watching as Lecter is revealed to be wearing the guard’s face.

“How about you?” you ask, “You got a wife? Husband? Girlfriend? Partner?--”

He turns to look at you and you peter off. “Nope.”

There’s something in the way he’s looking at you. You’re not sure if he’s being suggestive, or if you’re reading into things. Maybe it’s just the reflecting light making his eyes look more provocative than he intends.

Either way, you feel your heartbeat surge and your stomach flip.

You turn away and try to affect nonchalance, try not to be suddenly mesmerized by this unexpected plot twist that is Logan. The movie is wrapping up, Clarice taking Lecter’s call as he pursues Chilton. You try to focus on it, the score, the costumes– but instead you notice the way he smells, musky and a little sweaty. It’s nice. A little dizzying.

“What about you?” you ask.

“Hmm?”

"You have any kids?" you ask, and immediately wonder if you waited too long to carry on the conversation.

"Shit," he snorts and shakes his head, "I hope not."

It takes you off guard. You burst out laughing.

He huffs, lifting the beer to his lips to hide a smile.

The credits begin to roll over the ending scene.

With the bottle drained, he pats his thighs and stands up. "Alright, kid," he says, "I probably shouldn’t hide in here any longer.”

“My dad appreciates it,” you tell him, “Don’t wanna give him a heart attack when his guest of honor is nowhere to be found, soon to be discovered with his delinquent daughter.”

He picks up his empty and shakes his head, heading back outside. He calls back, “Oh, you’re trouble.”

Now that you’ve met him, you can’t get him out of your mind.

When you see him again, a couple days later in daylight this time, you have to pick your jaw up off the ground. He’s taller than you realize, and he’s fucking built. And fuck, he’s handsome too. When he sees you, he waves a hand. “Hey Trouble,” he calls, “Keepin’ your nose clean?”

Weeks pass, and, much to your delight (and, admittedly, despair), your dad and Logan become close.

Sundays become your favorite day. Sunday, you discover, is the day you can see Logan through your window, chopping a seemingly endless stack of firewood.

One time, he catches you watching. To your utter shock, he winks at you. Knowing your eyes are on him, he lifts the hem of his beater to wipe his brow, and shoots you a shit-eating grin.

You had plans but that doesn’t matter now. All you can do is shove your hand into your panties and rub circles around your throbbing little clit until you cum with a muffled sigh, knowing he’s outside. Knowing there’s not more than a fence and a few feet between you.

Almost every night, his fire pit is alight and you see him reading, or strumming his guitar, or fucking whittling, serene in the smouldering glow, till the fire burns out and the night turns too cool to enjoy.

As the weeks pass, he’s at your house more and more. You wish your heart would stop doing flips whenever you see him on the sofa next to your dad, beer in hand, laughing at some story that’s being recounted.

He says hello to you each time he sees you, and always asks after you when you’re out.

“Oh, Logan says hi,” your dad will say over his morning toast, “Why does he call you Trouble? Tell me you haven’t been besmirching the Summers name?”

“Nah,” you grin, “Just the littlest besmirchment, at worst.”

His eyes narrow.

“C’mon, now, we want to-”

“Establish a good relationship!” you finish, grinning at the way he scowls.

“Smartass.”

“Hey, Trouble,” he’ll greet you, whenever you find him at your home.

“Hey neighbor.”

“You bein’ good?” he’ll ask.

“‘Course not,” you’ll wink, “Where’s the fun in that?”

You love that he calls you Trouble. That he has a name, just for you. It feels like it could almost be something, and so it’s almost enough.

Before long, what you’d once feared was a one-sided attraction begins to morph into something different.

It’s a Saturday, and you decide to wear a cute little dress. It’s a flowy thing that hugs all your curves in the very best way, hem barely falling past the curve of your ass.

Your dad just popped out for another six-pack, and you’re in the kitchen, making pasta salad. With your father gone, Logan isn’t subtle in the way he looks at you. You delight in how his eyes linger at the curve of your hip, the swell of your chest. It feels like a victory, the way he grits his jaw a little when you lean forward, cleavage on full display.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ wearing a naughty little dress like that?” Logan asks, scowling.

You raise an eyebrow and try not to let the way your heart starts to flutter affect you. “Thought you’d figured it out on day one – I’m trouble.”

He looks you up and down, his gaze lascivious. It’s the boldness of it. The two of you are alone, and you both know it.

“I think you like it,” you narrow your eyes.

He’s silent for a long moment. Then he lets out a deep breath.

“God help me, I do.”

“Why don’t you do something about it?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but then you both hear the latch, and the front door swings open.

Logan sits back, pretending as though nothing just happened.

You turn back to your salad.

You can see Logan in the sitting room, right in your line of sight. Your dad sits across from him, his back towards you.

If you’re honest, you’re not sure exactly what compels you.

You turn to face Logan, wave for him to catch your eye. He does, quickly, immediately attuned to you. Your dad doesn’t notice the way his eyes follow you. You hold a finger to your lips. His eyes dart between you and your dad, and he tries to focus on whatever his friend is saying to him.

Slowly, you slip one strap down, and then the other. You can hear Logan’s breath hitch, which he covers almost believably with a gulp of his beer. Shimmying the bodice just a little, you expose your cleavage to near-dangerous depths. He’s grinding his teeth now, and it feels like victory.

Quickly, silently, you slip your top all the way down, exposing your breasts to the cool kitchen air. Your nipples, already hard, tighten. Logan is holding his can so tightly he’s crushing it in his fist.

“You okay, buddy?” you hear your dad say, and you can practically hear the frown in his voice. In a couple of quick movements, you slip your top back up and turn back to your salad.

“Huh?” Logan asks quickly, and then looks at his beer. “Oh, shit–!” he grumbles, relaxing his grip gingerly.

It’s not till an hour later that your dad stands up and announces, “I’ll be right back, gonna hit the head.”

When he’s gone, Logan bolts up and marches over to you.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” he demands.

You shrug and, not so subtly, glance down at his crotch. You smirk at the way the front is tenting. Logan stares daggers as he adjusts himself, better hiding his hard-on.

“Some of you seems to like it,” you point out.

“Out here? With him here? You want your daddy to kill me?”

“No,” you promise, “No, I just want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ you’re trouble–”

You both hear a toilet flush, and, moments later, footsteps descend on the stairs.

Logan adjusts himself again, and you blow him a kiss as he tromps back to his seat.

It’s a week before you see Logan again. He’s working late this week, apparently. Or maybe he’s just keeping his distance from you.

On Friday night, you debate going out. It’s been a while, and you could use a chance to unwind. But drinks are expensive, and– and you see a fire out your window. Logan sits out by his fire pit.

Without thinking, you put on your shoes.

It’s late, but not too late. Your dad’s on his recliner, game on TV, newspaper in hand.

“You headin’ out, kiddo?” he asks.

“Yep,” you lie, “Meeting a couple friends downtown. They’re picking me up!”

“Stay safe,” he calls after you, “Call me if you need a ride.”

“I will,” you tell him. “Don’t know if I’ll be home tonight. Don’t wait up for me!”

You head out of the house and through your neighbor’s gate.

Logan is golden, illuminated in the glow of the flames. He’s whittling something, angrily.

You realize then that your entrance has been near-silent on the soft grass. “Uh,” you clear you throat and knock on his fence as you approach him. “Hey, there, neighbor!”

Logan looks up and frowns when he sees you.

“You are makin’ me crazy, Trouble.” he huffs.

“Like, in a good way?” you ask.

He glares at you.

You come closer. “Can I sit?”

Logan budges up, putting down his whittling tools.

“So…” you venture “Am I more trouble than I’m worth?”

Logan scoffs.

“Nah.” he concedes, “I just don’t wanna make things complicated.”

You shrug. “They’re already complicated. You’ve seen my tits.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Goddammit, Trouble. I can’t get you out of my head.”

“They’re great tits,” you shrug.

