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Iris gets some well deserved, long awaited TLC after returning from a trip; Grant takes his time.
(Word Count: 4,740 Minors DNI! Tags and material within: Grant Reilly/Iris Adams, BIPOC!Iris, established relationship, baths, cooking together,romance and fluff, fluff and smut, piv sex, fingering,handjobs,talking you through it, dirty talk,use of good girl, SoftDom!Grant cockwarming if you squint)
✨💖💜👩🏾🍳👨🏼🍳💜💖✨
He opened after the first knock.
“Grant!” Iris cried. Her smile was sleepy, brown eyes weary, the trip and hours of travel caught up after weeks of motion.
“Welcome home, doll,” he murmured with open arms.
Iris walked into the embrace, sighing happily when she wrapped around his torso. She breathed in cedar and Old Spice, warm and familiar as the heavy hands rubbing her back.
“I wanted to pick you up—” Grant began.
“Shh…”
“I could have had Beans cover—”
“Just let me hug you, okay? I couldn’t hug you in Amsterdam,” Iris whispered.
“Alright,” Grant chuckled as he rubbed her back. “Welcome home, doll.”
“Thank you,” Iris smiled softly against his chest.
She hummed at in the puzzle pieces that made this place his—theirs. The keys in the teal ceramic bowl by the door, strings of polaroids of the whole crew hanging over their coat hooks. The squishy strawberry pillow on the couch from Iris’s place; the one Grant loves to sleep on no matter how he denied it. Her shampoo on his shelf in the shower, the pairs of pajamas in the drawer.
“You hungry?” asked Grant.
“Starving.”
“Good.” Grant led her to the kitchen island and pat the bar stool before tying his dark apron. “You have two weeks of stories to tell, and the fridge is fully restocked. So, get comfy and tell me all about Amsterdam.”
“Wait, I wanna cook with you.”
“Really? Don’t wanna relax?”
“I’m most relaxed when I’m cooking,” Iris shrugged. Her deep brown eyes were searching; a plea lined their edges.
I’ve been away from you long enough.
“Ah, yeah. I understand,” he muttered. “I’m most relaxed then too.” His gaze softened before taking Iris’s apron off the hook and holding it out. “You know where everything lives.”
Iris beamed.
Moving though the kitchen was always a dance, the type just depended on the shift; it was never the same twice. On Friday nights, interpretive jazz. Wednesday afternoon, ballet. Sunday morning, tango.
Just the two of them, a waltz.
As a Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young vinyl spun in the corner, the pair flowed to an easy rhythm; driven but not rushed, calm without being slow, taking liberties within boundaries. Ideas and questions were tossed eagerly, their tones far softer than on the line.
“Do we still have those peppers?
“Could you pass me the mortar and pestle, pretty please?”
“Let’s toss that in there, why not?”
“Taste this.”
“It’s amazing.”
In between, Iris recounted the visit; she surprised an old culinary school friend, fresh off opening a Surinamese restaurant. She gleefully added her friend landed the collaboration of a lifetime with the Suriname Museum right across the canal, proudful on their behalf. Iris traipsed the city solo in the back half of the trip; she penciled impromptu meet ups with other local friends, snuck into a food walking tour, and made several trips to museums after hitting up a coffee shop.
Grant supplied local updates while he stirred this and squeezed that: the doorman’s wife is expecting and the person upstairs really improved on the cello. His favorite farmer’s market vendor asked about her and the windowsill cat four doors down is sporting a cone from a mystery procedure. And the Sox are down. He didn’t want to talk about that one.
Daring, lofty ambitions led to a feast of velvety tomato risotto and bright black bean tacos. Iris inspired Grant to use fried wonton sheets instead of tortillas and sprinkle lime juice on them, because of course she tried that before and of course it was delicious. He wowed her by suggesting a smidge of gochujang to the beans while they sauteed. The risotto had deep umami from Grant tossing in anchovy. He fondly reminisced on an army buddy of his who was from Naples by way of Mahwah, New Jersey whose Nonna swore by it. They finished the risotto with a sprinkle of cilantro and swirl of coconut milk; the suggestion was made in unison. They laughed.
“Any ideas for dessert? I can make a mean stroopwafel now.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I already got that covered. There’s a pint of Amorino in the freezer with your name on it.”
“Are you serious?!”
“Hazelnut,” he winked.
“Aww, thank you! I might cry,” Iris whined.
Grant shrugged, “it was nothing, thought you’d want a favorite after being away from it for a while.”
“Thank you so much, that’s so sweet.”
“Enjoy, I’ll handle the dishes.”
“I could hel—"
“I know for a fact you’re not relaxed washing dishes.”
Iris opened her mouth, swiftly closing it.
Grant smirked with a nod before turning his back to clean.
Most adventures for Iris ended with her getting to her empty apartment in Brooklyn, cold and dusty from being away weeks or months on end. Iris made friends wherever she went, but solitude always greeted her when she unlocked the door.
“You think loudly, baby,” he gently teased. “Talk to me.”
“This is just…such a warm welcome,” Iris cleared her throat. “I’m just really glad to be back…and back here with you,” she finished.
There was no time to ruminate if she ended that lamely before Grant rounded the island and hugged her where she sat, questions a distant memory. Iris hopped from the stool and embrace him, safe against the solidness of his body.
“Oh, Iris.”
Two weeks. Two weeks without her laugh or smile. Two weeks of half empty, cooling coffee pots. Two weeks of cold sheets. Two weeks without holding her. Grant buried his face in her curls, breathing in the tea tree and jojoba oil maintaining her rich coils. The scent is as vital as breathing.
“Let’s get cozy, baby," Grant said.
“Yeah.”
Sweet peony and rose danced on the steam as the tub slowly filled; clouds of bubbles puffed high and light, rendering the porcelain bottom a mere memory. Warm, buttery amber glowed against tile thanks to Iris’s Himalayan salt lamp and Grant finally putting the scented candles he bought on a whim to good use. Seaside Paradise and Lavender Escape would have their moment in the sun, after all.
“How long has this been on?” Grant sneered at the lacy bra strap like it insulted his honor.
“Like…17 hours,” Iris winced as she shimmied free of her jeans and kicked them out of view.
He tsked and smoothed his fingers on the underwire. “We don’t need it anymore, do we?”
“No, we don’t.”
Grant slid the straps before deft fingers freed the hooks, the pink lace pooled limp his hand and softly dropped to the floor.
Golden lamplight made Iris’s deep skin shine like rich carnelian, the wafting steam dewed her body, gleaming against the shadows. Her deep brown eyes went tourmaline and her hair furled and wisped at her ears like a halo. His gaze was unhurried, lingering over the soft rise at her breasts, the elegant hip curves that travel down her thighs, stopping at her grey panties.
