imagine wash day with grant. author's note⠀⁎⠀fluff, unspecified black!reader [you/your].
read more⠀⁎⠀coming soon.
Grant hummed low in his throat at the feeling of your nails massaging his scalp under the steady stream of warm water. “We could get them wings from that spot we tried that one time?” he murmured, eyes closed as you worked the shampoo into the roots of his dark coils. “They got the dry lemon pepper rub you like.”
“Hmmm, that was good,” you mused as your fingertips pressed firm circles against his temples, easing the tension you felt bunching there. “But weren’t the fries kinda limp last time?” You rinsed the shampoo away, careful not to drip water down his neck. “I would rather just stay home tonight. We could make some salmon bowls? I already have some in the fridge.”
Grant nodded gently beneath your hands, water droplets catching in his ears. “I could do that,” he murmured. “It’s your day off, though—you sure you wanna be cooking?” The words were spoken in that low, unhurried tone you loved, a vaguely New Orleans cadence softening his vowels.
You squeezed conditioner onto your palm, the scent of coconut blooming between the two of you. “It’s not that difficult, baby,” you brushed off the concern, smoothing the cream through his roots. “Besides, I like feeding you.”
He fully leaned into your touch, a soft sigh escaping him. You rinsed thoroughly, taking care to ensure the water ran clear, then gently pressed a thick towel over his head, soaking up the moisture. Grant tilted his face up, a small smile appearing on his face as his eyes met yours. “Too damn far,” he murmured, reaching out for your hips.
You laughed, the sound warm and light. “Don’t pull me like that,” you groaned, letting him guide you until you straddled his lap on the kitchen stool, rubbing his scalp through the white cloth. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles against your leggings. You leaned forward, towel still draped over his head, and pressed your lips to his.
“Tryna dry your hair…” You murmured against his mouth.
“Mmhmm,” Grant hummed, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer. His kiss was slow, appreciative, tasting faintly of spearmint gum he disposed of shortly before taking his spot in front of the sink. “Thank you, mamas,” he breathed again, deeper this time, the vibration of it humming against your lips. He finally released you, letting you slide off his lap onto the cool tile floor.
He unfolded himself from the stool, stretching his long frame, muscles shifting beneath his worn LSU t-shirt as he dipped his head expectantly. You grinned, rising to press another quick kiss to his lips.
“Living room,” you commanded softly, gathering your hair tools—rattail comb, paddle brush, spray bottle, a jar of your favorite braiding gel—into your hands. Grant reached for the items, his fingers brushing yours deliberately, though he said nothing. He carried them to the couch, the towel draped over his shoulders, while you trailed behind.
Grant didn’t hesitate; he sank onto the plush rug directly in front of the couch, leaning his broad back against it. You settled onto the cushions above him, your knees framing his shoulders. You ran your fingers through his damp coils, assessing the texture, the coolness of his scalp beneath your touch.
“Alright, baby. Whatchu wanna watch?” he asked, tilting his head back slightly to catch your eye. He reached for the remote on the coffee table, flipping through the Smart TV menu.
You squeezed a dollop of leave-in conditioner onto your palm, rubbing your hands together. “Ooh, that new true crime documentary that Aniyah was talking about the other day just dropped,” you started, your fingers working the creamy product through Grant’s damp hair. “The one about that rich girl who went missing off her yacht?”
Grant groaned, his head lolling back against your knee. “Baby... come on,” he protested softly, flicking through streaming tiles on the screen. “These documentaries you love… they always end with somebody dead or locked up forever. It’s depressin’ as hell, baby. Overly fucked up.”
“What? You scared?” you fished, fingers already parting the first row for the stitch braids he requested. The comb’s teeth slid smoothly with the help of the braiding gel you applied sparingly. “Mind you, it’s educational. Shows you how not to get snatched off a yacht.” Your laugh was a soft puff of air against his crown.
“Nobody snatchin’ me off a yacht, baby.” He leaned forward slightly, giving you better access to his nape as you gently nudged his head.
“You sure?” you pressed, finally satisfied with the parting and grabbing your first section. “All that NFL money? Could make you a prime target.” Grant’s shoulders relaxed beneath your hands, feeling the braid come together with just the right amount of tension.
“Nah,” he drawled out, low and resonant. Grant flicked past true crime thumbnails—all moody blues and grays—landing instead on a vibrant sports documentary. “See? No bodies, no jail cells. Straight inspiration.” He settled deeper between your knees, the rug fibers soft against his exposed skin. You tugged gently, securing the end of the first plait.
“Fine,” you conceded, playful exasperation warming your voice. Your fingers worked steadily, weaving sections of his thick hair into neat stitch braids. The gel held perfectly, crisp parts revealing brown scalp beneath. “But I’m watching that yacht one tomorrow. You gon’ hear about it.”
