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em1i2a3 · 27 days ago

Text

Driver

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!

Summary: Rhett has been having fantasies about you in only his cowboy hat.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut smut smut, and fluff, Rhett and reader are in an established relationship

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up cowboys and cowgirls, yeehaaw), Oral Sex (fem receiving!), Teasing, Dirty Talk (with that ol’ southern twang), Praise Kink, Grinding.

Authors Note: RAF (RHETT ABBOTT FRIDAYS!!!) Yall I frickin love Rhett Fucking Abbott, writing for this man is so fun! I enjoy it so much. Love me a doe eyed cowboy 😭 hope yall enjoy! And thank you for the request @totaldystopiannerd It was so frickin fun to write! Oh my lord! (That gif definitely has the hat in question lol)

Word Count: 6,360

Side Note: thank you to @receedingdawn for the fucking banging banner

It was a lazy Friday night at your place.

Rhett didn’t have any rides tonight, thankfully–no rodeo, no arena lights, no crowds, no eight-second countdowns buzzing in his ears. It was just you and the quietness of your trailer. This was the kind of night he never used to have until you showed up in his life and brought him into the peacefulness of yours.

He was stretched out on your bed in an old t-shirt and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms he kept in the bottom drawer of your dresser–his drawer now. It had happened quietly, somewhere between all the overnights and the morning coffees and the laundry folded with a little too much care. Now, without thinking, he reached for that drawer like it was always his. Like he belonged here, which was the most precious thing you could ask for.

His hair was still damp from the shower you’d made him take when he showed up smelling like sunbaked pasture and motor oil, a smear of dirt on his cheek and a boyish grin on his lips. You could still smell the cedar soap he liked–the one you bought special just for him–lingering warm on his skin. It wrapped around him like a bubble, and radiated off him like a diffuser.

You were across the room, barefoot in your sleep shorts, standing by your record shelf with a glass of red wine balanced in one hand. A loose tank hung from your shoulders, low in the back, swinging gently with every step as you flipped through vinyl sleeves. And every so often–on purpose–you let your hips sway a little more than intended. Just to hear Rhett breathe funny, because you knew he was watching you, it was easy to feel those beautiful blue eyes burning into your backside.

“Somethin’ on your mind, cowboy?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder with a sly grin teasing the corners of your mouth. You didn’t have to see him to feel the way his breath hitched. That subtle ripple of tension that crawled up his chest like he was trying to swallow it down.

Rhett didn’t answer back right away, he just let his head fall back against the wooden headboard with a quiet thud, lips parting, jaw slack. The bedside lamp cast golden shadows over the side of his face–over the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the faint creases near the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair curled damply over his forehead, still messy from the towel-dry you’d done yourself when he leaned into you after his shower to nuzzle into your neck. And his five o’clock shadow had deepened into something darker since dinner–smudging along his jaw like something you wanted to run your tongue across.

He looked too good in this light.

Too warm, too comfortable, too yours.

And yet there was something unreadable in his face–just enough restraint to tell you he was sitting on something. So you turned fully toward him, wine glass loose between your fingers, and arched a brow.

“Well?” Rhett’s gaze lingered on your bare thighs before he finally spoke.

“I ever tell you ‘bout a dream I had…Week or two ago?” He asked, voice gravel-soft. You took a slow sip of your wine, letting the sweetness linger on your tongue. One droplet slid down the curve of your up, and you licked it away lazily, making sure Rhett’s eyes were on your mouth when you did.

”Mmm…” You swallowed, head tilting playfully, “You’ve told me several, hun. You tell me about every single one, so you’re going to have to be more specific.” He looked flustered now. That rare, almost sweet kind of flustered that only came out when he was too far in his own head–when the words he was holding back were heavier than he wanted to admit.

You weren’t wrong to ask for more detail.

Over the course of your entire relationship–nearly a year to the day–Rhett had made it a habit of telling you his dreams. Always in the mornings. Half-awake, head buried in your chest, voice still raspy from sleep. Sometimes they were abstract and bizarre–running through water, being chased by something without a face. Sometimes they were so vividly sexual they left a flush on his chest all morning.

And he always told you.

Which meant this one? This one had been kept.

Either on purpose…Or because he hadn’t known what to do with it.

You watched him now as his hands raked back through his still-damp hair, messing it up even worse than before. He was blushing a little, too–high along his cheekbones, just under the eyes. Like he was embarrassed for the first time in months.

”Might be seen as stupid…” He muttered, looking off toward the window like maybe the night air could somehow bail him out of this conversation. Your brow arched, slow and sharp.

”Rhett Abbott calling one of his dreams stupid? That was not on my bingo card for tonight.” That pulled a soft laugh out of him–real and low and a little sheepish. The kind of laugh he gave you when he was flustered and trying to hide it behind charm.