“May I—?”
“Nah.”
Grant’s touch lingered after Iris backed away. She shot him with a coy look over her shoulder and slinked towards the tub, swaying her hips and bending down languidly to turn off the tap. Iris remained bent and stared at him, making a show of pulling her underwear off, slowing to a teasing pace once she got to the roundest part of her ass. Iris sank low in the tub, a lengthy sigh escaped as the hot water got to work soothing away the jet lag and travel stress She stretched from root to tip, earning a few pops from tense shoulder blades.
“Starting to sound like me,” Grant snorted.
“You’re a bad influence on my bones, old man.” Iris turned in the bath until her hip crested the water, suds glistened and glided over her skin. “Your turn,” she whispered, beckoning with a slender index finger.
“Boston bathtubs aren’t built for two.”
“They should be.”
“I don’t disagree,” Grant lowered to sit next to the tub; knees creaked in protest when he reached the floor. “But if I tried to get in there with you, I’d probably break a hip contorting to fit.” Grant joked. “Pre-war construction didn’t have relaxing soaks in mind, I’m afraid.”
“Cause you were there when they got built.”
Grant rolled his eyes, “walked right into that. To be fair, I didn’t know a beautiful woman would end up bathing in my apartment; couldn’t plan with the builders,” he joked.
“You’re forgiven,” Iris laughed lightly. “I’m taking you to a ryokan the first chance I get.”
“Ah, what’s that again?”
“Hot spring resorts, they’re all over Japan. I spent December in Hokkaido two years ago and booked a stay. Fuckin’ changed my life. We should go to one with a private bath attached to the room, how does that sound, soaking together all day?”
“Tempting,” Grant admitted. “You would probably handle the water better than me, you’re accustomed to boiling hot showers,” he teased.
“Could get more used to them if you joined me,” Iris chirped as she playfully collected a mound of bubbles in her hand. “Get a change from those ice-cold military ones.”
“They get me clean and wake me up, all I need.”
“Suit yourself. In that case, you got a dream city? Dream country?”
Grant shrugged. “Uh, I got one. Feels sorta basic though, you make me wanna pick somewhere niche,” it was said not unkindly.
“You don’t have to do that; no place is basic!” Iris encouraged.
“I’ll tell you soon, just wanna think on it some more. Now, enough about me, this is for you.”
Sloshing and light splashes echoed off the tile. The bathroom fell to comfortable stillness as Grant ran a shea butter massage bar over aches that were minutes or days or weeks old. He moved gingerly and checked in often when he went over the deep ridges left over from the bra and quietly asked if there were other tender spots with his lips brushing her temple.
“Does this feel good?” Grant asked with slow circles on her sternum.
“Mmm-hmmm…” Iris sighed. The bar practically melted in Grant’s warm hand, creating a pleasant gloss along her skin. She stretched to meet his hand and shivered when it slid between her breasts and back up to her arms. The tenderness of his rough palm in her downy one was always arresting, always cherished.
Grant toyed with how much bass, how much blunt direction to lace in his voice as the longer he worked; air puffed warm against her neck when he gently guided her this way and that. Praise followed soon after, not enough to send Iris to the brink; enough to play, enough to confirm she was open to suggestions. The fondness that greeted Iris when she turned made warmth shoot through her chest.
Grant broke the silence. “Paris.”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve always wanted to see Paris. I know it’s kinda basic, like ‘ah, yeah of course the chef wants to go there,’ but…I dunno, gotta live up to the hype somehow, in some places. I know it’s probably like…a training wheels destination for you but…”
“We can go to Paris, baby,” Iris replied softly. “What’d you think, I’d dunk on your choice?”
Grant shrugged, “you’ve been to so many amazing places, I guess I felt like I needed to pick somewhere more…I dunno…off the grid. Exciting. So, when the old man says he wants to see a heavy tourist city, I—"
“Oh, Grant…” she tutted, caressing his freckled forearm. Her hand was damp and soapy, Grant didn’t care.
He sighed. “I’m thinking too much again, aren’t I?”
“A little.” Iris poked. “I love Paris, I’d love to be your tour guide,” she murmured.
“Yeah? You’d show me some of your old haunts?” A smile crept up Grant’s lips.
Hers matched his. “Yeah, I could tell you what to do for once. We’ll start making spreadsheets of markets and restaurants to try out when we go. Thank you, baby, you’ve given me a project,” Iris said, ecstatic.
The tension fully left his shoulders, “I’d like that. And I’m glad.”
“Don’t ever feel like you have to impress me with a country you wanna visit, okay? I’d love to be anywhere with you, Grant. I mean it. Plus, Paris is classic.”
Grant laughed, a low and husky thing. He cupped Iris’s cheek and drew aimlessly with his thumb, her skin was rosy from the steam, full lips parted. Onyx eyes were lidded, hungry, and bored into his mouth.
“I like classic,” Iris whispered.
His thumb dragged across her petal-soft lips and groaned when she caught it with her tongue and sucked it to her mouth. A whimper vibrated through his thumb.
Their kiss began like the steam around them, slow and warm, gentle movement between two things in space. All it took was an eager hand weaving through Grant’s thick, silver curls for the mounting tension to snap like a coiled spring. Chianti lingered and deepened on their tongues, heady and potent when they entangled, swallowing each other’s moans. Dark handprints and streaks littered Grant’s steely grey shirt the more Iris tried to snake her arms around his shoulders, tub be damned.
“I missed you so much,” she panted, kissing him again, and again.
“I missed you too, oh—oh, Iris…Let’s get you up, here…” Grant paused his fervor enough to ensure no one slipped. He knelt before her after that; his towel of choice was purple and patterned with flowers and leaves. She mentioned it being her favorite once in a fleeting moment when they folded laundry two weeks ago. It smelled freshly washed, a barely-there warmth lingered. A video call could never capture the silkiness of Iris’s thigh in Grant’s hand; a photo would never know how her skin trembled against his lips when he kissed her stomach or replicate the glint in her deep eyes when they met his.
“That all you wanna do tonight?” the hazy tremble in Iris’s voice betrayed her attempt at joking.
“Hardly, sweetheart,” Grant took her hand and kissed each knuckle. “We’re nowhere near done, but I wanna take my time, my girl is back I need to savor this.”
“Aww…I like being your girl,” Iris whispered, honest and quiet and sweet.
“Fuck…” Grant rasped.
“Promise?” she muttered, tilting her hips forward, eager and baiting and torturous.
