words : 11.8k
warnings : actively golfing with Tom, his dad, his brother Harry, and Harrison ; smut: mutual teasing, public bathroom shenanigans but it's a fancy golf course so y'know it's clean and posh, use of a plug (not an*l), fingering 'cause y/n is extra h-word for hands, orgasm denial
b's note : i tried to clarify any terms specific to golfing, but my apologies if anything is unclear. once you get the knowledge into your head from research, it's difficult af to explain anything without it being too wordy and breaking the mood </3 hope you like it!
~ ⛳️ ~
Strike Two - ii
The room is quiet when you wake up. You stretch your toes to get rid of a sleep cramp, taking your time with it since the bed is so warm. Your eyelids are heavy and refuse to open right away, so you move around only to stop when you feel the edge of the mattress on your hip. On your other side, Tom's back is still nestled into your chest, two of your hands still clasped together, four legs tangled around the sheets.
"Hey."
You look up at the sound that doesn't come out of Tom, rubbing your eyes with your other fist, and find Harrison's head peeking into the room.
"Hey," you mumble sleepily, trying to hold back a yawn that ends up betraying you. "Sorry. What's going on?"
"Tom's alarm has been going off repeatedly for like, twenty minutes now."
"Shit," you say, clearing your throat. "Thanks, Harrison. We'll be right out."
So you're late. Tom must have set his alarm for this morning so you could go to the golf course early. With his brothers and his dad. At the moment, you can barely believe it's really going to happen. You want to stay in bed and get some sleep. Last night wasn't too crazy, but you're tired from the hormones racing in your blood before you fell asleep.
Eventually, you manage to wake Tom up and get ready for his favorite Thursday morning sport. You can sort of tell he regrets it today, that he'd rather sleep in the same way you do, all from how he's moving around slowly and gruffing at you when you're in his way, but a deal is a deal.
You skip breakfast since you'll have to get ready in record time, but at least you won't have to shower since you washed up properly before bed. When you're brushing your face with make-up, Tom appears by your side in the mirror and drops the bag from last night on the counter.
"Here, thought you could wear these today." He shrugs, leaving you wondering what he could mean.
Blinking at him for a second, you put down the hand holding the brush and say, "You said you wanted to return them."
"Changed my mind." That's the only thing Tom says before he turns on his heels and leaves the room. You stay there for a few seconds ruminating on what just happened.
It's easy to understand that he wants you to wear the skort because one, he bought them for you, and two, his family is going to be at the golf course with you. If that wasn't the case, knowing him, Tom would have preferred that you wore a skirt.
"Oh, I see right through you, champ," you mutter to yourself, quickly applying the rest of your make-up.
There's always time for one small prank. Just because you're in a hurry, it doesn't mean you can't have a little fun. You're about to grab the bag Tom left for you, but decide to leave it on the counter. It's small enough, so you've got the perfect excuse.
Back in the bedroom, you slide into one of your regular mini skirts. It's light and fresh, and compliments your shape quite well, with a marked waist and a little slit on your left thigh. One that you know Tom will recognize from previous adventures. After all, he did fuck you in it twice, once in his own kitchen in the short time it took Harrison to travel from his parents' house to the flat, and then just a few months ago in the coat room of his favorite nightclub.
"Let's have some fun, shall we?" you ask your reflection in the mirror on the closet door. It knows too many secrets by now.
With a smirk, you slip your bag around your shoulder and turn to the bedroom door to leave, but Tom's standing in the way. He looks ready, in dark knee-length shorts and a pink t-shirt, the collar unbuttoned, a navy blue cap that he perches on his head. The popping veins on his arm are close to a natural adornment, trickling down to the Rolex that hangs carelessly on his wrist.
You tilt your head at him, stepping around him as sensually as you can muster. With a swift look down the hallway, you can tell that Harrison is nowhere in sight, so you gaze back at Tom who hasn't moved a muscle yet. "We're already late, Tom, what are you doing?"
He's frowning at you, both eyebrows angled in sharply, as he checks you out. Then he says, "That's not the skort I gave you."
"Oh?" You take a look at yourself. "Guess I forgot. I was kind of in a rush, y'know?"
"I left it for you in the bloody bathroom—" he nearly snarls, taking one step closer to you.
Hand brushing his watch, then running a finger on the inside of the metal band, you open your mouth to sass him back, but get interrupted by a door banging in the background. Harrison, for sure. He turns the corner into the hallway and says, "Are you guys ready yet?"
"Yeah, I'm ready, Harry." With a precise twirl on your toes, you lay a hand on Tom's shoulder and say, "C'mon, don't have time to change now. Bummer, huh?"
And then you walk away, smiling at Harrison and accepting the reusable cup he offers you. "Thank you." You take one last look over your shoulder. "You coming, champ?"
He clears his throat, though he's still standing in the very same spot. His jaw clenched tight.
Oh. This is gonna be fun, alright.
*
You're sitting in the back seat of the car cradling the cup of tea that Harrison prepared so kindly for you while you were getting ready upstairs. Tom's is waiting for him in the cup holder in the center console. He has yet to come downstairs, having said he'd be right out when you left.
Harrison is sitting in the front with his thumbs tapping the wheel in a mindless melody that you can't really place. At some point, he stops and says, "Okay. Y/n."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to say this as politely as I can, alright?"
You send him a look through your eyelashes, not understanding what he's trying to hint at. "Mhmm?"
Harrison clears his throat first, then starts, "I can tell there's something going on between you and Tom. I mean, it's none of my business what you do when I'm not home, but, uh, I mean, we're going golfing today. With his brother. And his dad. So, you know..."
You laugh. There has been tension in the air since yesterday, and of course Harrison has noticed it. That much was obvious in the way he fled to his bedroom as soon as you arrived at the flat. He's used to this type of thing, no matter how much you and Tom try to keep it together in front of him. Sometimes you just can't avoid it, but hopefully he doesn't think it's of poor taste since you don't really let anything develop when Harrison is around.
"Okay, how do I put this?" You chuckle.
"God, I knew it..."
"No, Harrison! It's not like that..."
"I saw him upstairs, y'know?" Harrison scoffs, turning around in his seat. "That was his sex clench."
"What the heck is a sex clench?" you ask, a frown heavy on your brow as you attempt to control your laughter.
"Just, you know..." Harrison trails off, gesturing with his fist across his jaw. "Tom looked very peeved at you. And I know him, y/n. That was one of his sex faces."
"And how would you know that?" You wiggle your eyebrows. He chuckles in response. "C'mon, kindly enlighten me, mate."
"He's just very... expressive when it comes to you. Not sure if you've ever noticed that," Harrison says, changing his tone to something a bit more enigmatic.
"I did, yeah. Sort of." You nod. The wheels in your head refuse to work when you try to set them in motion to decode what Harrison might really be trying to say. "I just didn't think his mates would know his sex faces. That's kinda weird."
