Grisham only opening his eyes when he’s around you.
————
It’s rare to see the red headed barista’s eyes. It’s even rarer to see it paired with a smile.
Grisham has gotten used to navigating the world while in the dark. Chronic eye stain plagued his life. Grisham’s glasses certainly helped ease the headaches but his eyes still occasionally felt sore after being open all day. Eventually, he decided to keep his eyes closed for most of his day.
Grisham’s routine at Cafe Nouveau quickly became muscle memory. Every drink order was able to be made while the man was in the dark. Thus, Grisham only ever see the world when aggravated or during battle.
Of course, that was before you came barreling into his life.
The churning of coffee beans was the first thing you heard as you approached the truck. An ember roast sat at the counter waiting for you. When you opened your wallet to pay, Grisham cut in to say that it’s on the house. Before you could protest, the drink was shoved into your hands. You couldn’t help but grin while your cheeks heated up. As you faced Grisham for thanks, you’re met with the warmth of his eyes.
Despite the soreness already making itself known, Grisham kept staring at you. The sight of you was something he wanted to commit to memory. And even if he had every expression of yours memorized, he’d still face headaches to see you in the flesh. After all, if he can’t have you, at least he’d be able to admire you from afar.
Headaches was but a small price to pay to see your happiness.
—————
I’ve been wondering how Grisham is able to walk while having his eyes closed. One thought led to another and this was born.
Thinking about Grisham's poetry collection... specifically Audre Lorde's "Recreation".
Y'all know what's under the cut. Tagging @wegotfoodathome + @godserene cause I think y'all might like this one?
“How about this one: touching you I catch midnight, as moon fires set in my throat, I love you flesh into blossom, I made you, and take you made, into me.”
“That’s not the whole poem.” Grisham teased, his fingers ghosting over your hips as you shifted ever so slightly, grinding down onto him. He bit his lip and stifled a groan, pressing his head back into the pillow, “If you’re going to recite poetry, it helps to read the whole thing, not just the last stanza.”
“It’s hard to read the longer ones when you twitch in me like that.” You huffed, a playful smile on your face as you leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to Grisham’s forehead, brushing a strand of hair back off his forehead as you did, “But alright.”
You sat back up, biting back your own moan as Grisham’s cock sank deeper into you. This has started off innocently enough; you expressed an interest in reading some of Grisham’s second-hand poetry collection. One thing led to another, and now you were cockwarming him and doing your best to find and recite only the horniest poems for him.
It wasn’t at all what you’d thought it would be like; you thought your body would be begging for friction, begging for Grisham to just pin you to the bed and take you, that the poetry would be quickly forgotten. But instead it felt… comfortable. Safe. His fingers traced your body, etching small shapes into your skin, wordlessly admiring you with a great deal of reverence. When you needed more friction, you’d roll your hips, but it was a slow roll. Unhurried. Leisurely.
Reading poetry to Grisham like this was... something else. You didn't have the right word for it yet.
You found the start of the poem:
“Coming together
It is easier to work
After our bodies
Meet”
Grisham’s hand traced up your side, caressing your bare chest for comfort, for feeling your soft skin underhand rather than to satisfy a desperate hunger. His fingers dipped against your collarbone as you continued to the next stanza.
“Pen and paper
Neither care nor profit
Whether we write or not”
His thumb brushed over your hip, his other hand traced along your collarbone, fingers toying with your hair loose around your shoulders. Intentional adoration in his eyes as he exhaled a breathy, low moan. Your legs felt numb, on the edge of protest, his hips comfortably pressing into your thighs like they belonged there. Perfectly melded, as if he’d been made for you.
“But as your body moves
Under my hands
Charged and waiting
We cut the leash”
Grisham adored poetry as much as he loved you. He had analyzed this poem before; his neat penmanship hugged the edges of the poem carefully, thoughtfully. Like how his fingers lightly scraped over your thighs now, trailing up your sides to your hips and back down. Memorizing you, treasuring you.
“You create me against your thighs
Hilly with images
Moving through our word countries
My body
Writes into your flesh
The poem
You make of me.”
He shifted under you, a minor adjustment, but it had you breathing out a moan as pleasure spiked across your body like a lightning strike. You shifted your weight in response, your knees just starting to protest the position you’d been in for the last twenty minutes. Heat bloomed across your face, and an ache grew between your legs as you steadied your hand on his chest.
“Touching you, I catch midnight.” Grisham recited, taking your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “as moon fires set in my throat.”
He brought your hand to his lips, his hot breath ghosting over your skin as he pressed a quiet, slow kiss to it. You felt his other thumb slip into your folds, leisurely circling your clit.
“I love you flesh into blossom.” His eyes locked onto yours, amber colored irises drowning in devotion. He let the poem linger there, ringing in your ears and resounding in your now racing heart. A moment dragged into blissful eternity.
“I made you, and take you made-“ he pressed another kiss to the back of your fingertips, then another against the palm of your hand. He lowered your hand, leaving your thumb a hair's breadth from his lips, “Into me.”
It was barely a whisper.
The poetry book had slowly dipped lower and lower from your grasp; now the top of the spine pressed into Grisham’s bare chest. Your mind was entirely blank, your face hot, your ears burning, and heat coiled in your core.
“I- um. Wow.” You swallowed.
“Want me to read the next one?” Grisham smiled, tilting his head and nuzzling your hand against his face. His thumb still tracing your clit, his cock still twitching in you, unhurried and aimless in his ministrations.
Grisham hiding under the counter when you surprise him with a kiss.
——————
The sun was setting in Lumiose when you approached the cafe truck. Rush hour just having passed, barely anyone was by the truck save for Griselle on standby. Hunched over a table, she caught the sight of you and called out to Grisham.
Looking up from the counter, Grisham saw you and felt his posture straighten up. Suddenly all the energy that was sapped from dealing with customers flooded back into his veins. The usual customer service smile was replaced by a genuine one.
When you finally stalled at the truck, your drink was already waiting for you. You couldn’t fight off your grin as you gratefully cupped your drink and took a sip. With a sigh, you payed, thanked Grisham and turned to leave. Midway through your step, you pause and turned back to Grisham to place a shy kiss on his cheek.
Having realized the weight of your actions, you sprint away, leaving Grisham stuck in place and Griselle wheezing for air. It was only when you were out of sight that he dropped down to his knees and hid under the counter. Grisham’s eyes were squinted open in shock while his cheeks burned hot. It felt like he was in a sauna.
Oh how screwed he was.
Noticing Grisham’s reaction, Griselle simply jabbed at how pathetic he was acting before going back to cleaning up a table. Grisham remained hidden under the counter, processing Griselle’s words.
Maybe Grisham was alright with being pathetic. But only for you.
————————
I am so starved for Grisham content I decided to make my own. Wrote this at 3am. Not that good. I just couldn’t get the idea of Grisham hiding under the counter out of my head. Can’t get this stupid lil goober out of my brain. Help,,,,,