“Yeah, baby. I promise.” With a final kiss to her upper thigh Grant stood and wrapped the towel loosely around her chest; the glint in his eye was deadly when he hoisted her up, carrying her to the bedroom. A gasping laugh echoed through the bathroom before morphing to giggles, pulsing and muffled into his neck.
Splayed out across the bed, Iris sighed against sage green sheets. Before long she settled into a lounge, the elegant line of her spine twisted so she faced him; her soft breasts tumbled forward, and her hip crested high and smooth in the pose.
“Off,” she purred, eyes hungry.
“Yes, ma’am,” Grant chuckled.
Decades of labor, of walking b-lines in tight corners and balancing heavy pots and boxes and dishes and whatever else landed in his hands over the years told its story over peach skin. Wide trapezius muscles flexed when Grant reached far back and peeled the shirt smoothly, slowing only to remove it without tearing. Iris followed the slope of Grant’s sharp deltoids and triceps, the smooth, defined curvature in his solid, twitching biceps, committing every line and shape to memory.
“Ooh…” Iris sighed when Grant turned, allowing her drink in his bare chest.
“Gonna do that every time you see me shirtless?” he chuckled, suddenly bashful.
“Not every time, but if I haven’t seen it in two weeks? Yes.”
For the first time that night, Grant blushed. Not much phased him, not at fifty-two, not after how much he’s worked and seen. But here, the way her dark eyes raked over the deep valley between his pectorals and toned abs, the way she licked her lips counting each oblique cascading down his sides all smoothed by the natural cushion of time, unmoored him. Iris didn’t shy away from the lines that betray late nights and unknown stresses that permanently etched his features, she celebrated, cherished, desired them. Featherlight touches graced his back and chest before, in the wee hours when Iris decided to count his moles and freckles, charting them like stars. Sunspots and patches of tan skin on his forearms and shoulders were compared to nebulas more than once, with a voice as delicate as her touch. Grant thought it was corny. The first time.
Grant tugged with more force than necessary, letting out a heaving sigh at the relieved pressure on his cock growing harder the longer it dressed to the left in his boxer briefs.
“What else do you want, Iris?” Grant murmured. Her name tasted like a prayer now, a natural place to land on his lips, a thing to keep the heart beating.
“Come here,” she held out a hand.
Lacing their fingers together, Grant let himself be pulled in. He crawled until they lay side by side, drawing lazy circles on her thigh.
“Tell me what to do,” Iris whispered.
Grant shivered, ceasing his movements. “Yeah? That what you want?” His hand slid from her leg to the crest of her waist, his fingers painted lazy, tender brush strokes over russet stretch marks.
“Yeah,” she whimpered. “Just need you…”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Grant gently tilted Iris’s chin. “All you need to do tonight is feel, okay? I wanna take care of you.”
Fondness softened the edges of her lustful eyes, “okay.”
Almond, cherry-red nails raked over the wispy hair dusting Grant’s broad chest while large, vascular hands grasped and kneaded tender thighs and looped around her hips. Moans bubbled from her when blips latched her neck; teeth scraped against her pulse while his hand traveled down, fingertips ghosting her mound.
“You miss my fingers?”
Grant pressed wide and flat against her folds, working her in slow circles. Iris mewled, her legs already jiggled as she breathed deeply and wrapped her arms around him, trying to maintain her dwindling composure.
“Y-yes…yes, baby…hah…” Iris writhed. Squelching, clear and obscene, permeated the room after a miniscule amount of attention. Grant hummed his approval hot against her neck; his breath tickled, goosebumps bloomed when Iris squirmed at the sensation.
“Oh, listen to that…missed me that much, hm? Gonna cum just from touching you like this?” Grant cooed, lecherous.
His fingers moved vertically now in something that resembled a rhythm, a steady cresting and ebbing like waves over her cunt. The flat of his palm pressed her sodden, flushed ripe clit. Iris clenched around nothing.
“Grant…!” she cried.
“I was joking, but you actually might. Sensitive tonight aren’t ya, baby?” he tutted.
Thickened arousal meant very little friction, her gummy muscles accepted him easily. Iris threw her head back with a moan, finally in his ecstasy.
“Mmhmm, yes, Iris. I’ve waited so long for this.”
She missed the dull tension his thick fingers gave when he first entered her, the control in his hand, the intense focus in his eyes when he pumped, like his mind only registered pleasuring her.
“Mmmgh—hah…oh, Grant…mghh, fuck—” Iris purred into his chest.
“Fuck, Iris…takin’ me so well already, good girl,” he murmured low with a sigh, sated, like Grant was a man starved and her moans were his sustenance. Her wanton noises went straight to his cock now achingly hard in his briefs; he could reach down briefly and adjust, squeeze it for a second to bring some relief. But that would mean a second of not touching her, not doing what brought those noises in the first place, and any second would feel like a millennium too long.
Iris squirmed in his embrace when the arm around her shoulder moved to her front and held her full breast. Grant hummed when the weight of it heaved in his palm, his fingers molded around her softness easily. A calloused thumb rolled and teased her pert nipple, the warm tingle cascaded from her chest and jolted anew with each pass. His touches toed between all-encompassing and barely there and feather light, enough to make her focus on the feeling, on him.
To pay attention.
“Grant it…fuck—it feels so…feels so good, baby…oh…” Iris cried.
“Good, that’s exactly right baby, I wanna hear you feeling good—ooh, shit…” Grant hissed when Iris’s pussy throbbed at his praise, sucking in his fingers deeper. “Squeezing around me already, damn…this what you needed right, just needed me in this pussy?”
“Yes…!”
“Mhm, I know, baby, I know,” he kissed her again, quick and bruising that swallowed her moan. “Tell me what else you need.”
“I need to touch you.”
Grant’s laugh was huffed, heated. Carefully, he slid his fingers from Iris’s warmth, she tasted rich and heady on his tongue. He sat on his knees and beckoned her to follow. “Get up here.”
Iris kissed him sloppily when Grant pulled her in. His grip wasn’t ungentle, there was an edge, a claiming in the way his hands eclipsed her love handles, an affirmation that this was happening and they were together.
That she was his.
“Finally, I can get my hands on this,” Grant grasped her ass cheeks, giving them an appreciative squeeze. Iris squealed and responded with brushing kisses over his chest, she tasted his sweat on her tongue.
She tugged his underwear off, sighing along with Grant when his cock sprag free. Once he was in her hand, Iris’s stomach flipped. Grant was at full attention now, pulsing and flushed pink, the head glistened with pre-cum that dripped lazily from the tip; her hand nearly wrapped around him, if she gripped enough.