"Tell me about it." Harrison rolls his eyes and you can't help but giggle around the edge of your cup.
Speaking of Tom, he finally steps out of the front door of your building. It takes you a load of courage not to make a joke about this being a round of golf, not his wedding day. Only because he's quiet, but especially because he slides into the passenger seat without so much of a complaint about Harrison driving. Tom loves to drive. And he's usually pretty vocal when it comes to the matter of people driving him around when he's not working. Not today apparently.
He stays in silence the whole ride to his parents' house. He keeps tapping furiously on his phone, wiping his hands over his thighs, checking the pockets on his trousers, running his fingers through his hair. Lots of nervous ticks. You don't pay him any mind since you have an idea of what's making him so antsy.
Once you pick up Tom's dad and Harry, you learn that the course imposes a maximum of four people in a group per tee time, so you watch, sunken into your seat, the debate of whether it would be better to split up or to let Tom charm his way around the rules. While you're all up for respecting guidelines, you would love to see Tom weasel out of something like this.
It's no surprise when he suggests that you form a group together, just the two of you, with the other three forming another group, but you're the first one to remind him that you're here at the invitation of his father to receive a lesson.
"And I would very much like to receive it," you say, stepping away from him and closer to his dad.
The strain in Tom's face is indescribable. He moves his jaw in a tight, circular motion, eyes set as stone on you. Granted, you ignore him and by then it's decided that you'll try to play all together since it's so early and there's hardly anyone at the course.
Hole after hole, the tension and quiet fades completely. If someone had told you a year ago that you'd be laughing your legs off in the middle of four golf enthusiasts, you would have said they were lying.
Mr. Holland takes over the role of coach, and you keep catching sight of Tom staring at the two of you with an unmatched level of spite in his eye. It's nothing like you've seen before. Of course he keeps making jokes about it, trying to distract you with this or that pun that you always ask one of the others what he means by it, and even saying that you're following his dad's tips more closely than you did his the other time you played.
His eyes follow you around whenever it's your turn. They're hot on the back of your neck even when you're not looking at him, even when you're watching Harry and his dad debating which angle is the best for your body type. Or when you're trying to catch up on the logic of the game. Some of it still goes over your head, but you're learning. Slowly. Yet there's always this or that moment when you feel confident enough to drop one of the few puns you can make.
For instance, when you get to the fourth hole. It's a par 5, says Tom's dad. He always tells you the score of the hole you're playing next. A par 5 means that a golfer is expected to need five strokes for the ball to drop into the cup, aka, the hole. That's the ultimate goal, but only a proficient golfer makes par often, though sometimes all it takes is a lucky shot. It was a tricky term to learn until Harrison broke it down for you in simpler words, but it's the one you memorized the fastest as it is repeated the most often.
After his first swing, seeing where the ball had landed, Tom made a bet with his brother that he'd be able to shoot under par. That means that he would be able to get the ball into the cup in less than five shots. Now that he's about to hit his third stroke, you can tell that it has to be perfect or he'll never win.
Harrison agrees with you and explains that Tom will need two precision shots to get this. First, something that he calls a lag putt since Tom's hitting the ball from a fair distance and needs it to land near the cup. Then, a final quick stroke to get it done in four shots. If Tom hits the ball a fifth time, he makes par and loses the bet.
While their dad observes in silence, Harry says it's an impossible shot. Tom grinds his teeth together as soon as the words leave his brother's mouth, running his tongue over them afterwards.
You can't wait to see what happens next, you think with a smirk twisting on your lips. Tom is the sorest loser you've ever known, thankfully not in an offensive way, so every time he fails is hilarious.
Right now, he's shaking his arms and poking out his elbows, confidently, certain that he's going to hit this ball just right. His dad chastises him about this tick, and Harry also comments on it in a more sarcastic way. So you join in and say, "Break a lag, champ."
Tom looks at you viciously, eyes squinted, his lips clasped together in a funny scowl, and then he refocuses. Shoulders, hips and feet parallel to his target. Flexing his leg, the twist of his muscles visible beneath his trousers. Eyes on the ball, hands wrapped strategically around the top of the club, fingers wiggling around.
He hits the ball gently. Then one more time to complete the hole. The ball moves, touches the edge of the hole... then continues rolling on the green. He missed.
"Aaaaaaarh!"
"Unlucky, bro. Isn't that what you always say?" Harry says, walking past Tom with his head held up high when Tom finally gets the ball in the cup. With a fifth stroke.
Tom completely ignores him.
Later on, by the sixth hole, Tom's eyes are on you again as you listen to his brother's tips on how to avoid the water hazard on the left. There's a heavier breeze in the air and your skirt is flowing with it, so you figure that's why. You focus on Harry and hum at what he's saying, keeping one eye on Tom as he strolls in your direction with a dark tint in his gaze. He walks past his brother, but before he reaches your side, you compose your skirt with both hands and say with jest, "Tom, please, stop leering at my putt, will you?"
"Chip shot, y/n, that's not what I was doing at all," he complains, tugging on the hem of your skirt with a playful grin.
Harry only shakes his head and turns to leave.
From then on, when neither of you is playing, Tom focuses on nothing but you. It's like he's trying to keep tabs on you, but it's the type of control you appreciate in him. His eyes intense and focused on his prey, hands in his pockets or dribbling down your legs when he's close enough.
On the eighth hole, when his father is trying to explain something that you'll have to repeat next, Tom even traces the slit of your skirt with a finger. Slowly, running it up and down both sides of the stretch of exposed skin. He's quite explicit about it since his dad isn't paying attention, and if Harry and Harrison notice it, they don't chastise him for it.
"Got a little something for you in my pocket," he says, mouth suggestively close to your ear yet not close enough to reach it. His breath feels hot and heavy, a shiver shuddering up your body to try and meet it.
"I know you love golf, Tom," you tease, "but I never thought watching your dad play would turn you on so much." You smirk when you see his vexed expression.
"Not that, you nutter," he says more relaxed, kissing your earlobe at last. His hand moves shamelessly over your thigh up to your hip, where he curls it earnestly around the curve of the bone. "But say you need to use the loo after this hole, will you? You'll see what I mean."
You nod, of course, curious as to what he means. You did notice that he kept shoving his hands in his pocket when he had stored his phone in his club bag. It was odd, but you hadn't really given it any thought. It could easily be a reflex or a random gesture, but now it's clear that you'd been wrong.
When you do ask the group for a restroom break, with Tom in tow saying he'll accompany you, you can sense a bit of a murmur around you as you stroll towards the nearby shed. It's unclear what the other three are commenting on since you don't even look back, but it keeps itching on the nape of your neck.