God, he was so bad at hiding anything from you.

You set your wine glass down gently on the nightstand. The lamp cast your shadow long across the bed sheets as you walked toward him, slow and teasingly. He didn’t even try to look away.

Your eyes locked as you climbed onto the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly under your weight as you moved to straddle him, knees framing his hips, and the second you settled in his lap, his hands came to rest on your waist like muscle memory. Like he didn’t even think–he just reached for you.

His grip was gentle but possessive. Like you were the thing that steadied him when his mind got too loud. You brushed your fingertips across his chest, feeling the thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and leaned in close.

His eyes met yours. That clear blue–brighter up close. Long lashes. A tiny freckle just under the corner of his left one. His pupils were already wide, already blown a little from watching you all night. But there was something soft in them too. Something unguarded. A quiet vulnerability that had taken you nearly the entire year to fully earn. You tilted your head.

”C’mon now…Enlighten me with this ‘stupid’ dream.” Rhett let out a breath like he’d been holding it the whole damn time. His thumbs stroked slowly along your hips, eyes darting from your mouth to your collarbone and back again, like the memory alone had his body running warm.

“Wasn’t much…” He started, “Not like the usual ones…” You quirked a brow at him.

”The usual ones usually involve you in a barn and me in a sundress with no underwear, so I’d say the bar is high.” That pulled another laugh from him, and it made his whole chest shake beneath your hands. His head tilted forward, resting briefly against your shoulder as he exhaled.

You kissed his temple gently.

When he looked back up at you, his voice dropped–gravel-thick and shy in the way that always hit you deep.

“You were wearin’ my hat.” Your lips parted, but you didn’t interrupt or say anything. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and lingered there.

”You had nothin’ else on.” He rasped, “Just that old brown hat hangin’ by your front door. And you were on top of me…Ridin’ me so slow…” His hands tightened on your hips, voice faltering as he looked at you, like he was picturing it right then and there.

”Like this,” He murmured.

And then–his hands moved.

He pulled your hips forward against his with a slow, deliberate roll, dragging you across the hard line of his erection through the flannel pyjama pants that fit him just right. The friction was deep and unhurried–more suggestion than thrust��but the way he did it…The way his thumbs pressed into your skin, his pupils dilating even further, like they were going to break through the small rim of blue, as he felt the shape of your body align with his–made your breath catch.

A low hum spilled from your throat, and you let your weight sink into his lap, grinding back softly. Rhett’s breath hitched. His fingers dug into you a little harder.

“I dreamt it and woke up so turned on I damn near hurt myself,” He whispered, ducking his head to your neck. His lips pressed there–warm, soft, wanting, and craving–then his teeth scraped the skin just below your ear.

“And ever since then…” He muttered, voice breaking as his hips dragged you against him again, “It’s been stuck in my head. Just can’t seem to get it out…” His mouth traced your jawline slowly, nipping you once–just enough to make your breath hitch. His erection was now straining against the fabric of his pyjama pants, begging for attention and release.

The pressure made you shiver.

One of your hands came up to his cheek. His stubble scratched faintly against your palm, rough and familiar, and you tilted his head gently until your eyes met again.

You kissed him.

And not quick–not teasing.

Slow.

You kissed him like the whole room had melted away. Like it was just the two of you and the flickering shadows and the low hum of the record player turning behind you. His lips parted instantly, mouth soft and eager beneath yours. His hands stayed tight on your hips, but he didn’t move, didn’t grind you against him–he let you kiss him. Let you taste him, guide him, own him for a moment.

It was heady, how easily he gave himself to you.

When you finally pulled back, lips brushing his as you breathed out, your voice was soft but sharp with intent.

“You wanna see me in your hat,” You whispered, “Riding you like you deserve?”

Rhett looked dazed. Eyes blown wide. Cheeks flushed. His erection twitching beneath you.

“‘Course I do,” He breathed. “Baby… I want it so bad it hurts.”

You leaned in again, kissed him once more–just a soft, lingering press of your mouth to his–and then drew back with a grin.

“Then go get it, cowboy.” His eyes widened, almost comically so.

“Really?” He asked, voice thick, stunned, hopeful. You nodded once, slow and deliberate, your thighs still bracketing his, your fingers dragging lightly along the sides of his neck.

“Go on,” You said, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Earn it.” You shifted off of him gently, settling beside him on the bed with one leg tucked beneath you, and Rhett was up like a man on fire–rising too fast, adjusting himself with a sharp inhale as his erection strained visibly against the front of his pyjama pants.