“Ahh…! Hah—fuck,” Grant thrust into her hand, just as sensitive and desperate as she was. Iris’s lustful gaze found his when she held the base; she bit her lip as every ridge and vein ran beneath her hand, slicked with pre-cum. Inch by inch, Iris worked up his girthy shaft, relishing in the heat and hardness with long, relinquishing strokes. She glanced at his face, Grant’s mouth hung open with heavy breaths, sweat-dewed pectorals glistened in the low light. His grip on her tightened with a jerk when Iris sped up, lewd, pumping wet sounds mixed with their heavy breaths. A swipe over his leaking tip sent Grant rolling heavily onto Iris and whimpered hot and needy in her ear.
“You want to fuck me, Grant?” Iris panted.
“Yeah…y-yeah baby, I wanna fuck you…Want me to fuck you?” Grant whimpered.
Her strokes were erratic now. “So badly…please…”
“Say it. I wanna hear you say it,” Grant urged.
“I want you to fuck me, please…please Grant…”
“Good girl,” Grant shivered. “Lie down for me.”
The warm plush squished beneath her weight when Iris fell into the pillows, she opened her legs broadly, nerves hummed in anticipation of what would come after. Grant towered over Iris even as he knelt, his strong form radiated heat and power thrummed through him. He spat in his palm, dirty and primal and grasped himself tightly, the last bit of build-up he needed before he lowered and lined up between her legs. Iris keened when he entered her, his blunt, thick head creating the pressure she yearned for, craved for weeks. Grant rumbled low and hot, spilling languid profanity in her ear.
“Fuck…that’s it, that’s it baby let me in…”
Iris sobbed when he bottomed out, the ache burned deliciously in her core. “Hah--! Oh…Grant, fuck!” Iris keened into his neck. Nails dug in deeper to the meat of his shoulder, arms tightened around him.
“Yes, yes, good girl,” Grant praised through gritted teeth through the sting of her hands; he cocooned her with his arms and cradling her head. “You took me so well…” he breathed into her skin.
Grant was slow at first, careful, measured things, though Iris’s face was painted in ecstasy even after so little movement, her brows furrowed and eyes screwed shut, full lips agape produced cloying sounds.
“Beautiful…you’re fucking beautiful like this,” he grunted. “You feel so good, squeezin’ me tight, huh? Need me this close to you?”
Iris whimpered, “m…mhmm…yes…yes…Need you…” She rose to meet his grinding hips, blushing at the praise. His words did the work of hands sometimes.
“G-good, that’s good, baby. I need you too…ah!” Her walls were silky and snug around him, drenched flesh slid loud and sticky between their bodies with each thrust. Sweaty thighs that hung tightly around his hips slapped rhythmically when he increased his pace.
“Ah! Oh, oh Grant—Gr-ah, fuck…” Sex wafted the air, cloying and heady and intoxicating, stronger than any vintage. He changed his pace, slow, deliberate, nearly punishing when his cock hit her g-spot enough to reduce Iris to a babbling, needy mess, gasping with every thrust.
“I’m…Grant, I think I’m…oh god, oooh…”
“I know…I know, baby, I’ve got you,” Grant murmured over knocking skin. “You-you’re doing so well…you always do—fuck—my good girl.”
Iris sobbed and tightened around him again, the term of endearment never failed in setting her alight. An orgasm tugged low and deep in her stomach, drawn ever closer by Grant switching speeds back to rolling thrusts. He pulled away by half before slamming insider her again; Iris’s pussy chased his dick, pathetic whimpers rang from her each time, protesting him not taking her with every second they had left.
“I’m gonna cum—Grant I’m…fuck I—”
“Go on, Iris. Go and cum on my cock, cum for me, that’s it…” He growled into her throat.
Iris screamed his name in his shoulder when she orgasmed, it was out a high and broken cry of relief, trembling at the edges. She clawed at him when she reached the peak of her climax, holding fast when her thighs jiggled and an impossible warmth washed across her body and spilled from her. Grant soon followed, coming with a shuddering grunt that tensed every muscle and coated her spongy pliant walls in his hot, thick spend.
The air finally stopped vibrating as they slowly came down, one deep breath at a time. Lead-limbed, Grant cupped Iris’s cheek and kissed her cheeks and dewy creases of her eyes.
“Iris? Iris, look at me; I miss those beautiful eyes,” he murmured.
Blurry colors slowly gave way to complete forms; Iris laughed wetly when he was clear in her vision, peach and muscle and gentle hazel eyes met her.
“Grant…Grant…” Iris whispered softly, her fingertips lightly skated over his wrinkles and laugh lines, desperate for another piece of evidence this was happening; she blindly kissed his jaw and searched for his hair, sighing when silver strands coated her fingers.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here. I’ve got ya, just breathe…” Grant guided through his own labored lungs.
Iris remained in his embrace when Grant rolled them on their sides; her hips were strained and tender from molding to his for so long, the change in pose made some of that pressure abate. But that little adjustment made the other ways Grant’s overwhelming presence was felt; her cheek squished against wispy chest hair, stubble scratched at her forehead, heavy sweat filled her nose and solid muscles pressed against her lips. He was still inside her.
“You okay?” Grant rasped with a lazy hand along her arm.
“Mhm…very okay. That was fun,” Iris slurred.
“Very fun,” he chuckled into her hair. “Do you want me to—"
“No, no, I…I like you right here,” she whined, slowly wiggling at the gentle pressure.
Grant huffed, breathless. “Alright then, let’s stay like this for a while. I’ll need to pull out eventually, get ya some water and clean up, keep taking care of you.”
“You’ve been taking care of me since I got home, silly,” Iris murmured. “Let me remember how this feels.”
“Want me to sleep inside you for the next few days?” he joked, sarcastic.
Iris gets some well deserved, long awaited TLC after returning from a trip; Grant takes his time.
(Word Count: 4,740 Minors DNI! Tags and material within: Grant Reilly/Iris Adams, BIPOC!Iris, established relationship, baths, cooking together,romance and fluff, fluff and smut, piv sex, fingering,handjobs,talking you through it, dirty talk,use of good girl, SoftDom!Grant cockwarming if you squint)
✨💖💜👩🏾🍳👨🏼🍳💜💖✨
He opened after the first knock.
“Grant!” Iris cried. Her smile was sleepy, brown eyes weary, the trip and hours of travel caught up after weeks of motion.
“Welcome home, doll,” he murmured with open arms.
Iris walked into the embrace, sighing happily when she wrapped around his torso. She breathed in cedar and Old Spice, warm and familiar as the heavy hands rubbing her back.
“I wanted to pick you up—” Grant began.
“Shh…”
“I could have had Beans cover—”
“Just let me hug you, okay? I couldn’t hug you in Amsterdam,” Iris whispered.