You forget all about it quite easily because Tom pushes you into the closest bathroom stall, locking it first and only then turning around to face you. His eyes are dark and fierce, holding a twinkle of either confidence or pure evil.
"You're not being very nice today, are you, y/n?" he asks in a low tone, licking his lips shortly.
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" He scoffs. "You pulled that little trick at home— you may think I didn't realize it was on purpose, but you'd be very wrong about that, young lady." Tom tuts, slowly shaking his head in disapproval. "And now here, you're using puns left and right and then pretend you don't understand my jokes. You're rooting for my brother. You're actively listening to my dad."
"Are you jealous—"
"Don't interrupt me," he says curtly, making you gulp and shut your mouth. Your legs, too.
"I'm just... playing with you, Tom," you clarify, eyelids fluttering as you gaze at him sheepishly. You play with the neck of his shirt as well, tracing the collar points before you run a finger on the inside, brushing his neck softly.
"Oh, I know you are," Tom chuckles, "and that's okay. But, that said, I brought you a little something today. I thought of it after you so innocently — and I say this sarcastically in case you haven't noticed — decided to put on a skirt today. That skirt, of all things."
"I mean, don't get me wrong," he continues, his lips popping from how he's constantly wetting them. "I love seeing you in it. This slit on your thigh is delicious and was so, so fun to play with when we sneaked into that coat room the other day."
"I knew you'd remember..."
Tom smiles his enchanter's smirk. "How could I ever forget?" he muses, drawing his finger down your thigh until he can hook it around the end of the slit. "Anyway, I digress. Now, would you be so kind as to remove your knickers for me?"
You blink at him questioningly, obviously not wanting to walk around the golf course without underwear on. "How—"
"Don't worry, you'll put them on before we go back," he reassures you with a genuine tight-lipped smile. You nod and move back as far as you can to reach under your skirt and tug the panties you're wearing down your legs.
Showing them to Tom, he grabs them and says, "Thank you," before he shoves them in his left pocket. Then he adds, "Now would you please reach into my right pocket and see what you find?"
"This is kinda exciting," you grin at him before you move any closer.
Tom only responds with a hum, urging you on to do what he asked. "C'mon."
Clearing your throat first, you lean in to slide your hand the best you can into his right pocket, eventually finding something hard and cold. When you pull it out, your eyes on Tom as he smiles at you with playful malice, you realize what it is. A metal plug.
"Whaaat are you doing with this in your pocket, champ?" you ask, tilting your head at him. Your hand plays mindlessly with the plug, holding it by the base and rolling it around the best you can. It's not large at all, a few inches at the most, nothing that shocks you. You simply had no idea that Tom even owned one of these things.
"Well," he starts slowly, plucking the small object from your hand. "I was thinking we could wash it in the basin, then I'd like you to put it in — you can choose in which hole — and then you're going to put your knickers back on, and you're gonna do the rest of the round with it all snug inside of you. What do you say?"
At first, you hesitate in agreeing to this. You've just finished the eighth hole, which means you're not even halfway through, and to be fair doing something like this in front of Tom's father seems a bit risky. On the other hand, he wouldn't have to know a thing, would he? The toy doesn't seem to vibrate, so it probably doesn't make any noise, and it wouldn't be visible after you put it on. Plus, you're sure this can be used for Tom's revenge as well as against him.
"Alright, I'll do it," you nod assertively and wrap a hand around Tom's shoulder. He looks at you with a smile, eyes glinting in excitement, and kisses you to seal the pact.
At a second glance, you both hungrily reach for each other, pulling and tugging in every direction you wish to move. Your arms end up tight around his neck and your legs flail about looking for something to hold on to. Tom has his right arm around you, so close that you feel the poke of the plug on your back, while his left hand, covered with his golfing glove, snakes up your thigh scratching your skin. He grabs a handful of your bum cheek, squeezing and pulling you close.
Your skirt rides up your legs when you push him against the door, hands buried in his hair and messing it up as you wish. Between your legs, your pussy tightens around empty air, begging for a touch.
"Tom," you whisper into his open lips when you pull back for a breather, "will you finger me first?"
He growls in response, but pecks your mouth and clasps his hands around your arms, keeping you at a distance.
"No."
"Wha—" you start to protest, but Tom shushes you with a finger against your lips.
"Stand against the door please," he instructs, pointing in the right direction with his head. Then he turns around and faces the small sink in the restroom.
You watch in silence, admiring the muscles that ripple through his shirt. The curve of his shoulders, tight and masculine. The edge of his short sleeves digging into his biceps, making them bulge magnificently. The clutch of his fingers as he removes the glove. Needless to say, you can't look away now. Your eyes transfixed by his slender, coarse hands, then by the grit of his teeth when he shoves the thumb of the glove in between them. It seems... unhygienic, but he looks freaking hot.
Tom washes the plug swiftly under the running water and yanks a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall to wipe it dry, holding it up in the air and pointing it at you. "There you go."
"Do you want to do this for me?" you offer, batting your eyes at him before you reach for the plug.
His only response is a shake of his head, his eyes cast down as he puts his glove back on. Taking his time adjusting his fingers as though to tease you from afar. In the end, Tom leans back against the basin and supports his weight with both hands. You can only see one, sadly. The left one. The high-end glint of his watch guides your gaze all the way up to his sleeve, its stretch around his muscles more than enough to make you gulp. So much so, you almost miss it when he says, "C'mon, show me your best."
Suddenly, the air rarifies in the room. Your lungs struggle to breathe, but you sigh and inhale, rolling the metal object in your hand. Studying it.
Then you have a vicious idea. Tom said you could choose which hole, and you know what he meant since he asked you to remove your undies, but he may have forgotten one. So you're going to remind him how much of a tease you can be, too.
You start by twisting the plug so that the tip is facing you, leaning it forward and running it over your lips. Tom's arms tense visibly.
"What are you doing?"
"You said I could choose which hole," you whisper, puckering up your lips and wiping your tongue across the surface of the plug. Over the tip. Across its whole width.
Tom's eyes are a mix of lust and fury, pure flames darkening their honey color.
You kiss the plug, then lick it sensually, playing with it around your mouth and poking your tongue out to roll the metal surface around it. With a low hum, you finally open your lips ajar and slide the plug inside, watching Tom carefully as his shoulders harden and his biceps bulge out like you've never seen them do before.
"Enough playing around," he says in a threat, launching forward and raising his hand. He presses his thumb on the base of the plug, keeping it inside your mouth, then draws his fingers across your jaw. Smoothly, a stark contrast with his fiery gaze.
"While I would love to have your mouth full like this so I wouldn't have to listen to your bratty puns, I reckon the others wouldn't like it so much," he adds, running his hand across your cheek before he grabs the plug and pulls it out of your mouth. "So, you either stop fucking with me and shove this thing all the way up your pussy, or I will. And I won't be gentle, darling."
