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roosterforme · 9 months

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Playing From the Rough | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley agrees to play in a charitable golf tournament as long as you tag along. When he tells off a professional golfer for being rude and then beats him at his own game, Bradley braces himself for the consequences. But it's you the professional decides to take it out on. Guess he didn't get the memo: don't mess with the Bradshaws.

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, mentions of smut, mentions of blood, non consensual touching

Length: 3800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Beautiful banner by @mak-32

"Come on, Rooster. We need a fourth golfer," Bob coaxed, handing Bradley another beer at the Hard Deck. "It's a foursome, not a threesome. And it's for charity."

Bradley sipped the drink and thought about how he'd have to spend a whole weekend day away from you, and he really just wasn't feeling it. The two of you were enjoying that newlywed bubble you'd been living in. Recently, Saturdays had been reserved for sleeping in late, walking the dog, and fucking.

"Wow, I guess Bradshaw just hates charitable events for children's hospitals," Jake drawled, sipping on his glass of bourbon. "Come on. Be a sport. Payback and Fanboy are deployed. We need one more to make a team."

Bradley sighed. "Let me check with my wife."

"Bring her," Coyote said, lining up a shot at the pool table. "We get two extra tickets. She can drive a golf cart and drink beers all day if she wants."

Bradley cocked his head to the side before he turned to look at you and Nat taking shots up at the bar. "Who else would come?" he asked the guys. "With the other extra ticket?"

But Coyote had followed his gaze. "Give it to Nat. They'd have fun."

"They can be our cheerleaders," Jake said with a smirk.

Bradley snorted. "Don't hold your breath. I think drinking, heckling, and hitting us with the golf carts would be more their speed."

------------------------

"Roo."

Bradley woke up to you pushing your fingers back through his hair, and he groaned. It was just before six in the morning, and you were rubbing yourself against his leg and kissing his neck. He realized he had an erection before he could even remember what day it was, and then he groaned louder.

You and he had to be at the gold course for the charitable fundraiser in about an hour. Bradley wrapped his hands around your waist. "We need to get up, Baby Girl."

"No," you whispered. "You need to fuck me. I'm so horny."

"Shit," he sighed, glancing at the time on his phone. "We can't. We'll be late."

"Roo!" you whined, thoroughly unaccustomed to being told no when it came to anything, but especially when it was something you wanted in bed. Bradley was weak for you in that way.

"I'll make it up to you later, after I'm all sweaty and you've had even more time to get wound up," he promised, squeezing your ass.

You moaned softly next to his ear. "You better. I want it twice."

"Three times," he replied with a smirk as he got out of bed. He watched you get dressed in a little tropical print pleated skirt and a sleeveless white golf shirt. And nothing else. "Are you planning on wearing any underwear?" he asked, following you into the bathroom.

"No," you told him casually, bending over at the sink to wash your face. He could see your bare pussy. You were doing this intentionally to mess with him. This is what he got for telling you no sex. "Fuck."

When he came up behind you, clearly having a change of heart, you stepped away from him and said, "We don't want to be late." He watched you walk back into the bedroom with your chin in the air. Oh, he'd get you good later.

Once you were holding two travel mugs of coffee and Bradley had his golf bag, he followed you out to the Bronco. He tossed his clubs in the back and then buckled your seatbelt. He let his palm rest on your thigh as he leaned in to kiss you.

"You're going to look so pretty sitting in the golf cart and cheering for me," he said, trying not to laugh.

"If anything, you're my trophy husband," you replied with a laugh as you kissed his scarred cheek.

"I love you," he promised before closing the passenger door and heading out.

The weather was perfect, the sky was blue, and when you and Bradley arrived at the golf course, the others were already there. The four of them were wearing matching golf shirts emblazoned with Top Gun on the back along with white pants. Bradley wasn't the best golfer by any stretch of the imagination. He usually just tagged along because it was fun, and today was no different. They were raising money for a local children's hospital, and some of the kids were present.

Bradley smiled at the children who were waving to them after they got checked in. "They'd probably love some pictures with you guys," you whispered, running your hand up Bradley's bicep.

"Nah," Bradley replied. "There are some TV stars and musicians here. I don't think they care about us."

But you pushed him and Jake toward the kids, and their little faces lit up. Soon Bob was handing out some pins with wings that said Top Gun, and you took pictures while the kids asked questions about aviation.

Bradley ended up sitting with a little girl named Abigail who asked him a million questions about his Super Hornet, but he didn't mind. He loved kids. But it was almost time to get started, so he stood and gave her a high five. And he posed for one more photo that you took before he headed to one of the golf carts.

"That was sweet of you to pose for pictures with the kids," you told him as you slipped into the driver's seat.

"It was sweet of you to take all the photos," he replied, sitting next to you and kissing your cheek.

"Ready?" Coyote asked, taking a seat in the back. Bradley watched Nat tear off in the other cart with Bob and Jake barely hanging on. You followed them to the first tee at a much slower pace, and Bradley was happy to see that there were more kids among the spectators.

He played the first few holes pretty well. Surprisingly, he was keeping up with Javy and Jake. You and Nat were half watching and half laughing with some drinks in your hands, but Bradley just wanted you to have a good time.

And you were definitely making sure he was having a good time. Whenever he met your gaze, you ran your fingers up your bare thigh or licked your lips. He was probably playing so well because he knew what was in store for him later. Probably a blowjob to start, but you'd definitely let him finish in your pussy. When he checked the time on his phone, he saw a text from you.

Baby Girl Bradshaw: I'm really horny.

He groaned. You were hot for him and texting him from twenty feet away. He texted you back before tucking his phone away so he could tee off.

Behave, or I'll spank you.

Bradley thought he could hear you moan from the golf cart. But that sweet sound was soon drowned out by someone else.

"Jesus Christ. I told him to fuck off! He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. And his golf swing looks like a piece of shit, too."

It was a guy about his age, swearing up a storm in front of all the kids. Bradley clenched and unclenched his fist in his glove. Sure, he could appreciate the subtle art of the f-word, but not in front of families with kids representing the charity! There was a time and a place. Like bullshitting at the bar or whispering dirty stuff in your wife's ear.

"Rooster, you're up," Javy called, and Bradley rolled his shoulders and walked away.

But this prick was still running his mouth at the next hole. Bradley didn't know how he got unlucky enough to have to play next to this idiot, but he couldn't take much more. And when he looked up and saw Abigail and her parents, he decided that was enough.

"Hey man, do you mind?" Bradley asked him, and then he was met with cold, gray eyes.

"I'm sorry, but who the fuck are you?" the prick responded, sizing Bradley up.

"Someone who's sick of listening to your mouth," Bradley replied without hesitation. This guy was handsome and smug, and Bradley couldn't stand him. "This is an event for children. There are kids everywhere. Cut it out with the foul language."

Bradley turned and walked back toward the golf cart where you were laughing with Nat when Jake jogged up next to him. "Dude, what did you just say to Hunter King?"

"Who?"

"You were just talking to Hunter King. He's a super famous pro golfer!"

Bradley turned back to see that he was still being glared at. "I told him to shut his mouth and stop swearing in front of all the kids," he told Jake.

"But that's Hunter King," Jake insisted with wide eyes.

Bradley shrugged and said, "I don't care who he is. He's being rude." Then he took a quick sip of the beer you were holding before handing it back to you with a kiss to your forehead.

"Ready to go to the next hole?" you asked, brushing the hem of your skirt a little higher.

"I'm ready to take you home," Bradley replied, squeezing your perfect thigh.

"Gross," Nat complained, climbing out of the cart and heading to the other one. You and she drove the four of them to the next hole, and Bradley saw that Hunter King was right there as well.

"Go get a hole in one, Roo," you told him, rubbing high up on his thigh and brushing his cock.

"Baby Girl, I'm gonna teach you a lesson later."

"Ohh," you crooned. "Will you teach me how to hold your club?"

"If you're good," he replied, climbing out of the cart with a shake of his head. Bradley watched Hunter King play par on the hole, and then it was his turn. Bradley drove the ball with a nearly perfect swing, and the ball landed on the green.

You and Nat were both cheering for him, and the kids in the area all looked delighted as well. Nat drove Bradley over to the green to putt while you waited with Bob and Jake. And to Bradley's surprise, he came in at one stroke under par for the hole. He just did better than a professional golfer. And now Hunter King looked even more pissed off.

"Good," Bradley muttered to himself, bending to get his ball out of the hole. "That's what you get."

And then Bradley beat him on the next hole. And the one after that.

"Wow, Rooster," Nat said, rubbing his shoulder. "I had no idea you'd be this good. Jake tells everyone how terrible you are."

Bradley rolled his eyes as you walked over and wrapped your arms around his waist. "You're doing better than Javy, Bob and Jake," you informed him, clearly impressed.

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "It's just for charity." But he was still shocked when he finished in third place overall. Hunter King finished in fourth.

Bradley went over to congratulate the first and second place finishers, but he was cut off by Hunter. "Good game," Bradley managed through clenched teeth, holding out his hand. But the other man didn't shake it. Instead he smiled in such a way that made Bradley feel very uneasy.

"Are you married?" Hunter asked him.

Bradley's brow scrunched up. "Yeah," he replied.

"Which one's your wife?" Hunter was nodding to where you and Nat were standing in the sunlight. You looked beautiful, the golden glow illuminating your skin as you shifted weight from one foot to the other. With one hand planted on your hip you tossed your head back and laughed. You were his wife. His perfect wife.

"You know what?" Hunter replied. "It doesn't matter. I'll take real good care of both of them."