“Alright,” Grant chuckled as he rubbed her back. “Welcome home, doll.”
“Thank you,” Iris smiled softly against his chest.
She hummed at in the puzzle pieces that made this place his—theirs. The keys in the teal ceramic bowl by the door, strings of polaroids of the whole crew hanging over their coat hooks. The squishy strawberry pillow on the couch from Iris’s place; the one Grant loves to sleep on no matter how he denied it. Her shampoo on his shelf in the shower, the pairs of pajamas in the drawer.
“You hungry?” asked Grant.
“Starving.”
“Good.” Grant led her to the kitchen island and pat the bar stool before tying his dark apron. “You have two weeks of stories to tell, and the fridge is fully restocked. So, get comfy and tell me all about Amsterdam.”
“Wait, I wanna cook with you.”
“Really? Don’t wanna relax?”
“I’m most relaxed when I’m cooking,” Iris shrugged. Her deep brown eyes were searching; a plea lined their edges.
I’ve been away from you long enough.
“Ah, yeah. I understand,” he muttered. “I’m most relaxed then too.” His gaze softened before taking Iris’s apron off the hook and holding it out. “You know where everything lives.”
Iris beamed.
Moving though the kitchen was always a dance, the type just depended on the shift; it was never the same twice. On Friday nights, interpretive jazz. Wednesday afternoon, ballet. Sunday morning, tango.
Just the two of them, a waltz.
As a Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young vinyl spun in the corner, the pair flowed to an easy rhythm; driven but not rushed, calm without being slow, taking liberties within boundaries. Ideas and questions were tossed eagerly, their tones far softer than on the line.
“Do we still have those peppers?
“Could you pass me the mortar and pestle, pretty please?”
“Let’s toss that in there, why not?”
“Taste this.”
“It’s amazing.”
In between, Iris recounted the visit; she surprised an old culinary school friend, fresh off opening a Surinamese restaurant. She gleefully added her friend landed the collaboration of a lifetime with the Suriname Museum right across the canal, proudful on their behalf. Iris traipsed the city solo in the back half of the trip; she penciled impromptu meet ups with other local friends, snuck into a food walking tour, and made several trips to museums after hitting up a coffee shop.
Grant supplied local updates while he stirred this and squeezed that: the doorman’s wife is expecting and the person upstairs really improved on the cello. His favorite farmer’s market vendor asked about her and the windowsill cat four doors down is sporting a cone from a mystery procedure. And the Sox are down. He didn’t want to talk about that one.
Daring, lofty ambitions led to a feast of velvety tomato risotto and bright black bean tacos. Iris inspired Grant to use fried wonton sheets instead of tortillas and sprinkle lime juice on them, because of course she tried that before and of course it was delicious. He wowed her by suggesting a smidge of gochujang to the beans while they sauteed. The risotto had deep umami from Grant tossing in anchovy. He fondly reminisced on an army buddy of his who was from Naples by way of Mahwah, New Jersey whose Nonna swore by it. They finished the risotto with a sprinkle of cilantro and swirl of coconut milk; the suggestion was made in unison. They laughed.
“Any ideas for dessert? I can make a mean stroopwafel now.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I already got that covered. There’s a pint of Amorino in the freezer with your name on it.”
“Are you serious?!”
“Hazelnut,” he winked.
“Aww, thank you! I might cry,” Iris whined.
Grant shrugged, “it was nothing, thought you’d want a favorite after being away from it for a while.”
“Thank you so much, that’s so sweet.”
“Enjoy, I’ll handle the dishes.”
“I could hel—"
“I know for a fact you’re not relaxed washing dishes.”
Iris opened her mouth, swiftly closing it.
Grant smirked with a nod before turning his back to clean.
Most adventures for Iris ended with her getting to her empty apartment in Brooklyn, cold and dusty from being away weeks or months on end. Iris made friends wherever she went, but solitude always greeted her when she unlocked the door.
“You think loudly, baby,” he gently teased. “Talk to me.”
“This is just…such a warm welcome,” Iris cleared her throat. “I’m just really glad to be back…and back here with you,” she finished.
There was no time to ruminate if she ended that lamely before Grant rounded the island and hugged her where she sat, questions a distant memory. Iris hopped from the stool and embrace him, safe against the solidness of his body.
“Oh, Iris.”
Two weeks. Two weeks without her laugh or smile. Two weeks of half empty, cooling coffee pots. Two weeks of cold sheets. Two weeks without holding her. Grant buried his face in her curls, breathing in the tea tree and jojoba oil maintaining her rich coils. The scent is as vital as breathing.
“Let’s get cozy, baby," Grant said.
“Yeah.”
Sweet peony and rose danced on the steam as the tub slowly filled; clouds of bubbles puffed high and light, rendering the porcelain bottom a mere memory. Warm, buttery amber glowed against tile thanks to Iris’s Himalayan salt lamp and Grant finally putting the scented candles he bought on a whim to good use. Seaside Paradise and Lavender Escape would have their moment in the sun, after all.
“How long has this been on?” Grant sneered at the lacy bra strap like it insulted his honor.
“Like…17 hours,” Iris winced as she shimmied free of her jeans and kicked them out of view.
He tsked and smoothed his fingers on the underwire. “We don’t need it anymore, do we?”
“No, we don’t.”
Grant slid the straps before deft fingers freed the hooks, the pink lace pooled limp his hand and softly dropped to the floor.
Golden lamplight made Iris’s deep skin shine like rich carnelian, the wafting steam dewed her body, gleaming against the shadows. Her deep brown eyes went tourmaline and her hair furled and wisped at her ears like a halo. His gaze was unhurried, lingering over the soft rise at her breasts, the elegant hip curves that travel down her thighs, stopping at her grey panties.
“May I—?”
“Nah.”
Grant’s touch lingered after Iris backed away. She shot him with a coy look over her shoulder and slinked towards the tub, swaying her hips and bending down languidly to turn off the tap. Iris remained bent and stared at him, making a show of pulling her underwear off, slowing to a teasing pace once she got to the roundest part of her ass. Iris sank low in the tub, a lengthy sigh escaped as the hot water got to work soothing away the jet lag and travel stress She stretched from root to tip, earning a few pops from tense shoulder blades.
“Starting to sound like me,” Grant snorted.
“You’re a bad influence on my bones, old man.” Iris turned in the bath until her hip crested the water, suds glistened and glided over her skin. “Your turn,” she whispered, beckoning with a slender index finger.
“Boston bathtubs aren’t built for two.”
“They should be.”