"Always so damn dramatic, Tom," you retort, rolling your eyes. You take the plug out of his hand in a swift move. You're obviously not gonna give him the pleasure of punishing you right now, so you'll do it yourself.
You pull your skirt up a bit, the slit on your thigh expanding to twice its width, the fabric covering you up to the apex where the muscle curves into your core. Then you rub the plug over your folds, searching for the slit, wiping across it, hissing at the temperature difference. You're ridiculously wet, so soon the cold dissipates and you slip the tip of the plug into your hole.
It doesn't slide in just yet, you're too tight and clenching too hard from the desire that courses through your veins. Tom doesn't help, standing there in all his glory, biceps flexed, his shoulders held back, teasing you with his gorgeous body because he knows what the sight of him does to you.
"It won't go in," you say when he arches his eyebrows at you in a question.
"Well, work it in, then," Tom says, smacking his lips together. "You can use your fingers, if you want."
"Pff," you scoff, "it's not my fingers that I want." You know you're whining, you can tell by the pitch of your vowels in every word you say, but it doesn't seem to affect Tom at all.
"Too bad 'cause that's all you got."
You roll your eyes at him exasperatedly, angling your shoulder to rub the metal over your clit and your folds again, stimulating the muscles so they'll give in easily. When you try to slide it in again, it goes a little further, but not entirely. The tip goes in, perhaps half an inch, but the larger section won't go through. With a whine and a begging gaze towards Tom, which he ignores again, you work it in bit by bit, pushing harder and harder until your walls open up and suck the plug inside in its whole, the base resting slick and snug against your folds.
When you try to move your hand away, it slides out from how wet you are, so you keep your palm between your legs and turn to Tom.
"Let me see it," he says, uncrossing his arms and twirling a couple of fingers in the air. It seems like he wants you to turn around, so you obey, but watch over your shoulder as he steps closer and leans back, hands in his pockets.
Since you can't move one of your hands, you turn around and use the other one to pull up your skirt until it pools around your waist, bending over in the hope that Tom will be able to see anything.
"If I take my hand off, it slides out," you explain in a meek voice, a rush of warm embarrassment running through you until you see his face. He nods as though he can confirm that you did as you were told, but his eyes don't move away from your center.
"Please, Tom," you moan very briefly, gazing up at him without moving. You do swirl the plug inside you with a couple of fingers, trying to tease him into action.
"I know what you want," he says with his knuckles brushing over the curve of your bum, splaying his fingers down the cheek until the tips graze your dripping skin. "And trust me, I want it too, I want it so bad, but there's one thing I want more than touching you right now."
He taps your wrist cheekily and gestures with his head, signaling you to get up, so you do. When you turn to face him, he's holding your knickers and you nick them out of his grip, accepting his help since you can only use one hand. As you put them on, you ask, "What is it that you want, then?"
The second the band snaps around your hips, Tom grabs you by the underside of your chin and tilts your head up with his left hand, running his gloved thumb over your lips. The fabric is rough and scratchy, but you don't mind. The mere brush of it on your skin is a turn on, especially when you link it to the dark brown of lust in Tom's eyes.
Finally, he hovers his open mouth over the side of your head, licks the shell of your ear once and again, and says, "I want you dripping all over the floor. Want you mad for a single touch. I want—"
He takes a deep breath and mouths the underside of your ear, then sucks your lips into his mouth, spreading them ajar with the tip of his tongue.
"Want you aching for me the whole day," he murmurs seductively, "Want you aching so bad, you'll be begging for my cock after the next hole."
"Fuck, Tom—"
His filthy talk turns you on immensely, and there's no way you can disguise it. You're pliant in his hold, your arms pressed into his chest, feeling his heart beat. Completely unfazed. In a steady rhythm, but sounding meek compared to the mad race going on inside your own chest.
"Are you aching yet, darling?"
"So... much..." you stutter in between his kisses, opening your mouth completely when he pushes his tongue inside. The taste of spearmint fogs your mind, intense and aggressive as it is.
"Good." Tom wraps up his sentence with a peck, then lets you go altogether. You sway on your legs for a few seconds, using his body for balance, then open your eyes and lean in for a final kiss.
"We have to go," he says crassly, abandoning you cold in the restroom.
The warm sensation tingles from head to toes, the latter curling in your shoes. It's hot, not just from the occasional sun, but a thought comes to you that you don't have to surrender to him just because he decided to tease you like this. You can tease him right back, and right where it hurts him the most.
His game.
You join forces with Harry and his partner in crime, Harrison, to come up with pun after pun to put Tom off his stroke. (That's one.) Some of them don't fully make sense, but you figure it might be related to the fact that golf lingo is so damn strange. Birds, balls, holes, irons and pars, it's a mess. So you don't even try too hard because, in only two lessons, it would be absolutely impossible to get a grip on it all. (That's two.)
What you really enjoy is listening to the four of them roast each other constantly on what they're doing right or wrong. There's casual conversation sometimes, but it simply doesn't compare. So of course you join in sometimes. Against Tom.
He looks positively livid. With crazed eyes, his hair poking everywhere when he runs his hands through it, the veins standing out on his neck and his arms, popping visibly even from a safe distance. Not to mention that his grip on the club grows tighter and tighter after every time you say anything that irks him.
Around hole thirteen, a par 3, Mr. Holland says, you see Tom approach the tee box with an excited skip in his step. You remember the last time you were here, he told you a story about this particular spot, something that he's really proud of. His first ever hole-in-one was here. That's a moment of pride for any golfer, so you decide to encourage him.
Tom's dad is playing first since, according to the rules, he gets to shoot first because he got the best score on the last hole. Tom himself is waiting to the side, holding his club and toying with a tee between his fingers. Currently, you're standing nearby listening to H-squared bet on how many yards away from the hole they'll shoot the ball this time. This doesn't concern you right now, so you approach Tom instead.
"You know what? I have a feeling you're going to ace this one," you say, normally, sidling up to him. Ace, Tom's dad said, is another term for hole-in-one, and you're pretty impressed with your memory in this very moment.
"You're trying really hard with these puns, aren't you?" Tom says with a laugh.
"Trying my best, yes."
"I have to say," he starts rather cryptically, tapping his knuckles. You look down, enthralled by his hands as you are, and find him rolling the tiny, white peg over his fingers. Eventually, he clicks his tongue and says, "I kinda love them."
You make a wordless noise, surprised that he's not being negative about them despite all your previous teasing.
"And thank you," he adds with a smile.
"You're welcome." You tilt your head. "You said you got a hole-in-one here that one time, so I thought, y'know—"
You stop talking when you notice that he's blinking at you. Rather chuffed, you have to admit. There's a shadow of something euphoric that crosses his eyes, a little tug on the corner of his mouth too. He's surprised. And impressed.
"What?" You shrug.
"You remember me telling you about it..."
