Shawn hatosy the biggest mohabbot shipper I know.. Shawn hatosy as Grant Riley.. Shawn hatosy do you love an inappropriate workplace romance or what ??
3.8k words, smut, sub!Grant, insecure!Grant, edging, oral sex (m!receiving), good communication, lowkey body worship, there’s not really a plot here, Grant’s POV.
Basically Grant gets insecure and Reader/Iris fucks him about it.
(Tagging @isuckcigbuds as per request)
I had never been sure if the interior of your apartment matched the make-up of your knife set, or if it was the other way around. None of the rooms seemed to connect, design-wise, anyway. The furniture was all different styles and the walls were painted different colours, but what caught my attention the most were the different photographs in each.
I knew that your bedroom was inspired by your time in Hanoi. The walls were a rich, navy blue and canvas prints of the Vietnamese nightlife and skyline dotted them. Looming mountains and street cars and the sparkling city lights. Every one of them seemed to buzz with life.
Your office, if I had to guess, was Germany; wine-coloured walls and sleek metallics in the furniture. On your desk and the walls were black and white, close-up photos. Condensation on glasses, sloshing bottles of wine, cobblestones and scattering spices. I didn’t know it at the time, but all of them were taken during your time in Berlin.
Your bathroom, admittedly, I thought was pretty non-descript, but there was a notable beach theme with the seafoam walls and single framed photo. The photo depicted a beautiful beach and had the caption Greece, alongside an illegible date written in smeared ink.
The living room, I decided, was Armenia. The walls and furniture were all clad in the warm tones of sunset, with a mismatch of canvas and framed photos on the walls. Some were of bustling city life, some were of historical sites, some were close-ups of food and drink. It was cosy and inviting, above anything else.
Your kitchen was France, Paris specifically, but that was more in the equipment and ingredients you kept in it than anything else. On your fridge, there were magnets from all over the world, but—as I only noticed when I saw it outside of your TikTok—also Polaroids from all the same places. You were smiling with friends and colleagues, laughing and experiencing in a way I almost envied. It seemed that your training in Paris had just been the roots from which your whole life bloomed.
Your apartment and your knife set both matched and reflected you perfectly in your beautiful chaos. You were an incredible patchwork of experiences and knowledge that had built you not only into a wonderful chef, but an incredible human being as well.
Everything about you seemed to blow my dreary, grey life wide open, forcing me to look around at my own poorly furnished, landlord white apartment and ask: “do I even want to be here?”
The answer was no, and it came to me fast enough that I felt a bit guilty about it, selfish, even. I was turning over the question in my head, wondering what in me makes me feel as though I’m worthy of stepping into your world of colour with all of my grey. Would I be taking away from you? Dragging you down? Holding you back? You were a spice market worthy of starting wars over and I was salt and pepper.
It had been two weeks of colour for me, two weeks since that fateful night in the staff room. I’d woken in your prismatic space, in the soft warmth of your bed, with you in the kitchen making me eggs. I’d always been a firm believer in food tasting different when it is made with love, but you only cemented that for me. I’d never quite been able to replicate them on my own, so whatever love you must have put into them must have been something special… Or maybe it was just the rosemary salt.
Your cat, Cannoli, had sprawled across my chest, purring loudly and kneading with her only front paw. I’d always considered myself more of a dog guy, but I couldn’t help but be endeared by her. She was a sweet, black, long-haired kitten with eyes so green they almost looked unnatural. With her missing leg, she reminded me of an old army buddy, one Dr. Jack Abbot, who—last I heard—had a pretty cushy job at a hospital in Pittsburgh. As I scratched behind Cannoli’s ear, I decided that I should introduce the two sometime. You and Jack too, of course.
Cannoli had been a new fixture in your life, one recent enough that I could remember the day you’d gotten her.
You’d found her on the way into work the morning after Halloween, just a tiny little thing trying to take shelter in an overturned garbage can. You were never certain, but you had a nasty suspicion that she was one of the many Halloween “prop cats” that were adopted then abandoned after the holiday. You’d scooped her into your arms, let her burrow into your jacket, then snuck her into the staff room at work.
I hadn’t quite known exactly what was going on, but I knew that something was up from the way that you and Beans kept giggling mischievously all morning. The two of you also kept taking a suspicious amount of bathroom breaks, which—after the habanero incident—I certainly wasn’t one to judge; however, after I took the initiative to follow you and caught you sneaking into the staff room with a couple ounces of sashimi-grade salmon in your pocket, I had a few questions.