“I don’t disagree,” Grant lowered to sit next to the tub; knees creaked in protest when he reached the floor. “But if I tried to get in there with you, I’d probably break a hip contorting to fit.” Grant joked. “Pre-war construction didn’t have relaxing soaks in mind, I’m afraid.”
“Cause you were there when they got built.”
Grant rolled his eyes, “walked right into that. To be fair, I didn’t know a beautiful woman would end up bathing in my apartment; couldn’t plan with the builders,” he joked.
“You’re forgiven,” Iris laughed lightly. “I’m taking you to a ryokan the first chance I get.”
“Ah, what’s that again?”
“Hot spring resorts, they’re all over Japan. I spent December in Hokkaido two years ago and booked a stay. Fuckin’ changed my life. We should go to one with a private bath attached to the room, how does that sound, soaking together all day?”
“Tempting,” Grant admitted. “You would probably handle the water better than me, you’re accustomed to boiling hot showers,” he teased.
“Could get more used to them if you joined me,” Iris chirped as she playfully collected a mound of bubbles in her hand. “Get a change from those ice-cold military ones.”
“They get me clean and wake me up, all I need.”
“Suit yourself. In that case, you got a dream city? Dream country?”
Grant shrugged. “Uh, I got one. Feels sorta basic though, you make me wanna pick somewhere niche,” it was said not unkindly.
“You don’t have to do that; no place is basic!” Iris encouraged.
“I’ll tell you soon, just wanna think on it some more. Now, enough about me, this is for you.”
Sloshing and light splashes echoed off the tile. The bathroom fell to comfortable stillness as Grant ran a shea butter massage bar over aches that were minutes or days or weeks old. He moved gingerly and checked in often when he went over the deep ridges left over from the bra and quietly asked if there were other tender spots with his lips brushing her temple.
“Does this feel good?” Grant asked with slow circles on her sternum.
“Mmm-hmmm…” Iris sighed. The bar practically melted in Grant’s warm hand, creating a pleasant gloss along her skin. She stretched to meet his hand and shivered when it slid between her breasts and back up to her arms. The tenderness of his rough palm in her downy one was always arresting, always cherished.
Grant toyed with how much bass, how much blunt direction to lace in his voice as the longer he worked; air puffed warm against her neck when he gently guided her this way and that. Praise followed soon after, not enough to send Iris to the brink; enough to play, enough to confirm she was open to suggestions. The fondness that greeted Iris when she turned made warmth shoot through her chest.
Grant broke the silence. “Paris.”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve always wanted to see Paris. I know it’s kinda basic, like ‘ah, yeah of course the chef wants to go there,’ but…I dunno, gotta live up to the hype somehow, in some places. I know it’s probably like…a training wheels destination for you but…”
“We can go to Paris, baby,” Iris replied softly. “What’d you think, I’d dunk on your choice?”
Grant shrugged, “you’ve been to so many amazing places, I guess I felt like I needed to pick somewhere more…I dunno…off the grid. Exciting. So, when the old man says he wants to see a heavy tourist city, I—"
“Oh, Grant…” she tutted, caressing his freckled forearm. Her hand was damp and soapy, Grant didn’t care.
He sighed. “I’m thinking too much again, aren’t I?”
“A little.” Iris poked. “I love Paris, I’d love to be your tour guide,” she murmured.
“Yeah? You’d show me some of your old haunts?” A smile crept up Grant’s lips.
Hers matched his. “Yeah, I could tell you what to do for once. We’ll start making spreadsheets of markets and restaurants to try out when we go. Thank you, baby, you’ve given me a project,” Iris said, ecstatic.
The tension fully left his shoulders, “I’d like that. And I’m glad.”
“Don’t ever feel like you have to impress me with a country you wanna visit, okay? I’d love to be anywhere with you, Grant. I mean it. Plus, Paris is classic.”
Grant laughed, a low and husky thing. He cupped Iris’s cheek and drew aimlessly with his thumb, her skin was rosy from the steam, full lips parted. Onyx eyes were lidded, hungry, and bored into his mouth.
“I like classic,” Iris whispered.
His thumb dragged across her petal-soft lips and groaned when she caught it with her tongue and sucked it to her mouth. A whimper vibrated through his thumb.
Their kiss began like the steam around them, slow and warm, gentle movement between two things in space. All it took was an eager hand weaving through Grant’s thick, silver curls for the mounting tension to snap like a coiled spring. Chianti lingered and deepened on their tongues, heady and potent when they entangled, swallowing each other’s moans. Dark handprints and streaks littered Grant’s steely grey shirt the more Iris tried to snake her arms around his shoulders, tub be damned.
“I missed you so much,” she panted, kissing him again, and again.
“I missed you too, oh—oh, Iris…Let’s get you up, here…” Grant paused his fervor enough to ensure no one slipped. He knelt before her after that; his towel of choice was purple and patterned with flowers and leaves. She mentioned it being her favorite once in a fleeting moment when they folded laundry two weeks ago. It smelled freshly washed, a barely-there warmth lingered. A video call could never capture the silkiness of Iris’s thigh in Grant’s hand; a photo would never know how her skin trembled against his lips when he kissed her stomach or replicate the glint in her deep eyes when they met his.
“That all you wanna do tonight?” the hazy tremble in Iris’s voice betrayed her attempt at joking.
“Hardly, sweetheart,” Grant took her hand and kissed each knuckle. “We’re nowhere near done, but I wanna take my time, my girl is back I need to savor this.”
“Aww…I like being your girl,” Iris whispered, honest and quiet and sweet.
“Fuck…” Grant rasped.
“Promise?” she muttered, tilting her hips forward, eager and baiting and torturous.
“Yeah, baby. I promise.” With a final kiss to her upper thigh Grant stood and wrapped the towel loosely around her chest; the glint in his eye was deadly when he hoisted her up, carrying her to the bedroom. A gasping laugh echoed through the bathroom before morphing to giggles, pulsing and muffled into his neck.
Splayed out across the bed, Iris sighed against sage green sheets. Before long she settled into a lounge, the elegant line of her spine twisted so she faced him; her soft breasts tumbled forward, and her hip crested high and smooth in the pose.
“Off,” she purred, eyes hungry.
“Yes, ma’am,” Grant chuckled.
Decades of labor, of walking b-lines in tight corners and balancing heavy pots and boxes and dishes and whatever else landed in his hands over the years told its story over peach skin. Wide trapezius muscles flexed when Grant reached far back and peeled the shirt smoothly, slowing only to remove it without tearing. Iris followed the slope of Grant’s sharp deltoids and triceps, the smooth, defined curvature in his solid, twitching biceps, committing every line and shape to memory.