“They are great tits.” Logan agrees.

The fire is crackling and the night is clear, stars hanging above you. You've been sitting side by side, quiet.

You don’t know what to say. Maybe there isn't anything to say. You’ve been patient, dammit. You just need to leap.

You pull him towards you and he moves without resistance.

He growls into your mouth, a needy animal sound. The scruff of his beard feels nice against your chin and you’re dizzy with his proximity, with his lips on yours.

After an eternity in the space of a single moment, you pull apart.

Logan stares at you, overwhelmed. His eyes are dark, his kiss-glistened lips catching the light as the fire dances.

He presses the pads of his fingertips against his lips in the aftermath, as though either trying to capture the feeling, or banish it from memory.

Then, after a long moment, he’s on you. His hands grip you, grasp you, trace the shape of your body as though memorizing it by touch alone.

“Inside. Now.” he growls, “Out here you’re askin’ for your daddy to catch us.”

You’re barely through the door before Logan is tugging at your clothes. You help him pull your top above your head, and you fumble with the button of your jeans as he unhooks his belt and yanks off his beater.

In a matter of moments, you’re both fully bare. His skin is hot against yours as he holds you to him, caging you against the door as he drags his teeth along your shoulder. His hard cock hangs against your thigh, heavy and thick and leaking.

Your clothes trail from the front door to his sofa. You don’t make it any further than that.

You’re a ticking time bomb, a siren, pulling him in, driving him wild. He wants and wants and wants, more than he ever knew he could. So much could be ruined; his friendship with your dad, the scrap of reputation he’s been building, his new life in this new place—

But now his want has turned into a need, and feeling you soft and pliant and oh so willing against him, he’d be a fool to turn back now.

Logan’s gropes at you, fingernails digging into the swell of your ass before cupping your pussy in one large palm. Rubbing up and down your cunt, he smears your wetness around.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he gasps. “Prettiest pussy I’ve seen.”

Then he dips a finger into you and you groan and clench around it. He fucks you with it, deep, gentle strokes. He wasn’t wrong. As he fucks you with his finger, you feel how unbelievably wet you are. When he pulls back for a moment, you can see his hand is glistening with you, drips going all the way to his wrist.

“I can take more,” you promise, and he growls.

“Can’t say shit like that,” he pants, “You’re sure you can take more. Can you take me? Don’t wanna hurt–”

“I can take you,” you assure him. If you’re honest, you don’t know if you can. What you do know is that you’re sure as fuck gonna try.

“How do you want me?” he asks, fighting to maintain the last shreds of his self-control.

Ever the masochist, “Want you on top of me, my ankles round your shoulders. Need you deep.”

“Gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You lay back as he positions himself between your thighs. He presses a kiss to your left thigh before he hikes it over his right shoulder, and a kiss to your right calf, folding you in half.

He strokes the dripping head of his cock against your folds.

“You ready?” he asks, and you whine in desperation, nodding a yes.

He presses in, notching the tip inside. You groan at the sensation, relaxing into it as he rocks his hips gently.

“Doin’ so good,” he praises, “I know, baby, it’s a lot.”

You writhe and moan. It is a lot, but you still want more. More of his cock, of his hands on your body, of his praise.

“Taking it so well,” he soothes, letting his cock slide that little bit deeper inside, pulling most of the way out and driving back in, pressing whispers in your ear as he fucks into you.

When his pelvis is pressed flush against you, he lets out a sigh.

“Look at that,” he huffs, “Takin’ all of me.”

You look down and watch enraptured as he pulls out and presses back in, deeper than you ever imagined, and rolls his hips, coarse hair grinding against your clit and making you howl.

”Keep making those pretty noises for me, honey.”

”Need more-“ you beg.

He starts rocking his hips, building a solid rhythm. His strokes are deep and devastating, and with every thrust you can feel your wetness start to flood down your thighs and cream around the base of his cock.

The wetter you get, the harder he fucks into you, each plunge punctuated with your cries, of “Yes!”, “More—“, “Please, Logan, please—“

Generous to a fault, he gives you everything you beg for.

The frustration of these longing, pent-up weeks is almost a forgotten memory. As you build towards the peak of your pleasure, the man above you is an animal. He grunts and pants and fucks you deeper than you knew possible. Your whines and cries and demands taper off, replaced by soft moans that start to swell as he litters your collarbone with kisses and rubs a calloused thumb against your clit.

”I’m—“ you warn, struggling to form words, “I’m gonna—“

“‘M close too,” he grunts, “Give it to me, baby, need to feel you— Please, baby—“

With his words and a firm press to your clit, you come with a sob, cunt squeezing around him in pulsing contractions.

He fucks you through it, muttering a steady stream of filth the whole time. “That’s it, that’s it, fuck you’re gushing, soaking this cock. You feel so fucking good, tight little thing stretched so nice around me, taking it all like you’re made for it—”

Before you can even get over the first climax, the second starts to build. Logan can feel the way your pussy twitches for him, the way your breath shudders as he drives into you with staggering thrusts.

”Gonna cum again, aren’t you?” He growls. “Good-“ a thrust, “fucking—“, thrust, “girl—“ thrust, “Just can’t get enough of this cock, can you?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a cry as another orgasm overtakes you.

"That’s it,” the praises, still punctuating every word with a thrust, “That’s it! Let yourself feel it, let yourself feel good—"

You do, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you. It’s overwhelming, the way it tears through you with no end in sight.

When he finally pulls out of you, you start to come back to yourself, your life-changing orgasm starting to wane.

He’s beautiful above you, covered in sweat, your wetness dripping down his thighs as he strokes his creamy cock.

With a groan, he comes on your stomach. You wrap your hand around his, stroking him gently till every drop is spent.

You make room for him on the sofa, uncaring that both of you are covered in sweat and fluids, and pull him down to rest in your arms.

"Fuck—" he exhales, and finally turns to face you again.

You stroke your fingers through your mussed hair.

"I knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to your sternum.

There are so many things you’ll need to talk about, to work through. You are neighbors, after all, and you can’t do something like this without there being an aftermath.

But whatever is next can wait till morning.

Gently, he pulls himself up, and you with him. Holding each other close, you head to his bedroom. Without a word, you lay together, curled up in one another’s embrace.

He’s silent a long moment before speaking. "Is your daddy expecting you home tonight?” He asks. Neither of you want to think about that.

But thankfully, “No,” you tell him. “Told him not to wait up.”

"Oh, optimistic, were we?” He teases, and you look him up and down. His broad shoulders, sculpted chest, dark eyes, rumpled hair. This man you’ve grown so very fond of.

“Yes,” you smile. “Yes, we are.”

Scott finds out, like, a day later and declares Logan his sworn enemy

#logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #wolverine smut #james logan howlett x reader #xmen x reader #logan howlett x f!reader #logan x reader #logan x f!reader #logan x fem!reader #logan howlett smut #dbf!logan #dbf!loganxreader

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sweetstarart · 9 months ago

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Mesmerizer anyone?

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nouearth · 4 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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dreamersworldduh · 3 days ago

Note

Is requests still open? If yes, can you make a Hal Jordan x M!Reader where the reader is also the member of the JL (It decided by you his powers), and Hal is casually admiring him then eventually asked to go on a date with him with a touch of smut on the end.

Sorry if I may ask for too much, please. Just take your time!! And also, love your fics!! ^^

SECRET ADMIRER

• HAL JORDAN x MALE READER

SUMMARY — Hal Jordan never expected to fall this hard. What started as playful admiration of Y/N's extraordinary power and effortless grace on the battlefield quickly turned into something more. From flirtatious banter during Justice League missions to an unforgettable first date, Hal found himself drawn deeper into Y/N's orbit. Their chemistry was undeniable, their connection effortless, and soon, one night together turned into something more—something real.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Violence. Swearing.