I’d found you kneeling on the ground next to a cardboard box that had been salvaged from the recycling bin. A few smuggled tea towels lined the bottom and you were currently baby-talking the box’s contents and feeding it small pieces of salmon. I watched you for a few moments, torn between endearment and annoyance, then cleared my throat.
You jumped like you’d been shot and I couldn’t help but laugh. You whipped around to face me like a deer in headlights, or a kid with their hand in the cookie jar, and your mouth moved like you were trying to speak but couldn’t.
You finally settled on a far too casual. “Hey… Chef.”
“Hey.” I replied, then jerked my chin in the direction of the box. “Whatcha got there?”
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to see you sneaking salmon out of the kitchen and baby talking a cardboard box, so you’ve either got an animal or schizophrenia.”
You sighed deeply and gestured for me to come over. Once I was kneeling on the floor next to you, out came a flood of apologies and explanations, but I was more preoccupied by the little critter in the box.
“You know this is a health and safety violation, right?”
“I know.” You ran a hand over your face. “I—There’s a twenty-four hour vet clinic by my apartment. I was going to get it checked for a microchip there after work, I just—.” You cut yourself off with a sigh, letting the sentence die in the air between us. “I‘m sorry.”
Endearment had won out at this point. “Listen, I appreciate that you had good intentions. You’re trying to do a good thing. I respect that, health and safety violation aside. Don’t feel like you have to sneak around me, though. If stuff like this happens again, which I’m guessing it will with you, come talk to me. We’ll figure something out. We’ll work together.”
You’d smiled at me then and, despite the cold morning, I felt myself warm down to the tips of my toes.
Back in your bed, in the bleary morning light, Cannoli had shifted her kneading down to the soft of my stomach. A bolt of something ugly ran through me as I suddenly became aware of the soft of my stomach. I didn't want to name the feeling, so I simply lifted Cannoli off of me and got out of bed. She meowed once in protest, then promptly curled up in the warm blankets I’d left on the mattress.
I tugged on one of the t-shirts that I’d moved to your place, my boxers hanging low on my hips, and then moved into the kitchen where you currently were. I could smell the richness of the eggs you were cooking and the trademark salty smell of bacon in the oven. I just watched you for a moment, unaware of my presence and half-dancing to something playing on your stereo, as a fond smile grew on my face. Yep, endearment had definitely won out.
It was the growling of my stomach that alerted you to my presence. Admittedly, it had been quite a night and I was starving.
You turned around, smile bright and welcoming, before abandoning your pan of eggs in favour of wrapping your arms around me. You released me just enough to give yourself enough room to pepper my face with kisses, each one punctuated by a greeting.
I laughed under your touch, lightheartedly trying to extricate myself from you. “Alright, alright, good morning pretty girl, but don’t burn your eggs.”
You swore under your breath and dove for the pan again, drawing out even more laughter from me.
“Not burnt!” You announced, happily.
I just smiled as you divided the eggs onto two plates, then pulled the bacon from the oven and split that up too. Food in hand, you led me to your breakfast nook so we could eat. We sat beside each other, both of us choosing the cushioned bench over the hard wood chairs opposite it, and adjusted ourselves so we could see each other. We ate in blissful, dare I say domestic silence, until our forks scraped the porcelain of your plates and there was little obligation that kept me from leaving. What kept me in that state of overstaying my welcome was nothing but selfish want of you, your space, and (though you’ll give me shit for saying it) your vibe. Both of us had a day off and I wanted nothing more than to spend it basking in you, but a nagging voice in the back of my head told me to leave, that I’d been with you too long, that you were bored.
“I think I might have a shower.” You said, breaking the silence and me from my thoughts. “Care to join me?”
Fuck, you always knew just what to say.
We moved into the bathroom where the lights weren’t nearly as kind, harsh white fluorescents instead of the warm pseudo-incandescents that lit the rest of your space. You paused in the middle of unbuttoning your sleep shirt, a thought hitting you, then darted out of the bathroom again. You called over your shoulder that you were grabbing me a towel.
In the unforgiving light of your bathroom, I couldn’t help but study myself in your mirror. Physically, I hadn’t changed much since we’d gotten together, but next to you all my flaws seemed that much more prominent. Same salt-and-pepper curls that never quite behaved, same lines and wrinkles that marked my face and neck, same softening flesh and skin that was once hard and angular. In my army days, I’d had a rather impressive set of abs, but middle age and years of civvie life had done away with them. Every so often I’d think about getting them back, but then late nights and work stress and good food would, in turn, do away with those thoughts. I could see my age in my hands, the one part of the body that never lied, and I couldn’t help the slight grimace that overtook my face. Surely this couldn’t be what you wanted, right? Some tired, wrinkly old fart with a flabby stomach and no technological skill? Surely you’d be happier with—!