“Ooh…” Iris sighed when Grant turned, allowing her drink in his bare chest.
“Gonna do that every time you see me shirtless?” he chuckled, suddenly bashful.
“Not every time, but if I haven’t seen it in two weeks? Yes.”
For the first time that night, Grant blushed. Not much phased him, not at fifty-two, not after how much he’s worked and seen. But here, the way her dark eyes raked over the deep valley between his pectorals and toned abs, the way she licked her lips counting each oblique cascading down his sides all smoothed by the natural cushion of time, unmoored him. Iris didn’t shy away from the lines that betray late nights and unknown stresses that permanently etched his features, she celebrated, cherished, desired them. Featherlight touches graced his back and chest before, in the wee hours when Iris decided to count his moles and freckles, charting them like stars. Sunspots and patches of tan skin on his forearms and shoulders were compared to nebulas more than once, with a voice as delicate as her touch. Grant thought it was corny. The first time.
Grant tugged with more force than necessary, letting out a heaving sigh at the relieved pressure on his cock growing harder the longer it dressed to the left in his boxer briefs.
“What else do you want, Iris?” Grant murmured. Her name tasted like a prayer now, a natural place to land on his lips, a thing to keep the heart beating.
“Come here,” she held out a hand.
Lacing their fingers together, Grant let himself be pulled in. He crawled until they lay side by side, drawing lazy circles on her thigh.
“Tell me what to do,” Iris whispered.
Grant shivered, ceasing his movements. “Yeah? That what you want?” His hand slid from her leg to the crest of her waist, his fingers painted lazy, tender brush strokes over russet stretch marks.
“Yeah,” she whimpered. “Just need you…”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Grant gently tilted Iris’s chin. “All you need to do tonight is feel, okay? I wanna take care of you.”
Fondness softened the edges of her lustful eyes, “okay.”
Almond, cherry-red nails raked over the wispy hair dusting Grant’s broad chest while large, vascular hands grasped and kneaded tender thighs and looped around her hips. Moans bubbled from her when blips latched her neck; teeth scraped against her pulse while his hand traveled down, fingertips ghosting her mound.
“You miss my fingers?”
Grant pressed wide and flat against her folds, working her in slow circles. Iris mewled, her legs already jiggled as she breathed deeply and wrapped her arms around him, trying to maintain her dwindling composure.
“Y-yes…yes, baby…hah…” Iris writhed. Squelching, clear and obscene, permeated the room after a miniscule amount of attention. Grant hummed his approval hot against her neck; his breath tickled, goosebumps bloomed when Iris squirmed at the sensation.
“Oh, listen to that…missed me that much, hm? Gonna cum just from touching you like this?” Grant cooed, lecherous.
His fingers moved vertically now in something that resembled a rhythm, a steady cresting and ebbing like waves over her cunt. The flat of his palm pressed her sodden, flushed ripe clit. Iris clenched around nothing.
“Grant…!” she cried.
“I was joking, but you actually might. Sensitive tonight aren’t ya, baby?” he tutted.
Thickened arousal meant very little friction, her gummy muscles accepted him easily. Iris threw her head back with a moan, finally in his ecstasy.
“Mmhmm, yes, Iris. I’ve waited so long for this.”
She missed the dull tension his thick fingers gave when he first entered her, the control in his hand, the intense focus in his eyes when he pumped, like his mind only registered pleasuring her.
“Mmmgh—hah…oh, Grant…mghh, fuck—” Iris purred into his chest.
“Fuck, Iris…takin’ me so well already, good girl,” he murmured low with a sigh, sated, like Grant was a man starved and her moans were his sustenance. Her wanton noises went straight to his cock now achingly hard in his briefs; he could reach down briefly and adjust, squeeze it for a second to bring some relief. But that would mean a second of not touching her, not doing what brought those noises in the first place, and any second would feel like a millennium too long.
Iris squirmed in his embrace when the arm around her shoulder moved to her front and held her full breast. Grant hummed when the weight of it heaved in his palm, his fingers molded around her softness easily. A calloused thumb rolled and teased her pert nipple, the warm tingle cascaded from her chest and jolted anew with each pass. His touches toed between all-encompassing and barely there and feather light, enough to make her focus on the feeling, on him.
To pay attention.
“Grant it…fuck—it feels so…feels so good, baby…oh…” Iris cried.
“Good, that’s exactly right baby, I wanna hear you feeling good—ooh, shit…” Grant hissed when Iris’s pussy throbbed at his praise, sucking in his fingers deeper. “Squeezing around me already, damn…this what you needed right, just needed me in this pussy?”
“Yes…!”
“Mhm, I know, baby, I know,” he kissed her again, quick and bruising that swallowed her moan. “Tell me what else you need.”
“I need to touch you.”
Grant’s laugh was huffed, heated. Carefully, he slid his fingers from Iris’s warmth, she tasted rich and heady on his tongue. He sat on his knees and beckoned her to follow. “Get up here.”
Iris kissed him sloppily when Grant pulled her in. His grip wasn’t ungentle, there was an edge, a claiming in the way his hands eclipsed her love handles, an affirmation that this was happening and they were together.
That she was his.
“Finally, I can get my hands on this,” Grant grasped her ass cheeks, giving them an appreciative squeeze. Iris squealed and responded with brushing kisses over his chest, she tasted his sweat on her tongue.
She tugged his underwear off, sighing along with Grant when his cock sprag free. Once he was in her hand, Iris’s stomach flipped. Grant was at full attention now, pulsing and flushed pink, the head glistened with pre-cum that dripped lazily from the tip; her hand nearly wrapped around him, if she gripped enough.
“Ahh…! Hah—fuck,” Grant thrust into her hand, just as sensitive and desperate as she was. Iris’s lustful gaze found his when she held the base; she bit her lip as every ridge and vein ran beneath her hand, slicked with pre-cum. Inch by inch, Iris worked up his girthy shaft, relishing in the heat and hardness with long, relinquishing strokes. She glanced at his face, Grant’s mouth hung open with heavy breaths, sweat-dewed pectorals glistened in the low light. His grip on her tightened with a jerk when Iris sped up, lewd, pumping wet sounds mixed with their heavy breaths. A swipe over his leaking tip sent Grant rolling heavily onto Iris and whimpered hot and needy in her ear.
“You want to fuck me, Grant?” Iris panted.
“Yeah…y-yeah baby, I wanna fuck you…Want me to fuck you?” Grant whimpered.
Her strokes were erratic now. “So badly…please…”
“Say it. I wanna hear you say it,” Grant urged.
“I want you to fuck me, please…please Grant…”
“Good girl,” Grant shivered. “Lie down for me.”