"What?" Bradley asked, but as soon as Hunter headed your way, someone was trying to pull him aside for a photo with the other winners. When he turned back, all he saw was you and Nat being led away with Hunter's hand on your lower back.

---------------------------

"Ladies."

You looked up into a pair of soft, gray eyes and were met with a brilliant smile. "My name's Hunter, and I'd love to take you on a tour of the VIP tent."

"Sounds swanky," Nat replied, smiling at him.

"Oh. It is. I promise," he said with another charming smile. "Let's go."

You looked back to see that Bradley was absorbed with a photography crew and some of the kids associated with the charity. You tried to wave to get his attention, but you supposed it didn't really matter. You wouldn't be gone long enough to even need to grab you phone from the golf cart.

Then Hunter's hand came to rest just above the swell of your butt, and you thought your eyes were going to bug out. As he nodded at the security guard watching the entrance to the VIP tent, you slipped out of his grasp.

"Welcome, Mr. King," the guard said with a smirk. "Two guests with you?"

"That's right," he replied with a laugh. He was annoying, but the inside of the tent was incredible. It looked more like a small arena inside. There were people checking out golf simulators and waiters walking around with drinks. You watched Hunter grab two bottles of champagne from a large ice bucket.

"This way, ladies," he said, and you took Nat by the hand before she could wander over to the simulators. Hunter looked at your joined hands as you both followed him, and he muttered, "That works for me, too."

You pulled Nat a little closer as the three of you ended up in a secluded area. After he popped the first bottle of champagne, he handed it to Nat. "A whole bottle?" she asked. "Thanks, Hunter."

Then he popped the second one and gave it to you. "Drink up."

His fingers lingered on yours as you said, "I love pink champagne. My husband buys it for me all the time."

Hunter's eyes appraised you, lingering on your lips and chest. You were suddenly very aware of your lack of underwear and peaked nipples. "Oh, you're married?" he asked casually. "Was he the one who finished in the top three?"

"Yes! He placed third," you told him before taking a sip of the expensive champagne. It was delicious, and Nat had already finished half of her bottle. You kind of wanted to share your bottle with Bradley, but you also kind of wanted to ditch it and leave.

"You like to play golf?" Hunter asked, completely focused on you now.

You shrugged. "I haven't played much. I usually just hang out in the golf cart when I go."

"Your husband won't let you play?"

You rolled your eyes. "I can assure you that I do whatever I want."

"I love to hear that," he laughed with a smile. "And I think you want to try out one of the simulators."

You noticed that Nat had already wandered away to one of the booths. "Just for a minute," you agreed.

Then you listened to him explain how the simulator worked. It was a small booth, and you would wear a virtual reality mask. It looked just like you were really on a golf course.

"Let me close the door for you," Hunter murmured next to your ear. "So you can get started."

He closed the booth, and it took you a few seconds to realize he was still in there with you. Because when you bent a little at the waist, you bumped into him with your butt.

"You need a little help with your posture?" he asked, wrapping his hands around your hips from behind. In an instant, you knew you were rubbing against the zipper of his pants, and his left hand was skimming over your skirt right where your little rooster tattoo was covered by the thin fabric.

You gasped when his hands slid a little lower. You had no underwear on, because your main goal of the day had been to tease Bradley. But now Hunter was the one almost touching your bare skin.

"What the hell?" you shouted in the small space, whipping off the mask covering your eyes and spinning around. "What the hell is your problem?" You watched his face as you pulled your right hand back. He looked alarmed, eyes wide and hands held up in surrender as your palm made contact with his face.

"Ow! Fuck!" he screamed. Somehow you managed to slap his cheek and also hit his nose with the heel of your hand at the same time. It started gushing blood onto his pale blue shirt, and he tried to pinch the bridge of his nose to get it to slow down.

"I'm married, and you're creepy!" you informed him loudly, shoving past him to get out of the simulation booth. "Come on, Nat," you called, taking her hand again.

"Why are we leaving? I didn't finish my champagne!" she complained. So when you walked back past the ice bucket, you gabbed a new bottle for her and a second one for yourself.

"Hunter is a creep," you informed her as you made your way to the tent exit. But Hunter was hot on your heels and reaching out for you.

----------------------------

Bradley saw you go inside the VIP area, but he got pulled aside for some group photos. He knew the kids, including Abigail, were waiting for more photos as well, but he quickly excused himself to head after you.

"That son of a bitch," he muttered to himself as he approached the security guard. Hunter King was mad that he told him to shut his mouth, and beating a professional at his own game really hadn't helped Bradley's cause. And he just knew Hunter was going to try to take it out on you and Nat.

He started sweating. You were all horny and wound up, and you had skipped underwear to mess with him. And now the guy who was pissed off at Bradley was probably inside pawing at you. And you weren't answering your phone.

"Whoa, hang on," the guard said, sliding into place in front of the entrance just as Bradley got there. "This area is off limits for you."

Bradley grunted. "My wife is in there."

"Good for her," he replied with a shrug of his enormous shoulders.

"You don't understand. She's with Hunter King."

The guard had the audacity to smirk at him. "One of those two attractive women? I'm sure she's having a great time with Mr. King."

What was that supposed to mean? Bradley had to close his eyes and silently count to ten. "I just need to pop in there, and then I'll be right back out."

"Absolutely not."

Bradley ground his molars together before he managed a very insincere sounding, "Please?"

Then the security guard laughed at him, and Bradley contemplated trying to shove this guy out of his way. He had about a hundred pounds and four inches on Bradley, but it would be worth the pounding to make sure you and Nat were okay. Just as he was working himself up to do it, he caught sight of you heading his way, dragging Nat along. You emerged from the tent looking unscathed.

"Hi, Roo," you said sweetly, gripping a bottle of pink champagne for some reason. You wrapped your arms around him, the cold condensation from the bottle pressing to the back of his neck.

"What's going on, Baby Girl?" he asked, still completely bewildered as you kissed him. "Where's Hunter King?" He was pulling you a little closer, waiting for some sort of explanation.

But Nat started laughing. "You don't need to worry about your wife. Cheers," she said, holding up a second bottle of champagne before popping the cork.

You whispered, "I love you," against Bradley's lips just as he saw Hunter come storming to the tent entrance with blood all over his shirt.

Bradley took your face in his hands. "What happened? Why is he covered in blood? Did he try to hurt you? Or Nat? This is all my fault for telling him to stop swearing and then beating his score." Bradley could feel his pulse quicken, feel his brow crease in concern, but you were smiling.

"He's a creep. I told him I was married, and he still tried to touch me, but I'm pretty sure I broke his nose."

Bradley shoved you gently away from him, ready to beat the ever living shit out of both the security guard and Hunter King. He watched Hunter's eye grow wide as he clenched both hands into fists, but then you were in front of him again.

"Roo! It's okay!" you promised, pressing the champagne bottle to his chest and pushing him back.

"It is not okay," he growled, letting you push him a little further away from the tent. "I'll rip him in half."

"Roo! Right before I saw you, he tried to grab me again. I told him I'd call the cops if he didn't match the donation that was being made to the children's hospital."

"Match the donation? That's like four hundred thousand dollars," he replied, looking at you with surprise. "You just got Hunter King to make a personal donation of four hundred thousand dollars?"

"Yep!" you replied, pressing yourself to the front of him. "I sure did. And I got him to say it in front of one of the charity's coordinators. I also insinuated to that coordinator that perhaps Mr. King shouldn't be allowed to spend any time alone with women in the VIP tents in the future. And that maybe he should be removed from the circuit. Now let's go home, pop this delicious bottle of pink champagne, and celebrate your third place victory!"

Bradley was still gaping at you before he scooped you up into his arms. He was careful to keep your butt covered with one big hand as you kissed his face while he glared past you at Hunter King until the other man slinked back into the shadows where he belonged.

"You're such a badass," he told you suddenly. "I'm so impressed by you all the time, Sweetheart. You don't even need me."

"No, I don't," you agreed with him, kissing his cheek and trailing your lips back to his ear. "But I really, really want you."

"Let's go home," he grunted, carrying you to one of the golf carts. "I just want my bed, my wife, and the expensive champagne she stole from the VIP tent."

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Don't mess with the Bradshaws! Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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undercovercameron · 11 months

Text

hole in one

summary: you're a server at the island club, and you may or may not have a favorite customer.

notes: i'm back baby! haven't written anything in a good while but i suddenly had this image of a girly reader and a flirty golfer rafe with that season 3 buzzcut... i HAD to make a pun with this title and i'm so glad i did. also i always write rafe a little more attentive and well-meaning than he is, so take this headcanon of nice rafe with a grain of salt-- and this shit is hella dirty so please enjoy and let me know what you think ;) (also im coming back to edit this fully in a little bit but i wanted to post just to prove i still love and use this account kajddjd)

tags: rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count: 4453

Some things in Rafe’s life were simple pleasures.

A cocktail during dinner, a night where all the TV he watched was reality shows, a cigarette on a night out. The silence of his childhood home.

Golf, coincidentally, was also one of those things. The course he frequented was just a ten-minute drive from his house, and he had priority parking. As a donor and a club-member of course. The drinks were cheap, the company was even cheaper, and he had a killer swing. There was rarely an afternoon out on that green that he didn’t enjoy. He felt closest to peace when all he had to work for was getting that tiny white golf ball sunk into a hole.

They were often sweaty putting sessions, as the North Carolina heat in the summer was no joke, but the traveling drink cart was a brief respite from that.

“What can I get you?” You ask, bright and long-lashed. Your hair was done in a tight updo, your makeup was flawless, and not a single spec of dirt or turf lay on your uniform. You took pride in your appearance and the effects it had on the loose wallets of the Outer Banks’ finest real estate investors and offshore bank account holders. Most of all, you enjoyed a certain someone’s attention.