"Yeah, I remember, so what?"
"Nothing, you just..." Tom trails off, his smile opening up to a wide grin. He moves the club to his right hand and reels you in against his side by your shoulders. "You mock that story so often, I thought you didn't believe it was true."
You laugh into his chest. "I do believe you, Tom," you say, "Well, okay. Sometimes." With a grin, you rub a dark spot that looks like dirt off his face and add, "You're just easy to tease, that's all."
With a chuckle and a quiet thanks, Tom tugs at the collar of your t-shirt and says, "I'm flattered you remember by the way," he smiles, "didn't think you'd pay that much attention to what I say when I talk about golf."
"You're worth paying attention to."
He smiles, turning his head to you a little bit. His cologne is particularly intense today. Perhaps from the fact that it blends with the green, sunny scenery that surrounds you. You inhale sharply to feel it a little closer.
There's a silence for a second, the only noise being the wind in the trees to your left and the hit of a club when Mr. Holland finally tees off. That means to hit the ball off the tee on the first shot on a hole. The metaphorical golfer on your shoulder celebrates effusively for the fact that you've used golf lingo without being confused by it.
Tom holds you under his arm and keeps staring at you through the corner of his eye. He has a cryptic expression on his face, too, something you can't decode any easier than when his dad quizzes you about eagles and condors and whatever more. The names of the birds you have yet to memorize.
Your heart is in your ears from the look Tom's giving you, though, from that twinkle in his eyes and that tight-lipped smile of his that highlights the dimples on the top of his mouth. He looks rather content today. Particularly... pretty. It's not that you'd never noticed, he's beautiful every day of his life, but seeing him during a round of golf is almost magical.
"It's your turn, progeny," his dad calls, and Tom looks away awkwardly, shaking his head in quick moves as though he's trying to shake off something else.
You keep watching him as he walks, memorizing his stride and the curve of his hips, the distinct sway of his muscles across his back. The strong shoulders that he rolls back and forth in preparation for his shot. This sight alone, combined with the joy he exudes, makes you clench hard around the plug. You've been feeling it at every moment, forgettable when you're stationary, more noticeable when you have to walk, completely obvious during your swings, but never unpleasant. It's keeping its purpose, making you wet, desirous at every moment.
"Y/n?" Someone calls your name. It's Tom's dad, who's walking towards you. "Are you alright, love?"
"Yeah," you speak softly, then clear your throat to wipe away the previous thoughts. "Yes, I'm okay. Thanks."
"You look a little uncomfortable, is it too hot?" he insists. "Need some water? You want my cap maybe?"
"No, Mr. Holland, it's fine," you decline. "It is a bit hot, but I'm alright, thank you."
"Alright then, but let me know if you need anything, okay? Can't believe my son hasn't even asked how you're feeling yet. Has nothing but bloody golf in that head of his." You can tell he's joking, but it's not really fair for Tom. He's done a lot for you when his dad wasn't looking, some good stuff, mostly naughty stuff, but always well-intentioned.
"He's done plenty for me, don't worry, Mr. Holland."
"Good to know." He turns back to his son who hasn't taken his shot yet. "Are you done being a diva, Tom?"
"Relax, dad," Tom says with a roll of his eyes. You could tell that he was watching you in silence as you chatted with his father despite being the next to play. "I'm trying to get this one right."
"It's where he allegedly got his hole-in-one that one time," you confide to his dad, in a low voice, but obvious enough that Tom can hear you too.
"Really? Right here?" His dad laughs. "Let's have it then, huh? Impress your lady friend, son."
"Oh yeah, impress me, Tom," you tease, grinning at him. You roll your shoulders and brush your hand over the hem of your skirt, pretending to tease the slit when Tom's eyes seem to wander down to it.
"Can you please stop talking?" he says in protest, voice serious, followed by an annoyed huff. "You're not supposed to speak when someone's about to swing."
"Swing away, champ." You giggle and pretend to zip up your mouth with your hand before he shoots the ball at last.
Everyone seems partially impressed.
"See?" Tom brags, hitting the edge of his club on the grass a couple of times, then smoothing it down. "That was good, man. That was good." He grins, walking back towards you. "Are you impressed yet, darling?"
"I'll be impressed once we see the bottom of that flag right there," you taunt him, pointing the club you're holding in the direction of the hole. It's clear that he shot pretty close to the target, but you can't see where it landed due to the uneven grounds.
Harry and Harrison say in unison, "Niiiiice." You grin at your favorite partners in crime.
After the boys, it's your turn to swing and you do so pretty well, from a beginner's point of view at least. All of them congratulate you. Except Tom. You brush off his attitude with a swipe of your hand over your shoulder.
Against all odds, based on his behavior, you blink at him when he offers to help you with your next shot. Your ball is the one furthest from the hole, which means you get to hit it first as you advance across the fairway. Tom, then, helps you position yourself and keeps touching you, on the shoulder, your arm, around your waist, a whisk of his fingers across your leg under the excuse that you're not angling it right even though you're positive that you are. You let him do it, anyway. This game is a little fun. A back and forth of naughty banter never hurt anyone.
You hit the ball hard. And it moves several yards in a straight line in the right direction.
"Oi, I did it!"
"I think you had a little incentive," Harrison says.
"Harry, please," you scoff.
"Jealousy is a horrible thing, mate," Tom jumps in your defense right away.
"You're not her knight in polyester armor, for fuck's sake." Harrison holds a hand up in protest and starts to walk towards his ball, Harry and his dad following him too.
Since there's no point in telling them off again, Tom turns to you and sneaks a hand down to the small of your back, trickling lower and lower since the others can't see him reach for the hem of your skirt and touch the curve of your bum.
"Still comfortable?" he asks, smiling into your temple.
"I'm alright."
"Are you, um," he trails off, and you notice that he's looking around. There isn't anyone nearby. You understand what he's doing when his finger slips past the edge of your underwear and across the end of your slit. "Fuck. You are. All wet for me, huh?"
"Yeah," you bat your eyelashes and kiss his chin. "It's your swing. It turns me on like— fuck." You close your eyes for a second when his fingertip brushes the base of the plug and it nudges against your sweet spot.
Tom puffs out a breath. "Good to know," he says, letting go with a gentle pat on your buttocks before he arranges your skirt to cover you up.
Eventually, as you approach the flagstick, Tom notices that his ball, with his trademark design of a spider perfectly visible on the side, is literally only a few inches away from the hole.
No hole-in-one this time.
"Can you believe this shit?!" he exclaims, irked at the situation. Tom curses, staring with rage at his ball before he hits it with the outer side of his club and it disappears into the cup.
You laugh to yourself, not because you didn't trust him to hole out on the first swing, but because fate keeps doing this to him whenever he plays with anyone. You remember the stories, he's told them a bunch of times by now. How he's had his best shots when he played alone and his brothers always shoot better when their dad is around.