WORDS! 9.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry about the delay, but I have fallen for Nathan Scott and I have been writing about him for a bit, daydreaming but don’t worry I’m checking back into reality. Anywho, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

The battlefield was a maelstrom of destruction, a chaotic symphony of clashing energies, monstrous war cries, and the distant rumble of collapsing structures. Hal Jordan stood at the heart of it, his emerald-clad form unwavering as he scanned the battlefield. His sharp green eyes locked onto Y/N, a mixture of admiration and intrigue flickering within them. He had witnessed countless warriors, battled cosmic titans, and stood against the wrath of gods, yet something about Y/N was... different.

Y/N stood amidst the chaos like a beacon of untamed power, an enigma of both human resilience and Anodite supremacy. He was neither fully mortal nor fully ethereal, yet he commanded the raw, boundless energies of the universe as though they were an extension of his own will. His body shimmered with an aura of undiluted mana, a luminous cascade shifting seamlessly between hues of deep violet, iridescent indigo, and brilliant silver. The very air around him pulsed and crackled with an intensity that made the fabric of reality quiver in his presence, as if space itself bent in deference to his power.

As the enemy forces—grotesque, otherworldly invaders from the farthest reaches of space—swarmed forward in a frenzied wave, their monstrous forms blotting out the light, Y/N barely flinched. His fingers twitched, a faint glow igniting at his fingertips before flaring into a blinding, celestial blaze. Without a single wasted motion, he raised a hand, and the energy obeyed like an extension of his soul.

A tidal wave of unfiltered mana erupted from his palm, cascading forward with an elegance that bordered on divine. It surged across the battlefield, a radiant force of destruction and beauty, sweeping through the advancing horde like a cleansing fire. The invaders were obliterated on contact, their forms dissolving into nothingness, leaving only the lingering echoes of their existence in the wind. For a fleeting moment, silence fell over the battlefield, the only illumination coming from the ethereal afterglow of Y/N's unleashed might.

Hal exhaled, leaning against a floating construct of his own creation—a luminous green platform, solid yet weightless under his touch. His arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable as he studied Y/N. Unlike most warriors, who fought with grit, rage, or desperation, Y/N wielded his power with an effortless grace. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if he were composing an intricate symphony rather than engaging in a battle for survival.

It was mesmerizing.

"You make this look easy," Hal finally remarked, his smirk barely concealing the awe in his voice. The glow of his power ring flickered against the radiant light of Y/N's swirling mana, two forces of unimaginable power coexisting in perfect contrast—one forged by will, the other by sheer, unrelenting magic.

Y/N turned slightly, his eyes gleaming like distant stars, depths of wisdom and unspoken power lurking beneath their gaze. The energy coursing around him swirled and coiled like a living entity, responding to his presence, attuned to his every thought. There was something both intimidating and fascinating about the way he carried himself—unshaken, assured, as if he had long since come to terms with the enormity of his existence.

"It helps when you're part Anodite," he quipped, his voice laced with quiet amusement. There was a knowing smirk on his lips, one that spoke of experience beyond years, of a power so deeply ingrained in his being that it was as natural as breathing.

Hal chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

But even as he spoke, his gaze lingered on Y/N, unable to pull away. It wasn't just the power, the elegance, or even the sheer destructive force Y/N wielded with such ease. It was something deeper—an essence, an unknowable brilliance that set him apart from anything Hal had ever encountered.

Y/N wasn't just strong.

He was something else entirely. A force that defied classification, a being that could tilt the scales of any battle with the flick of his wrist. And for the first time in a long, long while, Hal Jordan—Green Lantern of Sector 2814, a man who had faced the unimaginable—found himself in awe.

The battle was far from over, but as the next wave of enemies charged forward, Hal wasn't just thinking about victory anymore.

He was thinking about the sheer, terrifying, and extraordinary force that fought beside him.

Y/N moved like a celestial force given form, his presence exuding a raw, mesmerizing energy that bent reality itself. Each flick of his wrist sent dazzling arcs of mana cascading through the battlefield, tearing through the monstrous invaders with unrelenting precision. Their grotesque forms barely had time to register their destruction before they disintegrated into motes of nothingness, consumed by the sheer potency of his attacks.

Hal had encountered countless warriors, beings of immense power that could shake the cosmos with a thought—but Y/N? He was something else entirely. There was a seamless, almost artistic grace to the way he fought, as if the battlefield was his canvas and magic his brush. His every movement was controlled, deliberate, and yet carried an air of effortless mastery that Hal couldn't tear his eyes away from. And if he was being completely honest with himself, the way those pulses of glowing mana outlined Y/N's well-toned physique certainly didn't go unnoticed.

His admiring gaze was rudely interrupted by the sudden crackle of static in his earpiece, followed by a low, gravelly voice that carried every ounce of irritation one would expect.

"Jordan. Get your eyes off Y/N's ass and focus on taking down the creature."

Hal blinked, momentarily startled before a slow, amused smirk curled across his lips. He barely turned his head, still watching as Y/N dodged a hulking beast's attack with an effortless backflip, mana swirling around him in hypnotic waves. The smirk only grew.

"C'mon, Bats," Hal drawled lazily, leaning further into his construct as if he were watching an entertaining performance rather than an all-out war. "You're monitoring from the Watchtower. Don't tell me you're not at least a little impressed."

"That's not the point," Batman snapped, his tone carrying that signature mix of exasperation and barely restrained irritation. "The creature is still standing. Quit gawking and do your job."

Hal hummed noncommittally, but his attention was already drawn back to Y/N, who was currently dismantling another wave of enemies with almost casual ease. His luminous mana pulsed in rhythmic bursts, glowing embers of violet and silver lingering in the air like celestial dust. It was hypnotic—the way his body twisted and turned, dodging incoming attacks with liquid fluidity before retaliating with breathtaking precision.

With a knowing smirk, Hal finally responded, "Nah, Bats. He's got it under control."

On the other end, there was an audible sharp exhale, followed by what Hal could only assume was Batman pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer frustration.

Unbothered, Hal simply crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly as he continued his very important task of 'monitoring' Y/N. The way he fought—every movement sharp, yet fluid, exuding confidence in every strike—was damn near hypnotic.

"Man," Hal murmured to himself, ignoring the chaos still unfolding around him, "it's like watching a damn fireworks show. A really attractive one."

"I swear to god, Jordan—"

Hal, still grinning, cut the comm line before Batman could finish his impending threat. With the Dark Knight suitably ignored, Hal returned his full attention to the spectacle before him. After all, why interfere when perfection was at work?

The battlefield lay in eerie silence, the aftermath of battle lingering like the final notes of a war song. The once-roaring chaos had settled into an almost reverent stillness, the only remnants of the monstrous foe now nothing more than drifting embers of dissolved energy. The air remained thick with the scent of scorched earth, metallic ozone, and the residual charge of magic that had been unleashed moments prior. Wisps of violet and silver mana still crackled in the air like spectral fireflies, drawn toward Y/N's fingertips before dissipating into the void.

Y/N exhaled slowly, lowering his hand as the last flickers of power receded beneath his skin. His breathing was controlled, steady—though there was no denying the sheer force he had just wielded. His presence alone radiated energy, a quiet yet commanding force of nature.

From above, Hal Jordan let out a low, appreciative whistle, cutting through the tension like a blade. He remained casually perched against one of his glowing emerald constructs, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Well," he drawled, "if that wasn't the most graceful ass-kicking I've ever seen, I don't know what is."

Y/N turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in mild amusement. "You could've helped, you know."

Hal pushed off his construct, activating his ring once more as he floated down beside Y/N, his green aura casting a soft glow against the residual shimmer of mana in the air. "Oh, trust me, I was helping." He grinned, gesturing toward himself with mock grandeur. "Moral support, expert-level commentary, and, most importantly, making sure you looked damn good while doing all the work. Arguably the most important job out here."

Y/N rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance in the motion. "Right. Sure, Jordan."