Rafe peeks under the overhang of the cart and stares at your selection. He stands with his hands on his hips, gold rings flashing in the hot sunlight. You take a look at him for the first time today, eyes taking over his bent form. He has gray slacks on with a dark blue polo stretched over his well-built back, unbuttoned to show the tiniest glint of blonde chest hair and his gold chain. He spared no expense when it came to his appearance, you’d come to notice.

“I think,” he starts, standing back up, and fixes you with his blue-eyed stare. It makes you hold back a shiver despite the heat. “A double tequila soda.”

He gives you a once-over, admiring the way your skirt hugs your waist and the sparkle of your earrings. He always likes when the girls have their hair up— gives him a sneak peek of what it’d look like if he pulled it.

“Three limes? Just how you like?” You ask, breaking his focus, and reach for a plastic cocktail cup. You have a freckle behind your ear, he notices.

“Exactly right,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, and his face splits into a grin when you glance at him and blush. He could be back with his friends from highschool, talking shit about their shitty swings or increasingly high scores, but he’s not. He’s right here, watching closely as you carefully measure the ice and pour a perfect double shot.

“How’re you guys playing today?” You ask, a humiliating attempt at small talk, and you feel sweat bead on your lower back.

“Shit, honestly,” Rafe laughs. “These jack-offs couldn’t get a hole-in-one if it was right in front of their fucking faces. And I’ve been distracted all day.” He looks down at you over the bridge of his nose, liking the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Heat getting to you?” You squeeze the final lime and turn away from the cart, holding it out with a polite smile. He takes it carefully.

“Something like that,” he says, cocking his head, and takes a sip. Tart. Just how he likes it. “Hey.” He digs a hand into his pocket and the tips of your cheekbones heat again for some reason. “Keep the change.” He hands you a fifty.

You take it between hesitant fingers, peering up at him.

“The drink is $6, Rafe.”

He always does this. Pays cash with big bills and tells you to keep the change. He gave you a twenty for a packet of peanuts one time. “I don’t know if I can legally take this.”

He just shrugs.

“Consider it a personal donation.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Makes me feel better. I think you deserve a little extra for your services—it takes a lot of work to look that good for a bunch of old geezers in sweater vests and loafers. I know I appreciate it.” He turns and starts off towards his group, yanking his sunglasses out of his shirt and jamming them onto his face. “I like your bra, by the way. ‘S my favorite color.”

You glance down the collar of your shirt, heart thumping, and look back up.

That stupid fucking swagger he has. He’s going to throw out his back walking around like a peacock like that.

You tug your shirt up, hiding the red bra you’d chosen for today, and hop back on the cart. Off to another hole where another old man will look down your shirt and ask for his Manhattan with two cherries instead of one.

You think you’ll either quit this job or start wearing a fucking monk robe.

The next time you see him is back at the club. Your boss had you on pool bartender duty, opposed to the drink cart you favored, and you were a little out of your element.

The customer demographic was different, which you enjoyed, but they all seemed to want a lot more and a lot quicker. There was no loitering around to small talk; you had to work quickly and attentively to earn these housewives’ measly two dollar tip on margarita pitchers.

You had spilled raspberry purée on your company-approved golf dress more times than you could count in your six hour shift. Near the end of it, however, Rafe had made his way to the end of the bar and watched as you ducked to put away the umbrella toothpicks and quickly and secretly downed a shot of Tito’s. Drinking on the job. Hm.

(It’s not that you like to be drunk at work; it’s more of a little ‘fuck you’ to your boss, you think.)

“Hi,” you say on an exhale, coming over and wiping the already-spotless counter with a black rag. “What can I get you?” You have dangly earrings on today, and a different shade of lipgloss than he is accustomed to.

“Two grapefruit High Noon’s.” He folds his arms and leans on the counter, so close he could smell your perfume. “I could report you for that, you know,” he says, voice as low as a whisper. You peer up at him, lips pursed, and scan his face. No ill intent. Just an easy smile and dirty eyes.

“Oh, yeah?” You reach for the fridge underneath the mixing mats and pull two cold cans from the shelf. You sit them on the counter and stare up at him. “You’re a real upstanding customer, huh?”

“Mhm.” He twists his pointer-finger ring mindlessly. “You owe me.” The corners of his lips quirk up.

“Oh, do I?” You ask, giving him your best ’I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look. You know he likes that.

The fact is that you and Rafe had countless conversations exactly like this one. Whether it be at the drink cart, on the way out of the building, or back inside in the restaurant bar. He always somehow leaned over you, smiling like the flirtatious bastard that he was, and making you feel like he’d like nothing more than to take you to his car and show you how much he actually enjoyed being served by you. That’s how you imagined him in bed, at least. Proving a point.

He takes the two cans in one hand and straightens up, fixing you with a dangerous look.

“Your shift ends in ten minutes, yeah?” He asks.

“Yes.” You square your shoulders and stare back.

“Good. I’ll take you home. Well, mine.” He backs up closer to where his friends are sitting at a covered patio table, mischievous smile flashing white in the sun.

“I have a car, you know,” you say, leaning on the counter with folded arms. You ignore the hot rush of blood in your veins from his words. “And I have to shower.”

“What makes you think I don’t have a shower?” He purses his lips, faking the wildly confused look, and turns back around to his friends.

You just sigh, exasperated with him, and work on cleaning up your station. God, it has to be him? The boy you had a crush on in elementary school? You’ve had plenty of hookups in your adult life, but none as close to home as this one. (Literally. You live down the street.) You feel his eyes on you as you scrub a particularly defiant streak of Grenadine from the counter, and feel his gaze on your back when you turn around to get a fresh rag. It makes your face burn hot.

You know he’s not talking about just hanging out at his place. He probably has a huge shower, for God’s sake, and probably a humongous bed. California king if you can guess.

You bet he tastes like summer.

After your replacement comes to the bar, you take your lanyard to get into the staff locker room from a hook under the bar and make your way slowly through the gaggles of people to your designated locker. It takes a brief conversation with your boss Angela about if you left the tip jar or took the contents to finally shoulder past the last group of people.

You tug your bag from the hook, a change of clothes and your shower stuff already packed (as you had been planning to go to the gym after work). You now know you have other forms of exercise coordinated. You give yourself a final look in the little mirror on your locker. Here goes nothing.

Rafe is waiting outside the swinging door when you push past it, button up shirt and shoes haphazardly thrown on. He immediately takes your bag from you and slings it over one massive shoulder, starting for the exit.

“I can carry my own things, Rafe,” you say, slightly out of breath with the effort it takes to catch up to him.

“Yeah, well, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He casts a look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised seriously. You roll your eyes.

His bedroom door pushes open and you stumble back, hand tight on his bicep as he walks you further. His hand circles your waist as he ducks to kiss you again, mouth hot and commanding over yours.

He tastes exactly how you imagined.

His room is bright with sunlight and slightly messy when you glance behind him, but you’re pretty fucking sure you won’t be focused on how his room is decorated when he keeps grabbing at you like this.

The back of your knees hit the bedspread and you fall into a sitting position, posture curved up into his as he leans and holds you by the side of the neck. You make a pleased noise into his mouth and tug at his shirt, suddenly irritated that he is wearing so many clothes. You snake a hand up his shirt and claw at his skin with your sharp nails.

“Save that for my back,” he breathes, and your fingers fumble to unbutton his shirt as you finally pull it down and off his body. You rejoice at his newfound lack of clothing and smooth a hand over his chest, eyes trained on his toned and tan stomach.

He’s huge like this, up close, and the warmth radiating from his skin makes your heart jump into your throat. Your fingers splay across the middle of his abdomen, just appreciating the way he breathes under your touch, and you lean back up for his mouth.

He threads his fingers in your hair and pulls your face so hard to his own that your neck smarts. Between your legs throbs. You protest, grabbing at his wrist, but settle when he shuffles closer to the bed and tilts you back into the sheets.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs. Your back meets silk, and he lifts your open legs up and around his hips as he settles between your thighs comfortably. Right where he should be.

The feeling of his heavy weight where you’ve been needing it makes your back arch. He breaks away from you and slides a hand down your chest, laying the route that his mouth will take.

“You smell like cherries,” he says as he presses his mouth to your collarbone and sucks.

“I know.” You shudder through a laugh and bring your hand up to the back of his head as encouragement. “Spilled Grenadine.”

He hums noncommittally and shoves the hem of your dress up past your hips and to your midriff in one fluid motion. You wriggle for a second, so exposed so fast, but sigh contentedly when his lips meet your stomach. His mouth is so unexplainably hot, and as his tongue meets you your whole body erupts in goosebumps. It sends a shiver down your spine. It’s even better than you imagined.

“Knew you’d taste so good,” Rafe practically moans, eyes darting to yours, and his fingertips curl around the waistband of your underwear as you watch. Your cheeks flush at his word. You’re honored to be the recipient of words like his— it’s not often Rafe finds himself giving someone a compliment. He lays a final kiss on your stomach and surges back up towards your chest. He mutters gibberish to himself, probably something like “I hate this fucking dress” and yanks your dress up past your tits.

His fingers find your left nipple and squeeze as his tongue finds the other. You arch again, unused to the sensation, and let loose a groan. His fingers are so soft and light, but his teeth nip.

You make a noise of surprise, eyebrows furrowing, and tug at the short, blunt locks of his hair.