The warm plush squished beneath her weight when Iris fell into the pillows, she opened her legs broadly, nerves hummed in anticipation of what would come after. Grant towered over Iris even as he knelt, his strong form radiated heat and power thrummed through him. He spat in his palm, dirty and primal and grasped himself tightly, the last bit of build-up he needed before he lowered and lined up between her legs. Iris keened when he entered her, his blunt, thick head creating the pressure she yearned for, craved for weeks. Grant rumbled low and hot, spilling languid profanity in her ear.
“Fuck…that’s it, that’s it baby let me in…”
Iris sobbed when he bottomed out, the ache burned deliciously in her core. “Hah--! Oh…Grant, fuck!” Iris keened into his neck. Nails dug in deeper to the meat of his shoulder, arms tightened around him.
“Yes, yes, good girl,” Grant praised through gritted teeth through the sting of her hands; he cocooned her with his arms and cradling her head. “You took me so well…” he breathed into her skin.
Grant was slow at first, careful, measured things, though Iris’s face was painted in ecstasy even after so little movement, her brows furrowed and eyes screwed shut, full lips agape produced cloying sounds.
“Beautiful…you’re fucking beautiful like this,” he grunted. “You feel so good, squeezin’ me tight, huh? Need me this close to you?”
Iris whimpered, “m…mhmm…yes…yes…Need you…” She rose to meet his grinding hips, blushing at the praise. His words did the work of hands sometimes.
“G-good, that’s good, baby. I need you too…ah!” Her walls were silky and snug around him, drenched flesh slid loud and sticky between their bodies with each thrust. Sweaty thighs that hung tightly around his hips slapped rhythmically when he increased his pace.
“Ah! Oh, oh Grant—Gr-ah, fuck…” Sex wafted the air, cloying and heady and intoxicating, stronger than any vintage. He changed his pace, slow, deliberate, nearly punishing when his cock hit her g-spot enough to reduce Iris to a babbling, needy mess, gasping with every thrust.
“I’m…Grant, I think I’m…oh god, oooh…”
“I know…I know, baby, I’ve got you,” Grant murmured over knocking skin. “You-you’re doing so well…you always do—fuck—my good girl.”
Iris sobbed and tightened around him again, the term of endearment never failed in setting her alight. An orgasm tugged low and deep in her stomach, drawn ever closer by Grant switching speeds back to rolling thrusts. He pulled away by half before slamming insider her again; Iris’s pussy chased his dick, pathetic whimpers rang from her each time, protesting him not taking her with every second they had left.
“I’m gonna cum—Grant I’m…fuck I—”
“Go on, Iris. Go and cum on my cock, cum for me, that’s it…” He growled into her throat.
Iris screamed his name in his shoulder when she orgasmed, it was out a high and broken cry of relief, trembling at the edges. She clawed at him when she reached the peak of her climax, holding fast when her thighs jiggled and an impossible warmth washed across her body and spilled from her. Grant soon followed, coming with a shuddering grunt that tensed every muscle and coated her spongy pliant walls in his hot, thick spend.
The air finally stopped vibrating as they slowly came down, one deep breath at a time. Lead-limbed, Grant cupped Iris’s cheek and kissed her cheeks and dewy creases of her eyes.
“Iris? Iris, look at me; I miss those beautiful eyes,” he murmured.
Blurry colors slowly gave way to complete forms; Iris laughed wetly when he was clear in her vision, peach and muscle and gentle hazel eyes met her.
“Grant…Grant…” Iris whispered softly, her fingertips lightly skated over his wrinkles and laugh lines, desperate for another piece of evidence this was happening; she blindly kissed his jaw and searched for his hair, sighing when silver strands coated her fingers.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here. I’ve got ya, just breathe…” Grant guided through his own labored lungs.
Iris remained in his embrace when Grant rolled them on their sides; her hips were strained and tender from molding to his for so long, the change in pose made some of that pressure abate. But that little adjustment made the other ways Grant’s overwhelming presence was felt; her cheek squished against wispy chest hair, stubble scratched at her forehead, heavy sweat filled her nose and solid muscles pressed against her lips. He was still inside her.
“You okay?” Grant rasped with a lazy hand along her arm.
“Mhm…very okay. That was fun,” Iris slurred.
“Very fun,” he chuckled into her hair. “Do you want me to—"
“No, no, I…I like you right here,” she whined, slowly wiggling at the gentle pressure.
Grant huffed, breathless. “Alright then, let’s stay like this for a while. I’ll need to pull out eventually, get ya some water and clean up, keep taking care of you.”
“You’ve been taking care of me since I got home, silly,” Iris murmured. “Let me remember how this feels.”
“Want me to sleep inside you for the next few days?” he joked, sarcastic.
The other post is much too big and I still need help with credit card bills and food money. I was able to support my family earlier this year but I'm in between checks, and won't see any money until I finish writing my second book. If you'd like to support your favorite horror author's favorite horror author (not to mention keep a disabled Black lesbian's family afloat), please consider sending me some Good Luck, Don't Starve money!
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Girl who has increasingly obvious Symptoms over time: Actually I shouldn't put myself first because I'm the Healthy One and therefore responsible for everyone else all the time no matter what
(Don’t take this too seriously I am a Pitt tourist essentially)
I think instead of a season of the night shift crew in the hospital we should get a season of the night shift crew everywhere else BUT the hospital. Watch them have or try to forge and keep relationships and go about their days but but but the hospital is always a presence that infiltrated all their stuff. Abbot on a date but keeps getting APBs and texts from Robby. A tough case from last night still on Shen or Ellis’s mind and it’s impacting how they talk to their loved ones. It still has all the drama of the hospital but…outside.
It really is crazy how little interest I’ve had in many of the Quinn audios since Yes, Chef dropped. I check back every Tuesday and Friday and I haven’t been moved by any of the subsequent submissions (except maybe one shout out Mairseyyy). But you know what does move me…..
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Thinking about The Pitt and how it's an excellent demonstration of good people not necessarily seeming nice. Good people can be abrasive, jagged, sharp-edged, rude, blunt and seem hostile, but it doesn't mean they're not good.
There's been such a swing towards appearing nice = a good person in media that having this jangly bunch of neurotic, anxious, stressed, traumatised, terse and abrasive people still doing their damnedest to save every. single. person. they can? Such a breath of fresh air.
Don't get me wrong, The Pitt also does have its collection of cheerful, chipper, snarking in Tagalog, iced-coffee-sipping folk, but having the mix is what is such a delight in the show.
Contrasts, contradictions, and all the chaotic mess that is humanity in the pressure cooker of an Emergency Room
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
areudirty
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