Hal chuckled, but there was something else in the way he looked at Y/N now—a lingering glint in his eye, something just beneath the surface that he wasn't quite ready to name.

With the battle won and the city below now secured, the two of them lifted effortlessly into the sky, breaking through the upper atmosphere with practiced ease. The world fell away behind them, fading into the vast stretch of space. Up here, beyond the chaos and destruction, the universe stretched infinitely before them, stars glimmering like scattered diamonds against the endless black. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed in the void—heavy, yet peaceful.

Hal flew alongside Y/N, hands resting behind his head in a seemingly relaxed pose, though his gaze kept flicking toward him every so often. The glow of Y/N's mana still pulsed faintly around him, a subtle luminescence that made his features stand out against the cold backdrop of space. Hal felt something tighten in his chest—not in fear, not in unease, but something else. Something unfamiliar. He had seen power before. He had seen warriors, legends, gods. And yet, there was something about Y/N—his presence, his confidence, the way he carried himself like he belonged among the stars themselves—that made Hal pause.

He wasn't sure what it was. And frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to analyze it too deeply just yet.

Instead, he opted for what he did best—charming, casual, and just a little reckless.

"So," Hal began, tilting his head slightly as he turned toward Y/N, "I was thinking... We've saved the world, kicked some serious ass, and probably made Bats roll his eyes so hard he's given himself a migraine." He paused, purely for dramatic effect, watching the faint curiosity spark in Y/N's expression before continuing, "Seems to me like we deserve a reward."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "And what exactly do you have in mind?"

Hal's grin widened, though there was something genuine behind it—something just a little less playful, a little less deflective. He shrugged, floating just a little closer. "Dinner. You, me, somewhere nice—preferably a place where we're not getting shot at, blasted, or dealing with some intergalactic nightmare." He raised an eyebrow. "What do you say?"

Y/N regarded him for a moment, as if considering, weighing the offer like one would a well-placed bet. Then, with a soft chuckle, he nodded. "Alright, Jordan. You're on."

Hal couldn't stop the surge of satisfaction that spread through him at those words. He wasn't entirely sure what this was—just a bit of fun, or maybe something more—but whatever it was, he was more than willing to find out.

As the Watchtower loomed in the distance, the stars reflecting in their eyes, Hal found himself looking forward to whatever came next.

As Y/N and Hal Jordan descended onto the Watchtower's pristine metallic flooring, the soft hum of their energy dissipated into the hushed stillness of the station. The docking bay, illuminated by the ambient glow of reinforced LED panels, stretched before them in sleek, futuristic elegance. Beyond the Watchtower's expansive windows, Earth hung suspended in the void—a breathtaking sphere of blue and white, small yet vibrant against the backdrop of infinite darkness. It was the kind of sight that could make anyone pause, that could remind even the most seasoned heroes of the beauty of the world they fought to protect.

But Hal Jordan was preoccupied with something far more intriguing.

"Well," Hal declared, rolling his shoulders with a lazy grin, "I'd say that was a hell of a team-up. We saved the day, looked damn good doing it, and—most importantly—I managed to score a date. All in all, not bad for a day's work."

Y/N chuckled, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his slightly tousled hair, a few errant strands still wild from the intensity of battle. "I don't know if I'd call it a 'team-up,' considering you spent most of the fight standing around and watching."

Hal gasped in mock offense, placing a hand over his chest as if wounded. "Hey now, I was tactically observing. You were putting on a whole damn light show out there—I didn't wanna interrupt the magic."

Y/N smirked but didn't press the argument. Instead, he stretched slightly, rolling out his shoulders before exhaling. "Right. Well, I'm gonna go wash up. See you later, Jordan."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the locker rooms, the faint glow of residual mana still crackling in the air around him like distant static. Hal, however, remained standing where he was, hands on his hips, watching Y/N disappear down the corridor. A slow, smug smile crept onto his face.

Yeah. Today had been a very good day.

Without wasting another second, Hal pivoted and made his way toward the common area. He knew exactly who he needed to find.

As expected, Barry Allen was there, comfortably leaned back at one of the sleek, high-tech lounge tables, flipping through a stack of mission reports at super-speed. His fingers blurred as he rapidly scanned through the data, his mind processing information at an incomprehensible rate. Hal, of course, had absolutely zero interest in mission reports.

Clapping his hands together, he announced his arrival with the energy of someone who had just won the lottery.

"Barry, my guy," Hal drawled, dragging out the words as he strolled up with the confidence of a man who had just conquered Mount Olympus itself. "Guess who just landed himself a date with the most ridiculously powerful, unfairly attractive half-human, half-Anodite badass?"

Barry didn't even look up. "Please tell me it's not you."

"It is me."

Barry groaned audibly, finally setting the reports down before giving Hal a long, suffering stare. "Why do you sound so proud? You annoyed that poor guy into dating you, didn't you?"

Hal scoffed, placing a hand on his chest. "Absolutely not. It was pure charisma. Natural charm. Irresistible good looks."

Barry blinked once. "So, annoyance got you the date. Got it."

Before Hal could retaliate with a rebuttal, a much deeper, far more unimpressed voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Jordan."

Hal tensed slightly. He knew that voice. He also knew exactly how much trouble he was probably about to be in.

Turning slowly, he found Batman standing in the corner, arms crossed, the dark folds of his cape making him look as immovable as a statue. His glare was sharp, unwavering—silent, yet speaking volumes.

Hal coughed, attempting to school his expression into something casual. "Uh, hey there, Bats. You hear the good news?"

Batman's glare did not waver. "Yes. And I also heard you spent more time admiring Y/N than actually contributing to the fight."

Barry, who had previously been exasperated, suddenly perked up with an eager grin. "Oh, this I gotta hear."

Hal held up both hands in defense, his ring pulsing faintly as he gestured wildly. "Okay, first off—not true. I was supervising. Second, Y/N had everything under control. And third—" He smirked. "Can you blame me? The guy is a walking celestial light show with the body of a damn Greek statue."

Batman exhaled through his nose in what could only be described as the long-suffering sigh of a man trying very, very hard not to commit murder. "You're impossible."

Hal's grin widened. "And yet, completely lovable."

Batman turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his cape billowing in a dramatic flourish. He didn't say another word, but the tense way he carried himself screamed frustration.

Barry, meanwhile, had officially lost it. His laughter echoed through the room, full of unrestrained amusement. "Oh, man. I cannot wait to see how this date turns out."

Hal plopped down in the seat across from him, still grinning like he had just won a bet. "Trust me, Barry—neither can I."

The entrance of Celesté, one of Coast City's most renowned fine dining establishments, gleamed under the warm glow of golden chandeliers. The faint clink of crystal glasses and the soft murmur of refined conversation drifted through the air, punctuated by the lilting notes of a grand piano nestled in the corner. Everything about the place exuded elegance—from the impeccably dressed waitstaff to the delicate flicker of candlelight reflecting off polished silverware.

And standing at the entrance, adjusting the cuffs of his sleek black tuxedo, was Hal—a man who, under normal circumstances, would rather be in his flight suit or his Green Lantern uniform. Dressing up wasn't exactly his thing, but tonight? Tonight was different.

Tonight, he had a date with Y/N, and there was no way in hell he was half-assing it.

Despite his usual easy confidence, Hal found himself rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible tension. It wasn't nerves, not really—he didn't do nerves—but there was an anticipation buzzing beneath his skin, a restless kind of excitement that had nothing to do with the mission reports he had totally ignored earlier that day.

He checked his watch, lips twitching into a smirk. Any second now.

And then—like the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment—Y/N stepped through the restaurant doors.

And Hal's breath? Yeah, it hitched.

The shift in the atmosphere was almost palpable. Y/N carried himself with an effortless confidence that commanded attention, but it was the way the tailored suit hugged his frame that made the whole thing downright unfair. The smooth, high-end fabric moved with him, accentuating sharp lines and quiet power, each stride filled with the kind of grace that couldn't be taught.