“Impatient,” he reprimands, tongue rolling as he glances up at your pink face. You’re strung so tight you might snap. “Needy.” He releases your nipple with a pop. Your lips are so pink and shiny, he just has to kiss you again. You whine into his mouth when he comes back, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and your legs wind around his waist.

But he lets go of your hip with his left hand and creeps closer to the crotch of your underwear, fingertips dancing. Your grip on his hair tightens. Between your legs pulses with heat and need, hot on his clothed crotch, and he knows he could calculate your BPM just by laying with you like this.

“Rafe,” you breathe, staring up at him as your chest heaves.

“Relax,” he shushes, ducking down to press a kiss to your neck, and you gradually relax the muscles that lock your legs to his abdomen. “There you go.” You think you hear a “good girl” fall from his soft lips but it’s in that moment that he pushes past the cotton and digs his hand into your underwear.

You immediately spur into motion, back arching and mouth dropping into an ‘O’, and he just bites his lip and watches. You’re so responsive, and it makes his dick fucking ache.

“Thought about this? Hm?” He pants, releasing his bottom lip from between his teeth, and grins. “So wet, this pussy’s been begging for me for weeks.”

You struggle to nod, movement interrupted by the slew of noises and ramblings of “please” and “yes” and “Rafe” falling from your lips. His middle and ring fingers push past the slick resistance your pussy gives him, and you go silent and slack-jawed as he pushes all the way to the hilt.

And he’s got big fingers. You wonder if they’re the same size as his dick. If so, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you nearly cry, head falling back into the sheets, and you’re slammed back into reality and consciousness of your surroundings. The coolness of the AC makes your nipples peak again, and the sweat on your lower back cools almost as soon as it’s created. But Rafe makes you hot. Your chest and cheeks are flushed a bright pink, and your lips are swollen into a bigger size and slick with his saliva and your own. We don’t even have to discuss how flushed the other parts of your body are—he already knows.

His fingers curl slightly up and to the right, and your abdomen jerks at the unfamiliar feeling. You curl up slightly, eyebrows furrowed, and try to catch a glimpse of his large hand in your underwear. God, you wish you could take a picture. You lock gazes with him momentarily but fall back down at the look in his face. It’s nearly animalistic.

“Rafe, please,” you beg, grabbing onto his wrist with both hands. You meet his eyes. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling his fingers out, and clambers off of you for a second. You sit up, quickly ridding yourself of the dress bunched up to your shoulders, and watch as he rips his shorts off and nears the bed. You don’t even have enough time to gape at the size of him before he’s grabbing your bicep and jerking you onto your stomach.

You have half a mind to protest his man-handling of you but stay silent as you look up at the angle he positions you.

There’s a full length mirror opposite this side of his bed, and you just stare at the pair of you as you catch your breath.

“Like it, huh?” He asks quietly, dipping down and pressing a kiss to your hair. His hand finds your neck and he moves you to face the mirror head on, watching your face closely. You really like the feeling of his fingers around your throat. He can tell, now; your shoulders relax and your lips move into the shape of a smile when he squeezes.

“You always keep this here?” You ask, head falling onto your folded arms when he releases you to just admire your body. His fingers trace your spine and the curve of your ass, never losing focus.

“I moved it this morning,” he murmurs, gaze never straying from you.

“Oh, so you knew you’d be fucking me tonight.” Your face splits into an easy grin, head tilting mischievously. His eyes find yours in the mirror, and he bends again to press his mouth to your lower back.

“Always teasing me.” His voice is muffled by your smooth skin. He can’t get enough. “Knew it’d happen sometime soon. You can’t stay away forever, you know.” He straightens up but doesn’t find your eyes in the mirror. His large, warm hand maneuvers your hips into a tilted position, and you move up onto your feet. He has you flat on your stomach on the bed, but your ass and legs hang off and the soles of your feet just barely press flat into the floor. “Knew this pussy would get me at some point.” He smacks at an asscheek lightning fast; and your whole body jiggles with the force of his hand. You squeak involuntarily.

A large hand grabs at your shoulder as the other one jerks himself steadily. Once, twice, three times, and then he’s spreading you open and pushing into you.

Your spine stretches and relaxes when he gets halfway in, and your thighs start to shake when you’re filled all the way to the hilt.

“Shit, Rafe, you’re fucking big,” you complain, but the tail end of your protest bleeds into a desperate whine. Your fingers grip the sheets tightly, eyes squeezed shut, and your head falls onto your folded arms. “Please,” you say, reaching back to frantically find his hips. “Go slow.”

“Stretching you out, hm,” Rafe comments, breathing hard already, and relieves the pressure by sliding almost all the way out. His tip almost breaches the seam of your slit but he pushes back in, pulling your asscheek away with a thumb to watch. “Fucking sexy.”

You squeeze around him like a vice, but the intrusion is welcome. You will yourself to relax and accept his huge fucking dick, and the thought of yourself getting fucked by him sends a gush of slick between you two.

“There you go,” Rafe sighs, and pulls out only to fuck back in to you quickly. You cry out, fingers squeezing extra tight on the sheets, but you will yourself to look up.

His chest is flushed in the mirror as his chain swings in the open air, and the pure concentration and pleasure on his face prompts a pleased noise from your throat. You tentatively jerk back into him and his head whips up in the mirror, blue eyes meeting your own.

“Oh, yeah?” He mutters, teeth catching his lip, and his hips snap into yours. Your mouth drops open only momentarily before you close it and tilt your head to the size coyly, biting your own lip and pushing back into his hips. He watches you carefully in the mirror with squinted eyes, half-impressed and half-challenging. “You think you can take it?” His fingers squeeze at your shoulder tight.

You just silently nod. Cocky.

His emotionless gaze locks with yours and his blood pumps hot in his veins. He’s going to make you eat your words.

His hips surge forward in a suddenly-steady rhythm, skin slapping skin ringing out in the room. You just stare at him, defiant, and push back with every thrust he gives.

Rafe grunts and lets go of your shoulder, replacing his touch with an arm slung around your neck and the other hand between your legs. His warm fingers nudge your clit, finding it immediately, and his hips snap punishingly quickly into yours.

It’s brutal, having him like this. You hope you bruise. But you challenged him, and somebody has to lose. Except it’s not really a loss when Rafe fucking Cameron is genuinely fucking you into next week.

“Shit,” you exhale, choking on the inhale that accompanies it, and you squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers rub you in circles. “Fuck, Rafe, that’s so good.” Something hot coils tight in your stomach and your thighs suddenly warm almost in preparation for the wave of sensation.

“Yeah?” He pants, hot in your ear. “You like that?” His chest sticks to your sweaty back, gluing you together as his strong hips and legs pound you into the mattress. You stay strong, along for the ride, and provide all the verbal encouragement he needs. Your stomach feels hotter and hotter and your throat runs dry.

“I love it,” you whine, head tilting up as if you’re praying he won’t stop. “Fuck me like this forever.”

“Mhm,” is all he says, too lost in the squeeze of your pussy around him and the warmth your body grants him. You pulse even more, so close.

You gather some strength and struggle to push up into an elbow, head tilting further and further until you can feel his forehead brush the crown of your head. Your muscles strain.

“Just like that. Just like—God, shit, right there.”

You squeak when the hot coil in your abdomen snaps and you fall twitchingly onto your stomach. His fingers rub quickly at your clit and you feel suddenly a hundred pounds lighter, eyes rolling back into your head. It’s so fucking good you wonder how you’ll ever masturbate happily again. Your fingers don’t compare in the slightest to this fucking dick. Your chest heaves with the effort it takes to fill your lungs with clean air, and your legs start to shake miserably underneath him. Your thighs feel like jelly and you barely did anything.

“Please, Rafe,” you beg, turning your head to the side to look innocently up at him. “Give it to me.”

“Yeah?” He pants and leans down to kiss you messily. You groan into his mouth and push back once more into his hips. Your pussy is still buzzing with feeling, and it fades slowly into a pleasant ache the more he fucks into you. “You want it on your back or in your mouth?”

You blink wildly and push onto your palms, signaling that you want to turn over. He pulls out but jerks himself steadily until you scramble onto your knees in front of him, face level with his pelvis and tongue out. You look up at him with the most earnest and well-meaning eyes, and he just has to close his eyes when the tip of his dick finally meets your tongue and he fills your mouth. His chest loosens with the most pathetic noise he’s ever made, a mix between a raw groan and a whimper. Your soft mouth accepts him and cleans his dick, humming contentedly, and when he catches his breath and manages to open his eyes you’re staring up at him, an immensely pleased look on your face.

You crawl closer and lift onto your knees, arms coming around his neck and pulling him to you. You press a kiss to his mouth. He can almost taste himself on your tongue, and he smoothes a hand down your side to grab onto your asscheek as you just kiss him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling away slightly to give your face a once-over. “You haven’t even showered yet.”

“And whose fault is that?” You sigh, exasperated. “Someone couldn’t make it up the stairs without shoving his hands up my dress—we barely even made it to the bed.” You smooth a hand down the back side of his head, liking the way his hair feels.

Rafe just purses his lips.

“Sounds like a really cool guy to me.”

“Mhm,” you say, rolling your eyes, and sit back on your heels.

This room is a mess.

The corner of the well-made bed’s sheets and bedspread is yanked from the far corner and lies bunched up in the middle, dark with sweat. It smells like sex in here, the ceiling fan doing nothing to mitigate it, and your work dress is hung haphazardly on the closet door handle. With a dark Grenadine stain down the middle.

“Don’t even think about it,” Rafe says, interrupting your inner monologue. His warm hand comes to rest on your thigh.

“What?” You ask, eyebrows drawn.

“Don’t even think about putting on clothes.”