“You okay?”
I jumped a little at your sudden appearance, I hadn’t even noticed your return.
“You were miles away.” You continued, moving to stand behind me. Your hands snaked up and over my hips to settle on the midpoint between my chest and waist. “What were you thinking about?”
I sucked my teeth, unsure of what to say. Feelings of all colours and creeds floated through my head, but with none of the words to describe them properly.
“I just—.” I tried. “Are you sure you want me?”
Your hands fell away from me then, seemingly in shock, before you moved between me and the mirror.
“What are you talking about?” Your eyebrows furrowed, though not angrily.
I blew out a long sigh. “I—Don’t you think you might be happier with someone your own age? I mean, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, years of travel and learning and colour, and I don’t… I don’t want to hold you back.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” Your voice was small and on the verge of shaking. I noticed the way you’d started to pick at the cuticle on your right thumb, a nervous tic.
“No!” I replied, immediately and far louder than I should have. “No, Iris, I’m not—I want to be with you for as long as you’ll allow me the pleasure. I just want to be sure that you’re okay with that. You’ve lived more than most people ever will, including me. My life has been characterized by Boston, North & Vine, and a shitty kitchen in an even shittier desert in the Middle East… But even in the short time that I’ve known you, you have brought so much—well—life into my world. I don’t ever want to lose that, or you, but I don’t think I could live with myself if I was the one to drain that life out of you.”
Your expression shifted from nervous to warm and you slotted yourself into my arms, your head tilting to press against mine. I could feel your heartbeat against my chest as I brought my arms up to wrap around you, holding you closer and tighter than I ought to have.
“Grant, if I didn’t want you wholly, unconditionally, and exactly as you are, you wouldn’t be in my house right now.” You told me, plainly. “I want to wake up with you, I want quiet mornings and laundry days, I want petty arguments over bad movies and even worse coffee, and I want you warming my bed at night. I like that you’re different to the guys I’ve dated before. Sure, you’re iffy with technology and you sent a thumbs up to my excellently composed nude once—.”
“Okay how many times do I need to apologize for that?”
You just laughed. “—but that’s so small in the grand scheme of things. You can’t put a value on compassion, and sensitivity, and humour, and competency… And you certainly can’t teach someone how to be the sexiest silver fox I’ve ever seen.”
One of your hands had slid downwards to grab my ass. I didn’t flinch at the movement, merely looked down my nose at you and cocked an eyebrow as you looked up and flashed me a cheeky grin.
“You… are trouble.” I told you, a half-grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
You giggled. “Why don’t we hold off on the shower for a minute?”
“Just a minute? Ye of little faith…” I teased you. “We went for hours last night.”
“True enough,” you conceded, “but I think I’ll be in charge this time.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You go right ahead, pretty girl, show me what you’re made of.”
In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have teased you like that.
Before I knew it, you’d shooed Cannoli out of the bedroom and had pushed me backwards onto the bed. Your sleepshirt hung deliciously off your shoulders as you straddled my barely-clothed hips. I was already half-hard at the almost harsh way you were piloting my body, tugging off my shirt and boxers to fling them into a messy heap on the opposite side of the room, but the way you ground your hips against mine had my cock painfully erect faster than I’d ever imagined. Your lips crashed against mine, my hands fumbling for you to pull you closer and closer to me. I wanted you, I needed you, to sit on my face until you came or I died, whichever came first.
My hands found your thighs and I tried to tug you upwards, but you fought against me. Instead, you made a show of finishing unbuttoning your shirt, letting it flow over your arms and the curves of your waist like water before tossing it away. You were practically unwrapping yourself for me, like a gift I didn’t deserve. Your bare breasts appeared from beneath the fabric, leaving you in nothing but the silky panties you’d slept in. I could feel the heat radiating off of your core and into mine, driving me wild in the process.
Your lips found mine again, but only briefly. You whispered for me to keep still as you kissed my face sweetly. Your affections then moved down to my neck, where I’d undoubtedly have hickeys come tomorrow’s shift. You kissed all along my chest, biting and nipping, pain and pleasure, in equal measure. I felt a twinge of that earlier insecurity as you pressed your lips to my stomach, but it was quickly overridden by the whispered praises and compliments punctuating each kiss.
You delivered two delicious bites, one to each of my hipbones, before you traced your fingers delicately over the shaft of my cock. I bucked into the gesture completely involuntarily, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to tear its way out of my throat. “Jesus, sweetheart, give me a warning next time!”