His hair was styled—refined enough to suit the occasion, but still holding just enough of that untamed edge to remind Hal exactly who he was dealing with. And that? That was dangerous.

For a moment, Hal just stared.

Holy. Hell.

Y/N's gaze swept across the restaurant before locking onto Hal, and just like that, Hal snapped out of it, forcing his signature cocky smirk back into place as if his brain hadn't short-circuited seconds earlier. He squared his shoulders, exuding every bit of the cool, effortless charm he was known for.

Showtime.

"Well, well," Hal drawled as Y/N came to a stop in front of him, his tone smooth, but his eyes shamelessly lingering for just a second longer than necessary. "I was already looking forward to tonight, but man—you just made my entire week."

Y/N let out a low chuckle, his lips curving into something amused, and Hal felt a flicker of satisfaction at the sound. "That so?"

Hal gestured with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. "I mean, look at you. That suit? Criminally good. You clean up ridiculously well, and frankly, I think it's kinda unfair to the rest of us."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Coming from the guy who looks like he just walked off the cover of GQ?"

Hal's grin widened, preening just a little as he straightened his tie. "What can I say? I had to step up my game for you."

For a fleeting second, something flickered in Y/N's eyes—something warm, something genuine. It wasn't just amusement anymore; it was appreciation, maybe even something fond.

And that? That was a win.

Y/N exhaled softly, his voice smooth as he said, "Well, you did a good job."

Hal's grin turned just a little smug as he extended an arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly fashion. "Shall we?"

Y/N rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Instead, he took the offered arm, the warmth of his touch settling against Hal's suit sleeve, and together, they stepped further into the restaurant.

The golden candlelight flickered around them, the hushed ambiance of the room embracing them in an atmosphere of something undeniably electric.

And in that moment, as Hal walked beside the most ridiculously powerful, unfairly attractive, and completely intriguing person he had ever met—he knew one thing for certain.

This? This was already shaping up to be one hell of a night.

The soft hum of conversation wove through the elegant restaurant like a well-rehearsed symphony, mingling with the delicate clinking of silverware against fine china. The warm glow of flickering candlelight bathed the room in an intimate ambiance, its golden hues casting elongated shadows along the crisp white tablecloths. The air was rich with the tantalizing aroma of expertly crafted dishes, each plate an artful display of culinary mastery.

At the center of it all, seated at a secluded table near the window, were Hal Jordan and Y/N.

For once, they weren't warriors, they weren't heroes locked in battle—they were simply two people, enjoying the company of the other. No cosmic threats loomed over them, no urgent mission awaited. Just this moment, unburdened and uninterrupted.

Hal leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders easing into the plush seat as he lazily swirled the deep red wine in his glass. The crimson liquid caught the candlelight, casting rippling reflections onto the table's surface. Gone was his usual cocky bravado—the one he wielded like a second skin in the field. Instead, he had settled into something more relaxed, the version of himself that only surfaced when there was no need to impress—not that he needed to.

After all, Y/N had already agreed to this date.

Across from him, Y/N looked effortlessly composed, his well-tailored suit somehow still pristine despite the long evening. Yet, there was something warm in the way he chuckled at Hal's last remark, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"So let me get this straight," Y/N said, setting his fork down with a smirk. "You crashed a fighter jet on purpose just to prove a point?"

Hal grinned, holding up a finger. "Technically, I landed it in a way that looked like a crash. Huge difference."

Y/N shook his head, his smirk deepening. "And your superiors just... let that slide?"

"Nah, they were too impressed I actually pulled it off." Hal leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into a smooth, conspiratorial tone. "Besides, I've always been good at getting out of trouble."

Y/N hummed, lifting his glass to his lips before taking a slow sip. "More like good at getting into trouble."

Hal laughed, tipping his glass toward him in a mock toast. "Fair enough." He set it down, resting his elbow on the table as his gaze softened with curiosity. "Alright, enough about me. I know what you're like in the field—calm, collected, freakishly powerful—but outside of the whole 'saving the world' thing, what's your deal? What do you do when you're not making Batman twitch with stress?"

Y/N smirked, clearly enjoying the question. "You mean when I'm not dealing with you flirting in the middle of a fight?"

Hal placed a hand over his heart, gasping dramatically. "Hey, I multi-task."

Y/N chuckled, leaning back slightly as he considered the question. "Honestly? I like the quiet. I spend so much time surrounded by chaos that when I finally get the chance, I just want to be somewhere peaceful. Reading, stargazing, finding those little moments where I don't have to be 'on' all the time."

Hal studied him, intrigued. "Huh. So you're the 'find peace in the little things' type?"

Y/N nodded slightly, twirling his glass absently between his fingers. "Something like that." He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. "What about you? When you're not flying around with that power ring, what does Hal Jordan do to unwind?"

Hal smirked. "Besides annoying Batman?"

"Besides annoying Batman."

"Well," Hal tapped his fingers against the table, as if contemplating, before shrugging. "I like fast cars, good drinks, and making bad decisions in Vegas—sometimes all at the same time."

Y/N chuckled. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

Hal grinned but then, after a pause, his smirk faded just slightly. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before finally adding, "But when I actually want to relax?" His fingers traced the rim of his wine glass before he admitted, "Flying."

Y/N lifted a curious brow.

"Not with the ring," Hal clarified. "Just flying. When I was a kid, my dad used to take me up in his jet, and ever since then, being in the air just... calms me down." He exhaled, a rare glimpse of sincerity slipping through. "It's the one place where it's just me, the sky, and nothing else. No responsibilities, no pressure, just freedom."

Y/N watched him carefully, his expression softening ever so slightly. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

Hal arched a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Oh yeah?"

Y/N offered a small smile. "Yeah. You spend so much of your time fighting for everyone else. Guess it's only fair you have something that's just yours."

For a second, Hal blinked.

He was used to the banter, to the playful teasing, to keeping everything light—but this? This was understanding.

And it threw him off guard.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. But the silence wasn't awkward—it was comfortable, filled with unspoken words neither of them felt the need to voice. The candle between them flickered gently, its golden glow dancing along their features as a soft piano melody drifted in the background.

Then, because Hal Jordan had never been one to let a moment linger too long, he leaned back and grinned.

"Well, damn," he mused, flashing a charming smirk. "I was just trying to impress you with my whole 'deep, brooding pilot' side, but you actually went and got all insightful on me."

Y/N chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't worry, Jordan. You're still just as ridiculous as ever."

Hal smirked, lifting his glass. "And yet, here you are. On a date with me."

Y/N rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into something fond as he clinked his glass against Hal's.

"Guess I must like ridiculous."

And just like that, Hal felt that same victorious spark again—but this time, it wasn't about the chase, or the flirtation, or the thrill of the moment.

This time, it was real.

And for once?

He wasn't in any rush to figure it out.

The city had settled into a quiet, comfortable rhythm, its usual chaos giving way to something far more tranquil. The distant hum of traffic blended seamlessly with the muffled sounds of laughter from late-night diners and the occasional honk of a car horn. A cool breeze drifted lazily through the streets, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked pavement—a reminder of the earlier downpour that had long since dried beneath the glow of neon lights and streetlamps.

Beneath that glow, Hal Jordan and Y/N walked side by side, their pace unhurried, their footsteps in sync as they navigated the quiet streets.

Hal had long since abandoned the last remnants of his formal composure—his tie loosened, tuxedo jacket slung over his shoulder, and hands tucked casually into his pockets. The evening had gone better than even he had expected. Dinner had been incredible, conversation never dulled, and there was an undeniable energy lingering between them, something that had been simmering beneath the surface all night.

And Hal? He was in no hurry to let the night end just yet.

"You cannot tell me," Hal said, nudging Y/N's shoulder with a smirk, "that a guy like you doesn't have a list of crazy fan encounters."

Y/N shot him a questioning glance, amused.