You scoff.

“Like those would do me any good right now.” You wind your arms around his neck and smirk up at him. “I still haven’t even shown you what’s in my bag.”

His smile grows.

“What’s in your bag, baby?”

#obx #obx 3 #obx smut #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron x afab!reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fluff

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onlineantiques · 2 years

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Vintage Circa 1970’/80’s Chinese Design Travel Golf Putting Set ebay item number 234545262057 #golf #putter #travel #golfer #golfgift #golftravel #putting #practicegolf https://www.instagram.com/p/CdWoi2qI5KY/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#golf #putter #travel #golfer #golfgift #golftravel #putting #practicegolf

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untilthenexttee · 1 year

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(via Dormie Network announces Michael Sheely as Director of Agronomy at new GrayBull)

#golf #golfing #golfers #golfer #golf news #golf travel #golf nebraska #nebraska #mclayy kidd #golf course architecture #graybull golf club #graybull #the next tee #fightandgrind #dormie network

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 1 year

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Can you write something with caddie reader and Rafe going to the country club and booking her as caddie? thankss

Pardon my terrible golf knowledge...

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

The written duty of a caddie-girl is to carry the golf bag for the golfer. Although it sounds like an easy job, you are required to have a little golf knowledge…and let your mini skirt do the rest as people who golf at the country club are mostly men.

They won’t mind if you give them the wrong club as long as you giggle when you make a mistake or wear a short enough skirt. It’s pretty degrading and objectifying for women, but rich men give nice tips.

‘’I’m so sorry, Jeff. My alarm didn’t go off and my car wouldn’t start,’’ you explained in a rush to your boss, out of breath from running to the country club. ‘’It won’t happen again, I promise.’’

‘’You’re an hour late, Miss. Y/L/N. Your 9am client is waiting.’’ Jeff raised his eyes from his computer screen, looking at you with disappointment.

Shit. You didn’t think you would have a client so early in the morning.

‘’He specifically requested you for caddie, so save your apologies and excuses for him.’’

It must be Mr. Barclay. You’ve seen him sitting at the country club’s bar two days ago, drinking an old fashioned with a fellow club member. He always requested you as caddie. He said you reminded him of his granddaughter. You didn’t know if you should be flattered or disgusted.

You quickly dropped your personal stuff in your locker and headed to the golf course while rehearsing your apology monologue. It wasn’t in your habits to be late. Hopefully Mr. Barclay will be understanding.

When you got to the course, you searched for a silver fox, but instead you found a tall young man with a snapback and white glove in his right hand.

‘’There you are!’’ he said in exasperation, slinging his golf bag over his shoulder and walking to you.

‘’Rafe?’’

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. ‘’It’s Mr. Cameron for you,’’ he corrected with a shit-eating grin on his stupidly handsome face.

‘’You’re my 9am client?’’

Rafe hummed, his eyes scanning your body and smiling smugly when he saw your small skirt and tight polo. It hugged your curves in all the right places. ‘’Bet you were expecting some rich daddy, uh? I’m sorry to disappoint you.’’ He leaned closer, speaking the next words low enough so only you would hear them. ‘’If you want, you can call me Daddy Rafe.’’

You choked on air. Today was going to be a long day.

‘’Driver, please?’’ Rafe requested, when you arrived at the teeing ground.

You fished the right club from the bag and handed it to Rafe. ‘’Here.’’

‘’Thanks, babydoll.’’ He took the club and moved up to line it with the ball, and swung, his muscles flexing.

You both watched as it flew over a hundred yards in the air. Not bad.

‘’Where’s Topper?’’ you asked. ‘’You usually play with him.’’

‘’Not today. I had other plans.’’ Rafe gave you the club back. ‘’Shall we go find the ball?’’

You spent the next two hours walking along the steep cliffs and hills of the country club's golf course, watching Rafe swinging golf balls and showing off. Unfortunately, you didn’t care much for the sport. You were more interested in staring at Rafe’s muscles flexing and admiring how great his ass looked in those dress shorts.

‘’Want to have a try?’’

‘’Are you sure? I’ve never played golf before.’’

‘’You can do the next tee. I’ll show you how.’’

‘’Golf is more technical than it looks. You don't just swing the ball and hope for the best. There's a lot of factors to think about — the stance, posture, ball placement, and rotation all have to be considered for the perfect swing.’’

‘’First, the grip. Put your left hand at the top of the club and your right hand below the left,’’ Rafe instructed.’’

‘’Good. Now, the position.’’ He situated himself behind you and you tried not to shiver as his hands slowly traveled down your arms until they positioned themselves to cover your own, grasping gently. You could feel goosebumps rise all over your body as you felt his steady breathing on your neck, looking over your shoulder with ease. ‘’Place your feet shoulder width apart and the ball should be inside the line of the big toe of your front foot.’’ He pushed your right heel out with his own foot. ‘’And you gotta bend your upper body from the knees and the knees slightly.’’

So many instructions.

You leaned forward a little while keeping your feet in the right place. ‘’Like that?’’ you asked, not sure if you were positioned correctly.

‘’Bend a bit more.’’ Rafe stepped back with a mischievous smirk, his warmth leaving your back. ‘’More. More.’’ You had a feeling that the position was wrong, but did as told. ‘’Perfect.’’ He swiped his tongue over his lips and hummed, admiring the perfect view of your ass.

‘’And now I swing?’’

‘’Not yet,’’ he said. ‘’I’m enjoying the view.’’

You straightened up immediately, catching what he was doing. ‘’Rafe!’’ you hissed with a glare over your shoulder.

He was laughing smugly. ‘’Can you blame me?’’

‘’Can you guide me again? I lost the position because of you.’’

This time, Rafe won’t make a fool of you. This time, he’ll be the one who gets played.

You took a deep breath as he moved to stand right behind you and resumed the same position he had you in previously. A soft breeze blew and you got a whiff of his expensive cologne. It reminded you of those mornings you had woken up in his bed at Tannyhill, wrapped in his sheets and covered in his scent.

Shaking that thought from your head. Focus.

‘’You’re picking up fast,’’ Rafe encouraged behind you.

‘’Do I?’’ you asked, purposely wiggling your hips against his pelvis.

You heard Rafe inhale sharply in response, his grip on your hands tightening. ‘’If you kept doing stuff like that, I might just have to take you right on the golf field.’’

Please do, you almost let slip.

At the next tee, you ran into Mr. Barclay and one of your co-worker. He was one of the newbies and seemed to be struggling with the golf bag.

‘’Mr. Barclay, hi,’’ you greeted politely. ‘’How’s the course today? We’ve made new additions this year.’’

The older man greeted you back with a smile, then began ranting about how his caddie wasn’t as good as you at the job. ‘’I asked for you at the caddie shack, but I was informed my favorite caddie-girl was already booked.’’

Rafe stepped in, faking an apologetic smile. ‘’That would be because of me. My apology.’’

Mr. Barclay stared you down like you were a piece of meat and then shifted his eyes to Rafe, giving him a ‘lucky you’ kind of look before leaving with his caddie.

‘’Are your other clients all old perverts like him?’’

Most. ‘’He gives me good tips,’’ you said in defense.

Rafe pulled out his wallet, then stared you right in the eyes as he stuffed a crumpled hundred dollar bill inside your bra. ‘’I do too.’’

—

OBX taglist: @moralina @eudximoniakr @toylewestinnyc @rottenstyx @sweeterheartxamerica @jordierama @viridwityy @izzy-laufeyson @kenzi-woycehoski @lilaconner @Katsukis1Wife @hawkegfs @mommyruuetrue @acornacreacure @snownjune @nmedina8611 @slvtherinseeker @slvtherinseeker @poppet05 @1stevelacyfan @illf4iry @withbeautyandrage @maybankslover

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron x you #outer banks #outer banks imagine

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goatisbetheres · 7 months

Text

good golfer, childhood friends with nate, a reader, dog dad and AMAZING HALLOWEEN COSTUMES… i’m in love

also i loved this parts:

“We’re like, old people,” Ryan said with a laugh. “We bring chairs down. We have the nice ones that are backpacks. We walk down, we bring a cooler, a couple snacks and a book and just go down there and chill.” A couple tomes Graves has read recently are ‘American Kingpin: The Epic Hunt for the Criminal Mastermind Behind the Silk Road’, and ‘Red Notice: A True Story of High Finance, Murder, and One Man's Fight for Justice.’

Finally, Graves hosts a hockey school in his hometown every summer to make hockey more accessible for kids in his Maritimes community.

Until Ryan moved away to play Midget hockey, their closest game would be 90-120 minutes away from Yarmouth. Which was fun for the kids, who had a blast carpooling with teammates. But as Graves got older, he realized what a time commitment that was for the parents – not just time-wise, but financially as well.

“So when we kind of threw around the idea of doing the hockey school, there was two motivations,” he said. “Obviously, the first was to bring a camp to Yarmouth that was quality and parents didn’t have to travel for, and kids could sleep in their own bed at night.

“The second was financial. I know that it’s a big burden to travel. Hotels, and I think the price of hockey camps and things like that, are crazy now. So, we keep our camp honestly pretty cheaply-priced just to make it accessible for anybody that wants to come. We put a good product together. I’ve been very fortunate to do this for a living and I’ve had a lot of good people in my life that have, hockey-wise and just in life in general, that I’m able to pass on to the kids and create a hockey school that something that would honestly be what I would want to do. We play a ton of games on the ice, off the ice. It’s just a lot of fun for the five days that they’re there.”