"Relax, Tom," you decide to intervene since his dad is getting ready to putt and the other two are betting over some sort of trick they want to try. "You still shot under par."
"Well, well, well," he scoffs, getting up from where he went to grab his ball. "Look who's the new golf expert in town."
"She's gonna kick your butt one day," Harrison says, throwing you a quick wink.
"And I look forward to playing that day," you muse, taking the club Mr. Holland is handing you, explaining it will be the best one to hit the ball from this distance.
You thank him and prepare your shot, but you can't focus on much because you feel Tom's gaze with every shift of your muscles. He approaches you from the side, laying a hand on your waist as you're spreading your legs to the perfect width and he says, "You can have another bathroom break if you get it into the cup from here. And this time..." He kisses your ear. "I'll give you two fingers."
He exhales hotly against the side of your head, driving a tingle down your spine, which settles in the small of your back right where his hand is pressing against you. "Good luck."
"Tom, c'mon," his dad calls out, "you're not supposed to speak when someone's about to swing, son."
You start to laugh because that's exactly what Tom said to you before, but then you nod at him and wiggle your hips, getting ready. When he steps aside, you focus hard on your target and on the advice he's repeated over and over again when coaching you in golf. Head down, legs spread, elbows not too close to your body. You grasp the club tightly. You murmur 'I got this' to the ball. This is worth a bathroom break, and you're not going to mess this up if your reward is Tom's fingers.
You hit the ball, but it rolls past the hole.
"Unlucky."
When you look up, Tom is nodding his head morosely, clicking his tongue between his teeth.
Despite not having earned your reward, Mr. Holland asks for a short bathroom break anyway, and you take advantage of it.
As you open the door to leave, making a face at the strident noise it makes, Tom appears out of nowhere. "Show me."
"Show you what?" you ask, blinking twice. He pushes your shoulders until you step back.
"You know bloody well what I mean, y/n," he hisses, continuing to push until the door slams behind him and you re-enter one of the stalls.
Not one to give in that easily, you decide to tease some more and tidy your skirt around your waist, sliding both hands over the front as though to straighten any wrinkles, saying, "I'm afraid you're not being very explicit, Tom."
Tom huffs, peeved eyes locked with yours. He lifts both hands and pulls on the edge of the fabric, not even touching your legs this time. Pulling it to your waist and snapping the band of your underwear against your hip, he slides a hand across the bone and angles it, always in silence, to smooth it out between your legs.
"Fucking soaked, aren't you, love?" he says in a husky voice, leaning forward and dropping a kiss on your temple. "Bet your knickers have a massive wet spot right now. That's what I wanted to see."
His fingers trickle over the fabric, brushing the plug and making it move inside you.
"But." He huffs, showing you a wicked smile. Your muscles clench and the plug has never been so torturous, pressed against your spot so persistently, it brings tiny stars to your sight.
"Since you've decided to be a brat today, I guess I can give it a little nudge," he goes on, slipping a finger past the edge of your knickers. "Wanna leave you all sodden with cum, what do you think, hm?"
He traces across the slit, collecting the fluids that have pooled up down there. You've been feeling them for a long time, drenching your clothes, glued to your skin when your thighs rubbed together, instilling in you the fear that it would be noticeable through the skirt. Before Tom joined you here, you were able to confirm in the mirror that it was safe, that nobody could see anything. That it was your little secret and Tom's.
"Wanna see your fucking face when it starts dripping down your thighs in front of everyone," he mutters, smacking a heavy kiss on your mouth.
A moan gets trapped in your throat when you try to speak. You want to tease him, want to say something, but your body refuses to cooperate. All because Tom has moved his hand out of your panties and is pressing it straight over your clit.
On the second circle of his fingers, you unclamp your lips with a click of your tongue and say into his delineated jaw, "You'll never get me that wet, champ."
Tom looks at you furiously. "You're gonna regret what you just said."
"Oh, am I?"
You kiss him first, but he grabs you by the arms and twists you on your feet. Mostly because you let him. You want to see where he will take this. Judging from his previous actions and the menacing glint in his eyes, he'll give you exactly what you want.
To no surprise, Tom pulls you until your back slams into his chest, keeping your thighs apart by sliding both of his feet in between yours.
"So you wanna be a brat, huh?" The thrill of his voice on your ear draws a quick shiver straight into your core.
Your slow, witchy laugh makes your chest heave. "And what are you gonna do about it? I'm not afraid of you, bogey man."
"Oh, you're in for it."
The slap he lands on the mound between your legs is fast, hard, and deafening. Your ears fill up with nothing and all your senses vibrate, chest huffing up and down with difficulty. Then his right hand slides under your panties, across your wet pussy, spreading the folds with two fingers and using the longer middle one to massage your clit directly.
It's intense, pleasure ringing in your ears at the same rhythm as Tom nibbles on it.
He huffs, squeezing his gloved hand around your arm. "Cat got your tongue now, darling, didn't it? Where's your big talk now, huh?"
"Fuck, Tom, you think you can render me speechless like this?" You scoff. "Nah, champ, this kind of stroke play isn't gonna lower your handicap, Mr. Hotshot Golfer."
Tom grunts in your ear. "Is that another fucking pun?"
You attempt to chuckle, but it gets trapped in your throat when Tom speeds up his strokes. Truth is, your head is starting to spin and whatever words come out of your mouth don't really click anymore.
His finger is fast and relentless on your clit, your hips hitching high when he pretends to pull away.
"Fuck, don't tease," you find yourself saying, moaning his name before he tilts your head with his free hand and clashes your mouths together.
Your whole body is set alight, legs begging to clamp shut, but you're unable to because of his feet. So you chase the feeling with sharp upward thrusts of your hips, which he doesn't try to stop. His finger flicking furiously over your tiny, swollen nub.
When the lights go off in your brain, you pull back from the kiss to utter a strangled moan. "Fuck, Tom, that's it, getting me so close now, baby."
"Hmph. Baby..." he repeats, kissing your ear and intensifying the restless, shapeless patterns he's drawing on your clit.
"Gonna—" you start to say, but the door outside whines again.
Your eyes shoot open.
Tom reacts right away, clamping his lips over yours and rubbing your clit at the same rhythm. Your head spins faster and your hips chase after the pleasure, pressing closer to his hand when he eases up instinctively.
The stall is very quiet, but you can make out the sounds of the water running on the sink outside the door. Such a flimsy piece of wood between you and Tom and a stranger that walked in in the wrong moment.
At this thought, you slip your tongue into Tom's mouth when the sensation in your gut starts to burn bright. You're close, dangerously so, legs starting to quiver against your will.
And that's when he pulls away.
You whine, but it's muffled by his mouth.
The door squeaks again and you break the kiss.