Hal gestured broadly. "I mean, c'mon—you're a walking celestial light show. Someone's definitely tried to propose to you mid-battle before."

Y/N let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Surprisingly, no. Though I did have someone try to start a cult around me once. That was... an experience."

Hal stumbled slightly, stopping in his tracks as he turned to gawk at Y/N. "A cult? Oh, now you have to tell me that story."

Y/N smirked, ever the enigma. "Maybe another time."

Hal groaned dramatically. "You're killing me here."

Their laughter softened, gradually fading into something quieter, something unspoken. The warm glow of the streetlights bathed them in golden hues as they reached the entrance of Y/N's apartment building. The polished glass doors reflected the city behind them, the moment suspended in time, as if the universe itself wasn't quite ready to let them go their separate ways.

They slowed to a stop, the space between them small, but charged.

Y/N slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing toward the doors before looking back at Hal. "Well... guess this is my stop."

Hal nodded, rocking back on his heels slightly. "Yeah... damn, and here I was, hoping this street just kept going forever."

Y/N's lips curved into a smirk. "Smooth, Jordan."

Hal flashed his most roguish grin. "I try." But there was something softer in his eyes now, something far more genuine than his usual bravado.

For a beat, Y/N just watched him, as if studying something about him he hadn't quite figured out yet. Then, without warning, he leaned in and placed a quick, teasing kiss against Hal's cheek.

"There," Y/N murmured as he pulled back, his voice laced with amusement. "Consider that your reward for not being too obnoxious tonight."

Hal froze for half a second, his brain short-circuiting before he blinked and turned to look at Y/N, a mixture of amusement and disbelief crossing his face. "Oh, that's dirty. You're really just gonna do that and walk away?"

Y/N tilted his head, pretending to think it over. And then—before Hal could process it—Y/N closed the distance again.

This time, it wasn't just a tease.

This time, it was a kiss—real, deliberate, and slow enough to make time itself hesitate.

It wasn't rushed, wasn't hesitant. It was confident. Certain. Like Y/N had decided something, and this was how he wanted Hal to know.

Hal barely had time to react before instinct took over—his fingers twitching with the urge to grab Y/N's waist, to pull him in, to deepen it. The city, the streetlights, the night itself—all of it faded into the background noise as Hal let himself get lost in it, in the feel of Y/N's lips against his, in the quiet intensity that had been simmering between them all night.

And then, too soon, Y/N pulled back, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as he watched Hal try to process what just happened.

Hal blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, slowly, his lips stretched into a grin—one that was equal parts impressed and thoroughly wrecked.

"Okay..." Hal exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as if to ground himself. "Yeah. Way better than the cheek kiss."

Y/N chuckled, his voice smooth. "Glad you approve."

Hal licked his lips absently, still feeling the ghost of the kiss there. "So, uh... where does that leave us?"

Y/N's smirk deepened just slightly as he reached for the door handle, pausing just long enough to glance at Hal with something undeniable in his gaze.

"It leaves us with you coming upstairs with me."

Hal blinked, then arched a brow, his grin widening. "Oh."

Y/N simply shrugged, but there was something teasing in his expression, something that said he knew exactly what he was doing. "Unless you'd rather go home and spend the rest of the night thinking about that kiss instead."

Hal let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. "Nope. Absolutely not."

With that, Y/N pushed the door open, stepping inside with effortless ease, tilting his head slightly in a silent invitation.

And without hesitation, Hal followed.

The moment Y/N and Hal stepped inside the apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before Hal was on him. With a swift motion, he pressed Y/N back against the nearest wall, his body a solid, warm presence against him. The tension that had been simmering all night—through lingering glances, teasing words, and unspoken promises—snapped like a live wire, igniting something urgent, electric, inevitable.

Hal's hands found Y/N's waist, fingers pressing just firm enough to pull him in, as if closing the last inch of space between them was the only thing that mattered. Their lips crashed together in a kiss that was hungry, heated, laced with both impatience and purpose.

Y/N smirked against Hal's lips before flipping their positions in a blur of motion, suddenly pressing Hal back against the wall instead. The shift was seamless, a silent challenge exchanged between them.

"Eager, are we?" Y/N murmured, his breath warm against Hal's mouth, teasing, yet laced with something undeniably predatory.

Hal chuckled, the sound low and rough, his smirk never faltering. "You invited me up." His hands skimmed along Y/N's waist, palming the sharp lines of his hips before giving a light, suggestive squeeze. "What'd you think was gonna happen?"

Instead of answering, Y/N claimed his mouth again—but this time, the kiss was slower, deeper, dripping with something intoxicatingly deliberate. His fingers worked on the last bit of Hal's already loosened tie, pulling it free with practiced ease before his hands slid downward, working at the buttons of Hal's dress shirt.

Hal responded in kind, his own hands already tugging at Y/N's suit jacket, sliding it off broad shoulders and letting it pool onto the floor. Their movements were urgent, desperate, a battle of dominance wrapped in heated friction, neither wanting to slow down.

Somehow, in between kisses, between touches, Y/N guided Hal backward down the dimly lit hallway, their lips barely separating, their hands mapping every inch of exposed skin as they impatiently shed layers between them.

Hal let out a quiet groan when Y/N's hands slipped under his tuxedo jacket, pushing it off in one smooth motion before immediately tearing at the buttons of his shirt. The fabric slid down Hal's toned arms, exposing warm, sun-kissed skin, the sculpted planes of his chest now illuminated by the faint glow of the city skyline bleeding through the windows.

Y/N paused for just a second, his eyes trailing appreciatively over Hal's frame—not out of surprise, but undeniable appreciation.

Hal, noticing the moment, smirked, his breath still uneven. "You're staring," he teased, voice slightly breathless, though unmistakably cocky.

Y/N's lips curled into a smirk of his own, his fingers tracing slow, feather-light paths down Hal's abdomen before giving a firm push, guiding him backward until the mattress caught him. "You like the attention."

Hal grinned, reclining back on his elbows as Y/N climbed over him, the heat between them suffocatingly thick. "Can't blame you for looking." He reached for Y/N's own shirt, making quick, impatient work of the remaining buttons before pushing the fabric down broad shoulders. "But let's even the playing field."

With one final tug, Y/N's shirt joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the floor, leaving them both bare from the waist up. The temperature between them spiked, skin meeting skin as their bodies pressed flush together in another kiss—this one slower, richer, deeper, filled with a quiet hunger that neither of them intended to leave unsatisfied.

Hal's fingers skimmed downward, his hands settling on Y/N's belt, pulling it free in one fluid motion. Y/N responded in kind, unbuckling Hal's belt and sliding it off with expert ease, the leather making a quiet whispered snap as it was discarded.

Their hands continued their exploration, neither wanting to waste a second, their movements fevered and searching—stripping away the last barriers between them one piece at a time until there was nothing left but bare skin, heat, and the raw pull of gravity between them.

Hal let his gaze sweep over Y/N, his smirk briefly faltering as something darker, more primal flickered in his emerald eyes. He had always known Y/N was powerful—he had fought beside him, seen him in battle, unmatched and untouchable—but this was something else entirely.

Y/N, catching Hal's gaze, arched a single brow, his smirk sharpening. "Not surprised."

Hal chuckled, dragging his hands down Y/N's sides, his thumbs grazing along the sharp cut of his hips. "Oh, you were thinking about it, huh?"

Y/N hummed, leaning in just enough that their lips barely brushed, a tease, a challenge. "I had my suspicions."

Hal's grin turned wicked, his fingers flexing deliberately against Y/N's waist. "Glad to know I didn't disappoint."

Y/N's fingers ghosted over Hal's chest, tracing the defined lines before pressing him back onto the mattress, their bodies following in one seamless motion. His voice was silky smooth, teasing, but dripping with something far more dangerous as he murmured,

"Let's see if you live up to the attitude."