#he’s so good!!!#ryan graves #pittsburgh penguins

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b00tyliciousbabe · 6 months

Text

my baby daddies - ep. 2

wyatt cushman x male reader

summary: the scoop on how wide i buss it open for mr cushman xx

notes: hi beautiful ppl, back again! once he go black, he'll be back again. tell them hoes that it's crunch time, abdomen. yes i cop mad chanel and mad given. she did it again, imagine them!!! sorry nicki ate that verse tf UPPP. bout to make these bum bitches mad again, okay lemme stop. I KNEW EXACTLY WHAT I WAS DOING W THAT BLACK VERSE XOXO. hope you guys are all doing well <3 i will be releasing 2 other series ("the DILFs' and a surprise one which will become coming soon ) so stay tuned! any requests? ENJOYYYY…

you and wyatt met at one of your first shoots. you were the stylist’s assistant and your boss had tasked you with making sure all the models had their hair, outfits, and makeup all ready for the editorials. you were admired by so many in the industry, icons and the public alike, and even though you didn’t have your own company, it was clear that you were on your way to becoming one of the biggest names in fashion history. you enjoyed getting to know all the models personally, and it made the whole process of getting ready much easier. but one person that always had you flustered was wyatt cushman, who you had become really good friends over the years. you definitely found him attractive, but he was so distracting; the agency called him ‘the menace’ with all the harmless trouble he got the two of you into. years had passed, the two of you remained really close, but it wasn’t until the balenciaga show, that the two of you vocalised the unspoken tension between you two.

you were responsible for all of the outfits for the fashion week at balenciaga, a huge role that olivier rousteing himself appointed you to do. it was a huge success and the press had a field day documenting your achievements. your biggest supporter, wyatt, was there to give you the biggest hug on the runway, garnering an even greater cheer from the crowd. “Y/N, you’re amazing” he said staring intensely in love as he placed his hands on your lower back. the distance between your lips decreased as the two of you shared your first kiss…in front of the entire world. you pulled away; being brought back to reality and how 4.5 million people had witnessed the two of you together, you couldn’t help but laugh, as everyone applauded and jeered at your love. the rest was history.

one thing about wyatt, he is the goofiest mf ever and you love it. he’s always cracking jokes and the life of the party. You feel so safe around him, don’t get it twisted, he’d beat the shit out of anyone who even looked at you the wrong way, but you could handle yourself. flashback to the time where y’all were celebrating your collaboration with vogue: you were dancing the night away with your friends when some guy decided to get a lil too close. the creep groped your ass to which he was served a fat slap across the face. he fell to the ground and the crowd started cheering. wyatt smiled proud that you were able to defend yourself - so proud, that on the way home you took a detour where you guys had the best make out session in the history of rom coms.

the golfer’s wife and the holiday maker:

this man is always travelling and he loves to share those memories with you. other than being his personal photographer, the two of you are able to explore so many different ways of living on your journeys and you dream together of living abroad one day.

On one of your holidays, you had decided to take your boyfriend stargazing “come on wyatt, i don’t wanna miss it” you say gripping his arm as you led him to a quiet space overlooking the ocean. “babe, I’m pretty sure the stars aren’t going anywhere,” he chuckled “and besides, the sky isn’t as pretty as the star right in front of me” he stops and turns to face you. he strokes your cheek, looking down at you with a smile that rivalled romeo’s love for juliet. y’all sat down watching how nature looked so peaceful. he started kissing on your neck, leaving light hickeys to mark you as his. straddling your bf, you deepened the kiss as you felt him grow uncomfortably large in his jeans. you undid his trousers as 8 thick inches of uncut hairy cock made contact with the chill of the night. “you don’t know how much this turns me on, y/n”

you continued sucking on his tip, swirling and drooling all over him as a pool of your spit congealed in his pubes. all the while his hands gripped your roots urging you to take more and more of his cock. you gargled and took him like a champ.

“babe, ughh, I’m bout to, uuhhh shit shit” he came deep down your throat, cleaning your chin with his finger and then poking it in your mouth as he made sure to feed you with every last drop.

you laid down, proud of your efforts to calm him down and your head tucked into cushman’s shoulder, as you began to feel sleepy. your bf noticed this and chuckled to himself, using the blanket he brought to make sure you wouldn’t get cold. “mkay, y/n kinda had a point, this is pretty cool,” he whispered, still riding the high you gave him “but it’s got nothing on him tho, my cute ass bf” wyatt embraced you tighter. the wedding bells were already ringing in his head.

MORE SLUTTY THOUGHTS:

• he deffo has a spit kink. not saying that he’d treat you as worthless scum but, he’d would make sure to slut you out. and you fucking loved it. “you’re a dirty little whore, aren’t you” he’d grunt raw dogging your ass as he spat in your face.

• as dominant as he is, he likes to give you your time to shine, always enjoying it when you spell coconut with your hips as you ride his pole. as I’ve mentioned already his smile drives you crazy, and this position has him cheesing the MOST. wyatt just loves to see how much you’re enjoying the experience, and nothing turns him on more than when he can see the pleasure on your face. “fuck babe, you look so sexy riding my dick.”

• this leads on to missionary, nobody fucks harder in this position than this man. he definitely compensates for his soft strokes in doggy and prone bone because of how hard he hits your hole in missionary. He turns primal as well, feeling your chest bounce up every time he’s balls deep, but all in all he’s crazy for how your bodies are so in sync.

#gay #smut #bottom male reader #wyatt cushman #male bottom #gay male #gay reader #mxm #mlm #male reader

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nitewrighter · 3 months

Note

So turns out before joining Talon, Mauga was part of a Polynesian Ecoterrorist group known as the Deepsea Raiders. Any chance you could drop some Mauga and Lifeweaver fan interactions between the two?

LifeWeaver: I may not agree with the methodology, but I am glad the Deepsea Raiders were able to shut down those Summerland Oil rigs.

Mauga: You don't agree with the methodology?

LifeWeaver: *tongue click* Just... you sure caving in that oil executive's skull on national television sends the right message?

Mauga: See, I think not caving in his skull would send the wrong message, because it would tell other oil executives that I'm not going to cave in their skulls. Like, we have to be clear about cause and effect here. Be an oil executive... get your skull caved in. It's very straightforward.

LifeWeaver: ...are we sure caving in skulls is the methodology we want to use, though?

Mauga: Hey, we're throwing stuff at a wall, seeing what sticks. You know how it is.

----

LifeWeaver: Given its environmental impacts, how do you reconcile your love of travel with your love of the environment?

Mauga: Well, the way I see it, travel allows you to really experience how precious our planet is, and for me, those experiences allow me to not only be a stronger advocate, but also more conscientious in my day-to-day habits. It can also really show you how sustainable living is highly localized. Resort industries are devastating--we really need to adopt stronger attitudes of cultural relativism and willingness to adapt to local customs if we're going to travel ethically.

LifeWeaver: *thoughtful* I see...

Mauga: But also as you know, I'm super okay with murder, and really good at compartmentalizing. So *blows raspberry.*

LifeWeaver: *flatly* Ah.

Mauga: Every so often I'll visit one of the swankier resorts to hunt the most dangerous game... golfers.

#fanteractions #mauga #lifeweaver #overwatch

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goldengleams · 9 months

Text

wherever you stray, i follow | cole caufield x reader

In which Cole asks you to meet his family.

A little moment for the cutest hockey player out there-Mr. Cole Caufield!!

Warnings: none, just fluff!!

————————————————————————

It was Saturday and you were out on the golf course with Cole. This had become a common occurrence in your relationship, as you both liked to golf, even if you weren’t anywhere near as good as he was. You just loved spending as much time with Cole as you could in the off-season.

As you reached the 9th hole, the early morning sun was just starting to turn hot. You and Cole had woken up early to play nine holes and you were glad for his golf expertise on the selection of the tee time. You took a drink of water as you leaned against the cart.

Cole was standing confidently in the tee box, squaring up his shoulders and getting ready for his driver shot. He swung, his club connecting perfectly with the ball to send it soaring up in the air.

“Nice shot, C!” You called.

Cole only bragged jokingly on the course, typically tossing jokes back and forth between the two of you, but today he was quiet. You knew you weren’t great at the sport, but Cole loved that you tried your hardest and practiced with him. You could see the small smile on his face behind your sunglasses as he reached to pick up his tee.

“Your turn, babe,” Cole mumbled as he walked past you to the cart.

You furrowed your eyebrows. Cole continued to stay turned away from you, checking his phone once again. You knew it was early, but you were lost as to why Cole had gotten quieter as the morning had gone on. It seemed like he was focused on something, especially something in his phone.

You brushed off Cole’s behavior to take your shot. Cole barely seemed to notice your swing, not offering you any sweet compliments or loving words of advice.

“Ready to go?” Cole asked, eyes finally lifting from his phone as he started your golf cart to find your ball. His hand had failed to find its spot on your thigh as you drove along in silence. In a way, it reminded you of the first time you had gone golfing with Cole, back when everything was so new to the both of you.

“Y/N? Is this alright?” Cole had asked at the time. You were approaching the green at the last hole, the shade and brush from the large willow tree near the side hiding the blush from your cheeks. Cole slid his hand on your thigh and for the first time that day, you felt calm. You were no longer worried about who would see you two or if you were actually exclusive. Cole had made all of that clear, and he was always there to help you understand that he really liked you.

“Yeah, totally not trying to distract me from my winning shot,” you had said, caught off guard when his hand rested on your thigh. Cole had laughed, bantering with you about the close match.

He had pulled off the path, hiding under the large willow tree for some shade. With a finger under your chin, lightly motioning you forward, he kissed you. He had probably said some cheesy line, but it didn’t matter. Butterflies still went crazy in your stomach for Cole.