"What the fuck, Tom?" you whine in full now, reaching for his hand and pulling on his fingers with yours so he'll finish you off.
He tuts repeatedly. "Don't even bother," he says crudely and pulls his hand off of yours. "This is all you're gonna get."
The smooch he places on your ear is loud and makes you flinch, but then Tom grabs your shoulders and reels you closer, his breathing hoarse over the side of your head.
"I said you owed me, y/n," he croaks, "and I'm gonna fucking collect it."
When he pushes you away from him, you look over your shoulder and he's already unlocking the stall door and getting out.
"I'll be outside." His voice, cold. His face, clenched.
With one last look and a smirk as fiendish in his eyes as in his mouth, Tom disappears behind a squeaky door leaving you with a panging clit and a pair of soaking wet panties.
The stall door closes as well, leaving you alone.
You could easily take care of this yourself, Tom would never have to know, but you wonder what would be best. To relieve the pain now by your own hand or later. On his hand.
When you sneak your fingers into your panties and touch your clit, it throbs in a way that spreads down your thighs, buckling your knees. Supporting your weight on the door with your other hand, you try rubbing it a couple of times, now over the fabric. The sensation that had built up in your gut starts to boil, burning from your core straight down to your feet.
The outer door squeaks again and you stop. Tapping your pussy once. Keeping your hand between your legs. Ears perked up waiting for a sound.
"I know what you're doing."
Fuck. It's Tom.
You pull the door that separates you and there he stands, tilting his head with a hard look in his eyes.
There's no point in saying anything, he's not making you come and everyone is waiting outside anyway, so you adjust your skirt and move to the sink to wash your hands. When you're done, Tom holds the door open and you walk out.
"Good girl," he says with a smirk when you pass by him.
"You're not being a very good boy, though," you scoff, rolling your eyes and releasing a huffing breath. "And you call me a brat. For fuck's sake."
Tom chuckles and walks you out, hand on the small of your back.
You don't forget what just happened. Or better yet, he doesn't let you forget. The mutual teasing escalates to a new level, an eerie silence around the group whenever either of you hits the ball. Every other moment is filled with regular conversation, but not the rest. His eyes don't leave you, and yours don't leave him either. The most mundane of things like drinking water are layered with record levels of tease.
"Freaking jaw," you mutter to yourself while Tom's taking a drink from his water bottle, right next to you.
He played his shot first since he scored the lowest on the previous hole, and you're the last one since you scored the highest, so you're both sitting in the cart. It's one of the few times it's parked near the tee box in a way that you can sit in it while you wait.
Nevertheless, sitting down isn't making anything any better. Tom takes a second sip of water and you're fucking sure that he's doing this on purpose. Which means you need to concoct a plan and fast.
It comes to you when you shift in your seat. The fabric of your underwear has been painfully wet since the last little adventure in the restroom. You can feel it perfectly clear against your folds, up on your mound, and it's even starting to feel uncomfortable on your thighs as you've been rubbing them together to soothe yourself down.
"Tom?" you start innocently, batting your eyelashes at him. He hums and drinks more water, the curve of his jaw glistening in the hot sun. "C'mere."
You press a hand on his shoulder and lean into his ear, whispering, "My pussy's all wet. Want a taste?"
Tom blinks at you a few times in a row, lowering the bottle from his lips in a languid gesture. He obviously wasn't expecting something so forward in the middle of the golf course, but you keep staring at him as sheepishly as you can. It's when the corners of his mouth tug upward that you know you've won.
As you both smile at each other and glance around, making sure the others are busy with their shots, Tom slides a hand up your leg and sneaks it under your skirt, looking like he's trying his best not to bundle it up too much.
You bite into your bottom lip, never having thought he'd actually do it, but then again it is a bit of his fantasy. A first peek under the veil, you may say.
His fingers trickle over your mound until they find the edge of your panties, pulling them to the side. His middle digit slides across your slit immediately, and you can almost hear the slosh of your wetness.
"Fuck, you weren't lying about this, were you?" Tom whispers, leaning closer to you. His elbow angles out a bit more to allocate his movement, his fingertip grazing up and down right above your clit. It doesn't reach your needy nub, but brushes so close. So close your hips jerk forward for a second.
Not wanting to get too greedy given your location and how exposed you are, you wrap a hand around his wrist and search for his eyes. They're blown and dark, hunting yours down with insatiable desire. His tongue licks his lips much slower than usual, and his finger crawls out of your knickers spreading the fluids around.
"Y/n, it's your—" Mr. Holland says, but he stops talking when Tom turns his head towards the voice. His body must be angled all wrong from the point of view of the rest of the group considering what was going on up to now. You have to contain a chuckle at your thought.
"Can you not put your hand up her skirt in public, please?" Harry. Dry and straightforward as usual.
"It's on her leg, Harry," Tom argues, moving his hand all the way out until it rests, in fact, on your thigh.
"Does my son have his hand up your skirt, y/n?"
"Dad!"
"I'm not talking to you." He points at you. "Y/n?"
"No." You gulp quickly, trying not to be too obvious. "It's on my thigh, Mr. Dad."
"Mr. Dad," Tom mocks, your mistake earning different reactions from everyone else in the group. His hand comes out from under your skirt and he adjusts it briefly.
"You see, dad," Tom says, tapping your knee. "It's on her leg." You can't help it now. You have to smirk at the way he's disguising what you just made him get caught doing. "Can we get on with it now?" He gets up from the cart and says, "It's your turn, y/n." Then he extends his gloved hand towards you, lifting the other to his mouth to lick his fingers clean now that he has his back turned to his father.
You throw him a half smirk for his spunk.
Once again, the sun is hot and your undies are drenched while you're at the golf course. Nevertheless, you carry on with the game as if nothing had truly happened. You'd had your fun and Tom was practically caught 'wet-handed', so you're more than ready to proceed.
It's by the last hole that you and Tom find yourselves isolated again. Him, the first to shoot, you, the last, you stand side by side under a stretch of trees while the other three prepare to tee off. You can tell it's going to be a while because Harry and Harrison have just made another bet about a trick shot that's going to take them a bit of time to orchestrate.
It's Mr. Holland's turn and he keeps giving you his lesson, talking about pitching and wedges and ball trajectories and whatever else. You're listening, but not retaining any of the information.
Not when Tom has slipped his hand up the back of your skirt, his jaw clenching audibly as he toys with the base of the plug.
"Goddammit, Tom," you huff in between your teeth when he pushes it further inside right by your sweet spot. You jerk up involuntarily. He only smirks, mouth slanted to the side.
"Are you with me, y/n?" his dad asks out of nowhere.
"Yeah," you rasp, rearranging your feet so the plug will slide down a little bit. You swallow down the feeling and say, "Yes, Mr. Holland, I'm listening."