Hal let out a low, pleased chuckle, his gaze dark with undisguised anticipation. He propped himself up just enough to meet Y/N's lips again, his hands already sliding over bare skin, tugging him closer, claiming him with the same reckless confidence that had always defined him.

"Oh, trust me," Hal murmured against Y/N's mouth, his breath hot, his grin devilish.

"I always deliver."

Soon the sheets beneath them were already a tangled mess, twisted and bunched where their bodies had moved, their warmth sinking into the fabric. Y/N was above him, his hands braced against the firm expanse of Hal's chest, fingers splayed over taut muscle as he moved with a rhythm that was deliberate, intoxicating, and entirely unhurried.

Hal lay beneath him, his head tilted back slightly, breath escaping in uneven gasps and quiet groans, but his eyes remained locked onto Y/N—half-lidded, dark with something insatiable. He was drinking in everything—the way Y/N moved, the way his lips parted slightly with every breath, the way his body responded with effortless control and quiet dominance.

Hal's grip on Y/N's waist tightened, fingers pressing into warm skin just enough to leave faint impressions, as if silently staking his claim.

"Damn," Hal groaned, his voice rough, uneven, as he let his hands roam over Y/N's back, tracing the ridges of muscle before gripping just a little firmer. He wasn't leading—he didn't need to. He was content to follow, to watch, to feel. "You really know how to take control, don't you?"

A slow, wicked smirk played on Y/N's lips as he continued his steady, calculated movements, his rhythm precise—teasing, yet never cruel. His fingers dragged deliberately down Hal's chest, nails grazing over heated skin before settling against his sides.

"You did say you liked a little chaos," Y/N murmured, his voice laced with amusement, but beneath it was something darker, something hungry.

Hal let out a gravelly chuckle, though it quickly dissolved into a sharp inhale when Y/N shifted just right, the change in motion sending a ripple of pleasure through him. His fingers flexed against Y/N's hips, guiding, encouraging, but never fully taking over. No—he wanted to feel every moment of this, wanted to watch Y/N unravel him piece by piece.

The room was filled with the sound of ragged breaths, low murmurs, and the faint rustling of fabric against skin, their movements measured yet deliberate, indulgent. The push and pull between them—this quiet battle for control and surrender—was a dance neither of them was in any hurry to finish.

Y/N's breath hitched slightly as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against Hal's, their lips brushing without fully meeting, teasing that last sliver of restraint still lingering between them.

"You're taking this way too well," Y/N muttered, his words a quiet taunt, though his voice was breathless, heated.

Hal smirked, his hands sliding up Y/N's spine, fingers dragging, tracing before gripping his shoulders. "Oh, don't worry," he murmured, his tone rough, teasing, edged with something smug yet undeniably wrecked. His lips barely grazed the corner of Y/N's mouth, his breath hot against his skin. "I can handle you."

Y/N let out a low hum, a sound of satisfaction, before pulling back just enough to meet Hal's gaze head-on. The moment stretched between them, their bodies flush and burning, the weight of their unspoken challenge settling in the air like the final note of a song waiting to be played.

And then—with slow, deliberate ease—Y/N continued.

The pace never faltered, never rushed, but the heat between them only intensified, growing thicker, heavier, their bodies moving in sync, breath mingling in the dimly lit room.

Then Hal decided to take control, the shift was seamless, as if it had always been inevitable. With a firm grip on Y/N's waist, he moved with fluid, effortless strength, flipping their positions in one smooth motion. The rumpled sheets cradled Y/N's back as he landed beneath Hal, the fabric warm, tangled, an echo of the heat lingering between them.

The air between them pulsed, thick with something raw, electric, unrestrained. Hal hovered over him, muscles taut, his body a solid weight above Y/N's, their breaths mingling, overlapping, heavy with anticipation. His emerald gaze burned, taking in everything—the way Y/N's lips were already parted, the way his chest rose and fell, the undeniable invitation in his eyes.

Hal leaned down, capturing Y/N's mouth in a kiss that was deep, consuming, and utterly unrelenting. There was nothing hesitant about it—only heat and hunger, only the undeniable pull of gravity between them. His hands mapped their way down Y/N's sides, fingers tracing every sharp line and soft curve, lingering just long enough to draw a shiver from beneath him.

And then, with practiced ease, he slid his hands lower, gripping firmly at Y/N's thighs before hooking his legs around his waist in one swift, commanding motion. Their bodies collided again, flush against each other, the friction igniting something deeper, something dangerously intoxicating.

The pace shifted—no longer teasing, no longer experimental. Deliberate. Controlled. Every movement was measured, but filled with Hal's signature confidence, that undeniable cocky charm that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing.

And judging by the way Y/N arched beneath him, the way his breath hitched at every slow, precise motion, Hal knew he was right.

A smirk ghosted against Y/N's jawline before Hal let his lips drift lower, grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. His breath was hot, teasing, his voice laced with something smug, something darkly amused.

"Thought you liked being in charge?" Hal murmured, his words dragging across Y/N's skin like a slow burn.

Y/N's hands had already found purchase on Hal's back, nails pressing just enough to leave faint scratches, little reminders of the push and pull between them.

His voice was breathless, but still laced with defiance, that ever-present challenging spark in his gaze.

"I do," he murmured, legs tightening around Hal's waist, pulling him even closer. His smirk was dangerous, eyes dark with amusement and something far more primal. "But I don't mind letting you try and keep up."

Hal let out a deep, gravelly chuckle, his grip tightening just slightly, enough to make a point. He pressed in deeper, the movement slow, precise, devastating.

"Oh, sweetheart," he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement, arrogance, and something darker, "I don't try—I deliver."

Y/N barely had time to fire back before Hal's pace changed again, the rhythm stronger, more focused, deliberate in every push and pull between them. A sharp gasp escaped Y/N, and Hal drank it in, memorized it, let it fuel the fire already burning deep within him.

Their bodies moved in perfect sync, the world outside this moment irrelevant, insignificant. The only thing that mattered was this, the way Y/N responded, the way Hal could pull him apart and put him back together with nothing but touch, movement, tension.

Y/N's fingers tangled in Hal's short, tousled hair, fisting the strands, pulling him down into another kiss—this one hot, urgent, filled with something dangerously addictive. Hal groaned into it, his hands roaming, gripping, claiming, as if trying to etch this moment into existence, refusing to let a single second slip away.

This wasn't just taking control—this was staking a claim, ensuring that every movement, every moment, every lingering breath was something Y/N would feel long after the night was over.

And judging by the way Y/N clung to him, his body tense, trembling, lost in the sensation, Hal knew he was doing exactly what he promised.

The faint hum of the world outside—the distant murmur of traffic, the occasional honk of a car horn—faded into nothingness, swallowed by the symphony they created together.

The rustle of sheets. The rhythmic sound of their bodies moving in perfect sync. The deep, ragged breaths, punctuated by gasps and murmured curses—it was a melody that belonged only to them, a song of tension, release, and something far more consuming.

And Hal couldn't take his eyes off Y/N.

The way his body arched beneath him, the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, catching the faint light and making him look almost ethereal. The way his lips parted, breath hitching, spilling out ragged, intoxicating moans, each one a spark igniting something primal, all-consuming inside Hal.

Y/N was breathtaking.

Absolutely wrecked—but still so in control, the contrast devastatingly beautiful. His usual sharp wit, that calculated confidence, was softened now, undone by sensation, by Hal.

Hal's grip tightened on Y/N's hips, fingers digging into warm skin, grounding himself as he watched the way pleasure carved itself into every inch of Y/N's expression. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, his head tilting slightly back, exposing the smooth column of his throat—an invitation, deliberate or not.

And god, the sounds spilling from his lips—low, breathy, sultry—made something deep in Hal's chest tighten, something raw and possessive clawing its way to the surface.

He wanted to draw out every sound, to push Y/N to that edge over and over, just to hear that perfect melody again.