“My golfer,” he had whispered, conveying his happiness that you were there. “This tree is pretty big y’know, no one would see us if we…”

“Don’t, Caufield.”

“Hey, c’mon,” he had laughed. “It’ll be our tree, we can mark it!”

But now, as you approached the tree, your unmarked tree, you didn’t have butterflies. Cole had been acting weird and it was starting to make you uneasy. In the past week, Cole had finalized his plans to travel to some different events for PR, see his old hockey friends to train, and then go home to see his family. You understood what you had signed up for when you started dating Cole and didn’t mind his schedule, but your worrying was getting the better of you.

The cart came to a stop near your ball, yours was first, as usual. Cole was looking at you expectantly.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” you said, trying to collect yourself as you approached your shot. You gave it a swing, sending your ball closer to where Cole’s was sitting right on the fairway. You approached him again on the golf cart.

“You leave for all of your events and things next week, right?” You asked as Cole started driving.

Cole swallowed slowly and nodded. “Yeah, it should be alright.”

You knew Cole was a little nervous getting back into the swing of training and playing after his shoulder surgery, but you knew he could do it.

“Well, I’ll keep your house warm while you’re gone,” you joked. “I’ll be lonely without you, C.”

Your quiet admittance of the words that hung between you seemed to snap Cole out of whatever trance he had been in for the last few days.

“So come with me to Wisconsin,” he blurted out, quickly finding your hand with his as he hit the brake. “I think the Grand Prix is just a guys thing, and so is training, but I would love for you to come to Wisconsin.” You met his eyes as he looked at you with a hesitant gaze. You were pretty shocked-Cole was asking you to go home with him. To meet his friends and his family.

You couldn’t help the wide smile that broke out on your face. “Is this why you were being weird and quiet, Coley?”

Cole pulled away from your hands that had started to caress his face. You knew he was serious when he moved away from your touch.

“Yeah, I just want you to be a part of my summer,” he said. “You helped me through the winter, which is long as shit in Montreal and now I want fun summer memories with you.”

You leaned up to give him a kiss, tasting hints of his drink on his lips. He closed the space between you quickly.

“Oh,” he mumbled, pulling away. “Did I mention there’s also a wedding? My cousin is also getting married and she was practically begging me to invite you, so I hope you’re ready to meet the Caufield’s because they know a lot about you.”

You threw your head back and laughed. Cole didn’t get very nervous, but when he did, he always rambled a little.

“No, you didn’t say it was for a wedding, but I’d be honored to be your plus-one, Cole.” You swore Cole’s eyes lit up when you said it. You would be his date any day.

“All good things happen at this willow tree,” Cole said, amused. “Remind me to ask you to marry me here.”

You smacked his chest, a little taken back. In the midday light, Cole’s skin shone and his hair glistened. You ran a hand up his arm to silently reassure him.

“You may be pushing it, but I wouldn’t be mad about it, C.”

————————————————————————

Hope you guys liked this! Cole Caufield is too cute not to write a fluffy little blurb for🥹 send in some requests if you want to see more posts like this!!

…part 2?

#cole caufield #cole Caufield x reader #cole Caufield imagine #nhl hockey #nhl #nhl blurb #nhl x reader #nhl fic

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

Note

Hello! I saw your Five Hargreeves oneshots and wanted to submit one if that's alright. Could you do one where the reader has a fascination with hypnosis and tries it out of Five. It works, but it ends up affecting them both more than they thought, leading to smut. I loved the way the reader took care of Five in Lucking Fucking Pillow and I like the idea of Five letting his mind shut off in order to take a break. If you don't want to do hypnosis can I request some Sub!Five fluff/smut? Thank you!♥

Not the biggest fan of hypno so I went for Sub!Five fluff/smut. I tried to incorporate the idea of Five taking a break and being mesmerised, (even if not literally!). Hope you enjoy xx

In Your Hands | Five Hargreeves/ GN Reader 3.1k words, Rated E

He thought retirement was all he wanted: he envisioned himself kicking back, perhaps taking up fishing or birdwatching or golf or whatever old dogs like him were supposed to do. So, at first, he threw himself into it, wearing a lot of khaki, flannel and tennis shoes and wandering around the city waiting for relaxation to occur.

But, somehow, it never seemed to happen: fishing and birdwatching made him want to tear out his hair, golfers were all assholes (plus he could never get the fucking ball to go where he wanted it to) and he very quickly exhausted his appetite for museums, art galleries and attractions.

The resulting feeling was very much like boredom. With dismay, he found that he was as ill-suited to an idle life as he was to khaki and flannel. Perhaps it was having the body and brain chemistry of someone in his early twenties, or maybe it was something more essential. It wasn’t, as his siblings liked to insist, that he got off on the thrill of an impending apocalypse, but Five’s was certainly a mind that needed a bone to gnaw on.

His first project was his car. He’d first scoured the country for the perfect 1970 Corvette Stingray and then fixed it up to his liking. For months, he could be found in Academy’s parking garage, head under the hood or entirely underneath the jacked-up car and cursing softly as he tweaked, tinkered and optimized the engine.

He was obsessed, living on the intricacies of the work. The mechanical nature of it appealed to his meticulous nature: the little problems to smooth away and the occasional need to think outside the box. He would lie awake at night, brain raking over how to coax the reluctant carburetor into better operation again and again.

As much fun as he had, as with every project, there came a point where he couldn’t do any more. When the car returned from the body shop with a reconstructed paint job, she was in as perfect condition as such an old car could be- there was nothing for him to do but drive her. This was enjoyable, but didn’t give his brain enough to chew on long term.

So, since then, he threw out the idea of retirement along with the incongruous clothing. He just let his brain carry him wherever it wanted to go: sometimes that was recreation and relaxation, at other times it was chasing his latest obsession.

But there was a problem: when ‘on the job’, Five knew no moderation. He’d work on this latest thing for hours into the night, neglecting you and running himself ragged into the bargain. It came of having to obsess in order to stay alive during the apocalypse; he’d learned this crazed single-mindedness there, and it was as if he knew no other way to be.

So when you found him in his dad’s office, hair sticking up in all directions and surrounded by stacks of books, newspapers and an entire chalkboard’s worth of calculations, you sighed heavily.

“What are you on this time, Five?”

“Samuel Shawcross!”

“What?”

“Samuel Shawcross,” he repeated, flicking through the pages of a book feverishly.

“You mean the…aerospace guy?”

“Exactly!” he said, a slightly mad look in his eye, “The billionaire owner of Atlas Aerospace, both famed and mocked for his researches into time travel. An asshole who's shadier than a ten foot parasol.”

You snort laughter at this, but amusement fades as you watch him flip over the chalkboard to write on the other face.

“Billionaires are always shady. Look at your dad.”

“I know!” he said, impatiently, dropping the chalk “and that’s exactly the problem. He and Dad- they knew one another. They were working on stuff together! Look. Look at this!”

He handed you a piece of paper, dated a short while before Reginald’s death. It seemed like the final page of a letter.

-the success of my latest round of testing, I can surmise that it will be extremely appealing to you as well as our associates. I intend for it to be ready within the next decade. Onwards and upwards! Your friend, Samuel Shawcross

You look from the letter, back up at Five.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” he said, beginning to pace like a caged tiger, “it’s nowhere.”

“But it could mean anything.” you say, confused.

“Don’t you get it?” he said, eyes wide, “The old man was an asshole but he sure as hell wasn’t slapdash. If the other half of this letter is gone, then it means that Dad deliberately destroyed it or someone else took it. And the only reason either of those things would happen is if it was sensitive information!”

You looked down at the letter and then doubtfully back up at him.

“Five, it’s been years since your father died. How many people have been in and out of here since then? It could just have been lost. Knocked off a table or something and then thrown out. You told me Klaus ransacked this place.”

“That letter says this device could be ready any time now. We gotta know what it is, surely? If some idiot like Shawcross gets his hands on time travel then we’re all on paradox highway, heading to kugel-town!”

You dropped the letter on the desk and took him by the lapels, feeling his fast breathing. His raised heart rate was perceptible even beneath layers of fabric.

“You’re running away with yourself, Five. Who says this is a time travel device? Who says it’s a device of any kind? Maybe it’s a…a recipe for a really great cocktail or something?”

“What cocktail recipe takes ten years to develop?” he said, though sounding slightly less sure.

“Isn’t this for the Commission to deal with, anyway?” you say, quietly, pressing your body against his, “Why, when they have the Infinite Switchboard, is this down to one sexy boy and his chalkboard?”

The back of his thighs hit his father’s desk. He swallowed, his sturdy adam’s apple bobbing as he looked into your eyes. He found that they pulled his inexorably into their own depths.

smut below cut

Suddenly, what had consumed him so fully seemed less important to focus on than the insistent press of your body and the tug of your eyes. Yet he couldn’t quite stop the whirring of his mind. The little ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ churned and fired away like the engine of his Corvette.

You turned your attention to his throat, to the prominence of cartilage that had betrayed his interest. You leaned towards him and laid a kiss there. It was a small kiss: barely more than a peck, but his skin lit up with gooseflesh.

You smirked at the sight.

Five felt his jaw go slack as you moved your face to whisper in his ear, making sure your breath fluttered across his neck along a slow, teasing path.

“Are you stressed, baby?” you whispered, oh-so quietly.

He nodded dumbly, your voice running into his ears like honey, obscuring all other sounds.

“That big old brain of yours giving you trouble?”

“Yes,” he croaked, letting his knees go and leaning against the desk for support.