But you're not really listening. You can't because Tom is tugging the plug out by the base and back in, even through your knickers, clearly trying to make you lose focus.
"You should stick to calling him Mr. Dad..." he teases in your ear, nibbling on it softly. "Leave Mr. Holland to me, hm? What do you think?"
You elbow his side, not too hard. Not because you don't want to, but because your whole body jolts when his fingers dribble around the plug, teasing your entrance.
There's a bit of a silence afterwards as Tom's father tees off. All you can hear is Tom's husky breath anyway. It's too close, but you don't want him to move anywhere. You want him to stay here with you, his fingers caressing your cunt, spreading your wetness around. Staining your panties and your skirt. Sliding an arm around him and kissing his neck, you moan a little into his ear. "Wanna make me come in front of your dad, don't you?"
Tom chuckles. "You wish."
Yet his words contradict his actions because his fingertip worms its way up north until it finds your clit. It pulses hard in response.
"Tom!" someone says.
"What?" he says, unperturbed. It's like nothing is even happening. You grit your teeth to avoid biting his neck or licking the vein that's popping on the side.
"Are you sure y/n's alright?" his dad asks again.
You don't speak, not really trusting your voice right now since Tom keeps stroking your clit. You only lean against him and try to disguise it.
"She's fine, dad, just keep playing," Tom speaks up for you, his voice thinning on the last words as he retracts his finger.
When his dad turns his back to you again, Tom runs his hand up your bum and gives it another pat, groping one of the cheeks and fondling it gently. You can breathe freely at last.
By the time you have to take your shot, you're sweating and shuddering inside, the phantom of Tom's hand hovering over your clit and your arse. It extends to your whole pussy, the plug more noticeable than ever, brushing against your walls as you move. You clench around it hard before you swing, trying to soothe the feeling, but it's all for naught.
It makes you miss the ball three times.
"For fuck's sake," you curse under your breath, resting the clubhead on the ground. Focusing. Ignoring your fast heartbeat. Listening to the quiet.
"Maybe NASA should hire you to explore water on Mars," Tom says from his spot under the trees.
You glance at him with disdain and spit, "Fuck off, now, will you?"
He only grins. Nobody knows what's going on, so the silence is deafening and uncomfortable. Not even Harry and Harrison make a peep. Yet when Mr. Holland offers you some help, you decline. You have to do this. And it has to be you. Not for an ego boost. Only to wipe that smug fucking smirk off of Tom's face.
It ends up being a disaster, but it's the last hole anyway.
After you do some math with Tom, all four hands holding the scorecards and his phone now, you realize you scored lower than you had scribbled down in the corner when you first started. Lower is good. Tom did pretty well, too.
"Alright, fellas," you perk up and ask everyone. "The numbers are up. How did I do?"
Four pairs of eyes blink at you. Tom remains silent with a little smirk playing on his lips, but you pay him no mind because you both were the real winners today. Harry only utters a malicious "ehhhhh," but you tell him to bugger off, knowing really well his sarcastic nature. Then Harrison, bless his soul, he's the most supportive of them, saying, "It wasn't too bad, but you still have a fairway to go, love."
"Ah, using golf puns to compliment me, I like this," you grin, "Thank you, Harry."
"Alright, listen here—" he starts to object, but you run to hug him so he'll shut up. Asking for truce in a way. It works.
Mr. Holland, on the other hand, gives you a whole discourse of things you will have to do better next time. "I understand it's your first time— second? Second time, yeah— but you also seemed a little distracted in the back nine, so—"
"In the what now?" you ask, ending up learning that the first nine holes of the course are called the front nine and the other nine are called the back nine or 'inward nine'. The logic, yet again, goes way over your head.
"Supposedly," Tom begins to explain, "it's because you make your—"
"You know what?" you interrupt, giggling. "Forget I asked. I'm done with golf for the day. I just want a drink."
Tom laughs of course, patting your shoulder almost patronizingly. "I agree. Let's get a beer. My treat."
"Feeling generous, eh?" you tease, knowing how he gets with golf. A beer to forget a bad round, but also to celebrate when he plays well.
Before you get to the bar, you all have to go through the locker room since the course dictates that golf shoes should only be worn in the actual green. For cleaning purposes, you're sure, and it makes sense since your feet are covered in grass and dirt. It takes only a few minutes to get ready and soon the group is together again, strolling towards the clubhouse.
"So, Mr. Dad..." you start, winking when Tom chuckles.
His father turns to you and smiles. "I've had worse nicknames. What is it?"
"I suppose there's a name for the clubhouse, too? I mean, that sounds too normal for golf lingo," you ask. The four of them laugh. "What?"
"Don't mind them, they're being kids," Mr. Holland says, "it's called the nineteenth."
"After the nineteenth hole," Tom puts in, drawing an arm over your shoulders. "Don't forget that part, dad."
It wasn't as interesting as you had thought, so you brush it off and try to add it to your mental checklist of terms you might use for a pun. And then it hits you.
"Oh." You giggle into Tom's shoulder, gazing at him. If a round of golf is eighteen holes and the clubhouse is the nineteenth... "Guess that makes it twenty for me, then."
The loud protests from the four of them only make you laugh. Tom, himself, has a slight blushing red growing on the tips of his ears.
"You know," he sighs, "I'm getting a little tired of these golf puns, young lady."
"Why?!" you ask, pretending to be offended. "Are they driving a wedge between us?"
Everyone laughs.
"A classic," Mr. Holland compliments your pun based on the fact that a wedge is one of the many types of golf clubs.
"Alright, I'm done," Tom scoffs, letting go of your shoulders. You chase him into the 'nineteenth,' tackling him from behind with both arms around his torso, saying sorrysorrysorry on repeat. After he's chosen a table and ordered a round of beer, he asks, "Who's teaching you all these puns anyway? Not you, dad, I suppose?"
"No, definitely not me." Mr. Holland shakes his head.
You chuckle into your fist. Tom frowns and looks at the other two. "Of course. The Harries."
"That's not their name," you correct him, straightening up your back with pride. "It's H-squared."
"Don't," Harry deadpans, Harrison shaking his head next to him. Then he sighs. "Don't call us that."
"Why not? It's clever."
"No, it's gross."
"Wha— why?"
"It sounds like a fucking ship name," Harrison grumbles.
"No, it doesn't," you scoff. "Your ship name—"
"What is that?" Mr. Holland asks before he turns to Tom. "They have a ship?"
"Your ship name would be..." you trail off, not thinking too hard about it. "Harry... son. Right?"
Harrison gets up and pretends to abandon the table.
"With a y!" you shout after him, watching as he turns on his heels with the most peeved expression on his face. It only makes you giggle even more, leaning into Tom so you won't fall back.
"What's a bloody ship name?!" Mr. Holland asks, still confused. "Y/n? Anyone?"
~ ⛳️ ~