"You look so damn good like this," Hal murmured, his voice thick, rough, filled with something deeper than admiration, heavier than lust. His lips found Y/N's jaw, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along his throat, his collarbone, savoring the way he shivered beneath him.

"Could watch you like this forever," Hal admitted, his words gravelly, reverent, pressing harder, lingering longer, lips moving with purpose, with claim.

Y/N let out a breathless chuckle, though it was fractured, unsteady, as if he were barely holding onto control. His fingers dug into Hal's back, nails dragging faint red lines down heated skin.

"Cocky," Y/N muttered, his voice husky, teasing, but it wavered at the edges, betraying just how lost he was in the moment.

Hal's smirk curved against Y/N's skin, mischievous, knowing, before he rolled his hips just right—a deliberate, calculated movement that sent a sharp gasp tearing from Y/N's lips, his fingers tightening against Hal's skin.

"Damn right," Hal breathed, voice rich with amusement and something darker. He leaned back just enough to drink in the sight of him, eyes dark with hunger.

His smirk widened. "And judging by the way you're falling apart under me? I'd say I've earned it."

Y/N let out a shaky, uneven exhale, his head tilting back against the pillow, exposing himself to Hal completely, his body arching instinctively to meet every movement.

Hal memorized everything—the way Y/N reacted, the raw emotion flickering behind those darkened eyes, the sounds that sent shivers racing down his spine.

It wasn't just about this, about the way their bodies moved together in perfect sync—it was about him.

Y/N.

Every moment with him was intoxicating, a force Hal wasn't sure he could ever step away from, even if he wanted to.

And as he leaned down, capturing Y/N's lips again, pouring every bit of that realization into the kiss, Hal knew one thing for certain.

He would never get enough.

The early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. It painted gentle patterns across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the faint traces of last night—the scattered clothes on the floor, the lingering warmth between tangled limbs, the quiet, unspoken intimacy woven into the stillness.

Outside, the city was beginning to stir—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional chirp of birds, the subtle rhythm of a world waking up. But inside the apartment, everything was quiet, wrapped in the kind of warmth and serenity that Hal Jordan had never been one to chase.

Yet, here he was.

Hal inhaled deeply, stretching slightly before his mind caught up to where he was—and, more importantly, who he was with.

A smirk curled at the corners of his lips as memories of last night flooded back—every touch, every sound, every moment that had left him wrecked in the best way possible.

Yeah... he had definitely outdone himself this time.

But what really had him feeling like he was on cloud nine wasn't just the mind-blowing night they had—it was this. The quiet aftermath.

The feeling of Y/N's warm, relaxed body pressed against him, his back flush against Hal's chest, his slow, even breaths ghosting over the pillow.

Hal let his arm tighten slightly around Y/N's waist, pulling him closer, reveling in the way their bodies fit so naturally together. Y/N's skin was still warm, his bare back smooth against Hal's chest, his scent lingering from last night—a mix of something intoxicating and uniquely him.

God, this was nice.

Hal let out a deep, satisfied sigh, nuzzling into Y/N's shoulder, content in a way he rarely let himself be.

He had never been one for cuddling after sex—it always felt too intimate, too much. But with Y/N?

Yeah. He liked this.

Maybe even more than he was ready to admit.

He was just settling into the moment, relaxing fully, when it happened.

Y/N shifted.

A small, unconscious movement, the kind that happened in the hazy depths of sleep. But the effect?

Immediate.

Because Y/N had pressed back against him, his bare ass fitting perfectly against Hal's lower half, sending a jolt of awareness straight through him.

Hal stilled.

For a moment, he tried to process the situation, tried to tell himself he was a grown man with self-control, for god's sake.

Then Y/N shifted again, pressing even closer, his breathing still slow, steady, completely unaware of what he was doing to him.

Hal's grip on Y/N's hip tightened instinctively, his fingers flexing as heat pooled low in his stomach. His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes for a second, silently cursing the universe.

Oh, come on.

Hal tilted his head back against the pillow, exhaling sharply through his nose, trying—desperately—to ignore the fact that his dick had very different plans.

This is fine, he told himself. I can ignore it. I can be normal about this.

Y/N let out a soft sigh in his sleep, his body molding even further into Hal's, and Hal immediately knew—

Nope. Nope. Not fine. Not even a little bit.

His jaw clenched, his fingers digging slightly into Y/N's hip as he fought every instinct telling him to wake Y/N up in a very, very interesting way.

His options were limited.

He could either:

A) Wake Y/N up.

B) Suffer in silence while Y/N continued to sleep peacefully, blissfully unaware that Hal was fighting for his damn life.

He sighed dramatically, resting his forehead against Y/N's shoulder, his voice a low, tortured groan.

"You're killing me here," he muttered, knowing full well that Y/N was still lost in sleep, completely unaware of his struggle.

Hal wasn't sure how long he could last like this, but one thing was certain—

Mornings with Y/N were going to be very, very dangerous for his self-control.

Y/N slowly stirred from his sleep, stretching slightly against the warmth surrounding him. His mind was still groggy, lost somewhere between dreams and reality, but the steady rise and fall of a firm chest against his back made him remember exactly where he was—and who he was with.

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at Y/N's lips as last night's memories resurfaced. Oh yeah. That happened.

Still feigning sleep, he remained still for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of Hal breathing behind him—slow, controlled, forced. It was subtle, but Y/N could feel the tension in Hal's body, the way his muscles were coiled, how his hand was resting just a little too stiffly on Y/N's hip. And then... there it was. The unmistakable hardness pressing against the small of Y/N's back.

Well, well, Y/N thought, suppressing a grin. Good morning, indeed.

Deciding to have a little fun, he shifted slightly, pressing back against Hal just enough to gauge his reaction.

The result was instant. Hal inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening ever so slightly on Y/N's waist as if trying to will himself to stay still.

Y/N fought back a chuckle, but he wasn't done yet. He stretched again, slower this time, deliberately rolling his hips ever so slightly, pressing himself further into Hal's very obvious problem.

Hal let out a soft hngh sound—barely audible, but Y/N heard it. He grinned to himself.

"You awake, Jordan?" Y/N asked, voice thick with sleep, as if he hadn't just set Hal up for absolute torture.

Hal let out a slow, controlled exhale. "Mmhmm," he replied through gritted teeth.

Y/N hummed, shifting again—just a fraction, just enough to make Hal's fingers twitch against his skin. "You sure? You seem a little... tense."

Hal groaned softly, pressing his forehead against the back of Y/N's shoulder. "You're killing me, you know that?"

Y/N smirked, finally turning his head just enough to glance back at him. "Oh? Something wrong?"

Hal's fingers dug into Y/N's waist, his jaw clenched. "You know what's wrong."

Y/N turned fully now, shifting onto his back so he could face Hal properly. And damn—the look on Hal's face was priceless. His usual cocky confidence was hanging by a thread, his lips parted slightly, eyes dark with barely restrained frustration.

Y/N reached up, running a slow finger down Hal's chest, watching with amusement as his muscles tensed under his touch. "I seem fine," Y/N said, his voice dripping with playful innocence. "You, on the other hand..." His gaze flickered downward with an exaggerated slowness noticing Hal's dick hard and firm before meeting Hal's eyes again. "That looks like a problem."

Hal exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand moving up to cradle Y/N's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek in a way that was far too affectionate for how frustrated he clearly was.

"You love testing my patience, don't you?" Hal murmured, voice low, rough.

Y/N grinned up at him. "Well, you're fun to mess with."

Hal's lips twitched into a smirk. "That—" he suddenly rolled his hips just enough to turn the tables on Y/N, making him gasp this time—"was a mistake."

Y/N's breath hitched slightly before he narrowed his eyes playfully. "Oh? Gonna do something about it, flyboy?"

Hal's grin widened. "Oh, you have no idea."

And just like that, the morning took a very interesting turn.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dc #hal jordan #hal jordan x male reader #gay #green lantern #green lantern x male reader

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