“Sensitive…” You murmured salaciously. “I think I can have fun with that.”
“What do you—?” I cut myself off with a strangled moan as your tongue replaced your fingers.
I had never gotten head from you before. I was more than happy to taste you, then bury myself in your gorgeous pussy, but this was something else. I felt your nails digging into my hips as you took my cock into your mouth, and my brain went blank. I could hardly think of anything but the way you were sucking my cock, it felt incredible, but you had an uncanny ability for keeping me just on the edge and never allowing me to tip over. Whimpers and pleas for permission to come flowed freely from my mouth, inhibited by neither embarrassment nor self-awareness. All I knew was your mouth and its unrelenting pace.
When you finally pulled free from my cock, tears were rolling down my cheeks.
“You okay?” You asked me, dropping the bravado and thumbing away my tears “What colour?”
I gave a few heaving breaths before replying. “Green, so fucking green. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, handsome.” You kissed my forehead. “I want this to last after all.”
I watched as you tugged off your underwear, tossing them into the same void where my clothes currently laid, and straddled my hips again. You took my hand and drew my fingers across the folds of your pussy, moaning at the sensation. You were soaked just from giving me head and I could have come from that knowledge alone. My dick throbbed in response and I bit back a groan.
“Do you see what you do to me, Grant?” You whispered to me, beginning to grind yourself against my hard cock. “I came just from giving you head.”
I fully cried out at that. My cock was achingly hard but you weren’t giving me enough stimulation. Your hips rolled against mine painfully slowly, sending lightning up my spine with every ounce of friction.
“You couldn’t see it, but I was touching myself to you, and your pretty noises.” You continued on. “Fuck, you’re handsome. I’m so glad you’re mine.”
“Stop—Stop teasing me.” I choked out. “Please, just fuck me.”
“Say it.”
“What?”
“Say that you’re mine.”
Your eyes met mine with—was that possessiveness?
“I’m yours.” It was barely a choked whisper from me, all that I could manage in the moment.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours—!”
You lowered yourself onto my cock and the moan I let out scared Cannoli in the next room. In the part of my brain that wasn’t addled by you, I recognized the sound of her spooked skitters on the floor. Somewhere between a moan and a yell, I bit down on your shoulder to stifle it. You gasped in my ear at the sensation, then groaned low in your throat.
“You’re so good for me.” You murmured, beginning to bounce on my cock. “I’m so lucky to have found you.”
I couldn’t speak, everything in me was focused on you and the pressure building in me. My muscles felt taut, like a bow strung too tightly, and I clenched my eyes shut.
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open and was greeted with easily the most beautiful sight of my life. Your eyes met mine from where you remained bouncing on my cock, your hair was mussed and sweaty, your breasts bounced deliciously with every movement you made. I was desperate to devour you, but all I could do was relish in the pleasure you were giving me. New pleasure, experience and learning and colour.
“You’re mine.” You told me, dead serious. “Never doubt that.”
“I love you.”
The words left my mouth before I could even process saying them. They’d come from somewhere deep, somewhere primal, that was still functioning amidst the sheer overwhelm of our fuck. I could feel you skip a beat in your rhythm, thrown off somewhat, but then you leaned over and pressed your lips to mine.
“I love you too.”
You sped up, finally giving me the stimulation I needed. Your mouth never left mine, moans and whimpers flowing from one mouth to the other. I lost track of where you started and I ended.
Before long, that bowstring in me snapped and I came, hard. I felt you come too, for the second time, and your fluttering walls only drew out my own orgasm. My body shook, my vision went white, and one hand fell down to clutch at your sheets while the other pulled you as close to me as possible.
You pulled off of me and fell onto the bed beside me. We both laid there for a few minutes, panting and staring at the ceiling, hand-in-shaking-hand.
“You okay?” You asked me, eventually.
“I said our first ‘I love you’ and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” I looked over at you, a nervous smile beginning to grow. “Shit, that should have been more romantic.”
You simply laughed and snuggled into my chest. “It was perfect. You’re perfect.”
“I was bored. It was late. I was horny. A dangerous combination. Texting you wasn't enough and I could feel the chemistry through the screen. I slipped out of my clothes leaving the Sox tee you had liked this afternoon visible on the bed. I wanted you to put the pieces together. I took this picture today. Now. For you. I took a few more- each showed more skin than the last in hopes that you would take the bait and want to see more of me. I settled on the tamest one first. No real nudity but plenty of curves and lines. The smile I saved just for you. In my bed where I thought of you.”