“So clever, aren’t you? Sometimes it’s nice to just…let go.”

He didn’t respond, instead closing his eyes as one of your hands crept to the other side of his neck and stroked him lazily. The already pebbled skin bristled and a pleasant chill crept down his spine.

He so wanted to let go. He moved into your touch, quietly asking for more.

At this, you hummed delightedly into his ear.

““You always take such good care of me, Five.” you whispered, “You even try to take care of the whole world…but let me take care of you for once. Just let it all go.”

He nodded again, not trusting his voice.

“Shall I help you relax?”

Another nod.

“I don’t hear you, Five,” you said, with a touch of playful reproach.

“Yes please,” he whispered, quickly; eager to please.

You kissed his lips and felt him yield easily to your caresses. You burrowed your hands into his hair, pulling gently. He made a small noise into your mouth and melted into you further: letting himself be kissed. Your lips, firm but soft, communicated all you wanted to tell him: tonight, he was in your hands.

As a sharp heat built within you, you withdrew, unable to help nibbling at his lower lip as you did so.

He looked at you with a patiently expectant expression: ready for you to do with him as you wished. To you, Five was always perfect, but in this mood? He looked practically edible as he looked back at you. His swollen lips were parted, shining with traces of salvia. His fine green eyes were guileless and mesmerized. Undeniably delectable.

You felt a rush of something as you looked at him. So cute and charming, it actually hurt. There was nothing to do but grab his tie and twist it in your fingers, your other hand drifting down his body.

He let out a soft ‘oh’ as you cupped his clothed crotch, weighing his arousal in your hand.

“Hard already?” you said, as if disbelieving, “you must really need me, huh?”

He capitulated to the game without a second thought: it was the path of least resistance now that his cock was as hard as a battering ram and throbbing with the need to feel skin on skin.

“I do, I really need you,” he breathed.

“Are you desperate?” you said, giving his swollen package a little squeeze.

“Yes,” he groaned, “I’m desperate, okay?”

You stepped smartly away from him and he took confused half-step forward to follow you but you turned on your heel and walked swiftly away.

“W-wait,” he said, uncomprehendingly, “please don-”

But he understood as he heard the key click in the lock, locking the door of his father’s office against would-be intruders. You turned back to face him.

“Get undressed baby.”

He nodded again, grateful and certain in the knowledge that he was safe in your hands. He shrugged off his jacket as his numb fingers fumbled with his waistcoat. It was hard to concentrate on the task, so befuddled was his brain. This was complicated further by the sight before him. As his layers of clothing fell away, so did yours. You’d already stripped off your top, revealing the chest that he could never tire of touching, stroking and kissing.

His gorgeous eyes followed you reverently as you removed the rest of your clothes and moved to sit behind the desk. You leaned back comfortably in the commodious desk chair., noting with amusement the way he tripped over his own pants and underwear as he took them off.

Soon, he was standing there in only his socks.

“Come here,” you said, patting your knee, “come and sit nice and close against me, okay?”

He obeyed, looking around uncertainly just as he was about to sit, unsure how you wanted him. Taking him around the waist, you guided him onto your lap.

“That’s it baby. Lean back. Feel me against you.”

He sighed as he did so, losing himself in your touch: in your palm rubbing a comforting circle onto the firm plates of his lower stomach. He reclined fully, resting his head beside yours, his neck forming a graceful arch.

He let out a little puff of air at the feeling of your warmth: the closeness of being cradled this way. It was bliss and it held the promise of more bliss to come.

“I got you, sweetie.”

He made a little noise in response and, smiling, you pecked gently at his pulse point. There, his heart was coming to a slower, steadier rhythm as he relaxed into you. His breathing, you noticed, was becoming deeper, even as his cock stood out proud; a loud exclamation point between his thighs.

You kissed again and again at his neck, the backs of your fingers drifting up and down his stomach. Five didn’t verbally object to this little tease, but couldn’t stop himself nuzzling and butting softly at your cheek, asking you to take him in hand in much the same way as an insistent cat might ask to be petted.

When you didn’t immediately give in, he squirmed against you, restlessly. Spreading his legs wide and arching his back. You hissed in air as his perfect ass wiggled sinfully against your crotch.

Then, it was his turn to hiss as your fingers, on their drift down his stomach, brushed against his swollen, deep pink tip. When you flittled your fingers back up his stomach, he actually whined.

“Please. Please touch me properly down there.”

He certainly sounded desperate.

“It’s okay, baby,” you said, kissing his temple, “of course I will.”

So you wrapped your fingers around his shaft and he made a sweet, formless, high pitched little sound.

He exceeded your hand’s grasp, but not by so much that he couldn’t feel completely enveloped by you. As you massaged his straining dick, you smoothed away the final, lingering preoccupation of his mind, his hitherto furrowed brow clearing and settling into smoothness.

You and the mounting pleasure were the only real things to him as you stroked him, your other hand ghosting lightly across his thigh. He sighed softly, spreading his legs even wider for you as the hand moved to cup and softly rub his balls, your thumb working in a slow, languid circle.

“Feel good, darling?”

He nodded against your cheek, body going heavy in your arms. One hand gripped the buttoned leather of the chair’s arm, and the other stretched back, over his head to brace himself against the chair’s back.

As you stroked him this way, there was just enough of Five left to be satisfied by this situation. What a way to stick it to the old man! What would he say if he knew that Number Five was getting jacked off in his desk chair? What better middle finger to the old bastard than by desecrating his precious study by being a total slut in here?

But as your warm, clever fingers brought him closer to the edge, all thoughts of Reginald were (thankfully) driven away by the deep desire smoldering in his guts, his tingling nerves and the mounting adrenaline.

He groaned a soft ‘oh’ as your hand delivered a particularly harsh jolt of pleasure.

You kissed his cheekbone.

“I love making you feel good, baby.”

He only sighed in response.

Your hand briefly left his shaft to swipe at the pearl of precome beading heavily at his tip. Half of this, you rubbed down the length of his shaft, to slicken your hand as you finished him. You gathered the rest, however, wet, hot and sticky on your finger tips.

You raised it to his face and his lips parted. An eager tongue lapped and licked at the seed coating your fingers.

“You like that?” you asked, delightedly

“Yes,” he breathed, recovering himself enough to speak, “fuck, I think I’d like anything you want to give me.”

“God, I love you,” you gushed, unable to stop yourself smiling at his complete change in attitude; the swing straight from manic energy to submissive desire.

“I love you.” he babbled, “I love you so much.”

At this, he angled his face up towards yours with needy entreaty, so gave him the asked-for attention and kissed him again. He was going to come quickly: you could tell by the way he suckled gently but needily at your lips.

When you broke apart, his heavily-lidded eyes didn’t leave your face, looking up at you with hazy adoration. You kissed his silky hair and held his gaze.

“I’m going to make you come now, baby. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“Yes.” he murmured, “Yes please.”

You sped your strokes, his tip making a satisfying thwap thwap thwap against your thumb on each upstroke.

His asscheeks tensed and his hips jumped upward to meet your ministrations, whispering a steady stream of rhapsodic affirmations.

“Yes,” he said, “Yeeesss. Oh God, please!”

Tight little moans were creaking from deep in his throat. He sounded like a tiny, feral thing caught in a death grip.

You grasped him tighter and he whined, socked feet scraping and whispering against the turkish rug as he struggled for purchase. His hip bones stood out against his skin as he curled backwards, rubbing his hair into further disarray against your shoulder.

“Fuuccck.”

“God, Five, you make me crazy.” you whispered, “You’re so fucking hot.”

“Mmmph!”

“Yeah, come on: that’s it.”

And then, at your encouragement, his cock pumped against your grasp. His hips surged forwards helplessly with each throb. He gasped shrilly, bucking and grinding against you and crying out in rapture.

“There you go baby,” you said, voice full of lascivious satisfaction, “There you go.”

You lengthened your downstrokes, milking him for all the pleasure you could, noting with satisfaction the way his come splashed copiously onto your arm and wrist.

“Yes. Oh fuck. Yes. Fuck,” he chanted, “Yes. Fuck yes. Thank you!”

His thighs trembled like a nervous terrier as you pulled the final few spurts of come out of him. As the ropes turned to drops, the trembling lessened into sporadic twitches. He breathed long, shaky ‘Ohs’ into your ear as he enjoyed the waning spikes of satisfaction. Gradually, you slowed and then stopped your hand.

Five lay spent against you, his breathing relaxed but shallow. His eyes were closed, head leaning entirely on yours. There was nowhere for you to go with him weighing you down, so you ignored the come getting tacky on your skin and folded your arms around his chest.

“Did I make you feel good, baby?”

A confirmatory grunt sounded from his throat. Clearly, he was in no state to say more. So you took the rare opportunity of Five’s being silenced to whisper to him:

“I love you. You’re so perfect. I love taking care of you like this. You deserve it, sweetie: you really do. You need to relax a little, okay? Get out of your own head now and then. You can’t always be on the go.”

He made no answer but a sleepy smile. After a couple of minutes of silence, you spoke to him again.

“Are you still planning to investigate Samuel Shawcross?”

“Who?” he said, a trace of humor in his dragging voice.

“Attaboy,” you said, placing a final kiss into his hair.

Request masterlist >> HERE

NOTE:

I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See masterlist for request status and more.

#sorry I suck at choosing gifs #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy imagine #umbrella academy x reader #the umbrella academy smut #the umbrella academy five #umbrella academy number five #umbrella academy five x reader #umbrella academy five x you #five hargreaves x you #five hargreaves x reader #number five imagine #five hargreeves imagine #number 5 imagine #number 5 x reader #number five x you

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