He stumbled a bit with his words, already halfway out the door. “Don’t–don’t you go disappearin’ on me now,” He called back over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in two seconds.” You giggled, unable to help yourself, hearing the way he was half-running barefoot through the narrow hall of the trailer. The floor creaked under his weight, then came the familiar soft clatter of the coat rack by the door as he snatched it down.

His hat…The one he never let anyone touch.

You finished the last of your wine slowly as you waited, letting the heat in your body spread lazily across your chest. A light flush had crept up your neck. Your legs still tingled from how tightly he’d held you just a moment ago.

When Rhett returned, you looked up–and your breath caught just a little.

There it was in his hand: his rodeo hat.

That dusty brown Stetson you’d seen him wear to every meet, every arena, every time he’d stepped into a chute with fire in his veins. Wide-brimmed, sun-bleached around the edges, a little worn on the crown from where he’d fidgeted with it before each ride. You had seen him toss it off before a fight, and cling to it when he prayed. You’d seen how the light hit his jaw just right beneath its brim–and every time, you thought: damn, he was made for it.

But the way he was holding it now?

Like it was an offering. Like it meant something more than a uniform.

Rhett placed the hat at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on you the whole time, breath a little ragged.

And then–he reached for your ankle.

“Before we get to fulfillin’ that dream of mine…” He murmured, his voice dipping low, soft but rough with intent, “I want to get my daily dose of you in my system.”

You swallowed audibly.

Because you knew what he meant by that.

Rhett loved going down on you.

Loved the way you tasted, how you fell apart for him. Loved when your thighs trembled around his shoulders and your voice cracked on his name. Sometimes he’d spend entire evenings between your legs without ever asking for a damn thing in return–mumbling against your skin that it was his favorite way to end the day.

And you felt that now, in the way his fingers gently curled around your ankle.

“Rhett–” You started, but the words caught in your throat when he pulled.

It wasn’t harsh. Just a firm, coaxing tug as he guided you down the mattress, one hand sliding up your calf, slow and careful.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day,” he murmured. “Thinkin’ about comin’over to you, layin’ you out like this. Gettin’ you all wet and shakin’ before I ever even touch myself.” His voice, with that lazy drawl and that mix of devotion and filth made your stomach twist into knots. His mouth found the inside of your knee first, pressing a kiss there–then higher, then higher–until you could feel his breath against the hem of your shorts. You barely had time to breathe before he hooked his thumbs into the waistband.

“Let me…” He whispered, “Let me taste my girl before she puts on my hat and ruins me…” You looked down at him.

And he looked at you like you were his last prayer and first sin rolled into one.

That hunger in his eyes–the ache behind his pupils–it was nearly feral, but somehow still soft. Steady. Like he knew what he was about to do to you and was savoring it in slow motion.

You didn’t speak.

You just nodded–small, slow, sure.

Your hand came down to gently brush his hair back, fingers sliding through damp strands to keep them out of his face. His breath hitched at your touch, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, like that simple gesture wrecked him more than anything else could.

Then–with that same quiet gentleness–he slid your sleep shorts down your hips. His hands were slow, careful, almost ceremonial, hooking into the waistband with his thumbs and dragging them down over your thighs, your knees, your calves. When they hit the floor, he didn’t look away from your center for a second. His palms smoothed up the outsides of your thighs as he pulled you down the mattress, coaxing you toward the edge with practiced ease. You let him, with your shallow breaths and your heart thudding against your ribs.

And then–he dropped to his knees.

Right there on the floor, between your legs, with his bare chest rising and falling under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and his jaw slack like he was already drunk on the sight of you. He slid his arms under your thighs and over them again–cradling, anchoring–until the backs of your knees rested over his broad shoulders. His hands gripped the outer curves of your thighs, holding you open, thumbs stroking small circles into your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

And when his eyes met yours–

God. That look alone made you ache.

Rhett always looked up at you when he did this.

Never shy and certainly never avoiding.

Like he wanted you to see what he was doing to you. Like he needed you to know how much he loved it.

“You’re already shakin’,” He murmured, voice low and rough with heat. “You that worked up for me, sweetheart?” His breath hit your core, and your hips gave a soft jolt in response.

Rhett grinned.

“Thought so.”

Then his mouth was on you.

And not just on you–devouring you and everything you had.

His lips parted around your folds, tongue sliding out slow and wide, dragging upward in one long, unhurried lick that made your spine arch and your toes curl. The heat of his mouth, the scratch of that stubble brushing your thighs–it all rushed through you like lightning.

He groaned against you–like the taste of you filled his mouth too good, too thick–and the vibration of that sound pulsed right through your core.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your head tipping back, one hand fisting the sheets beside you, the other reaching for him–searching for his hair, his shoulder, anything to ground yourself.

He kept going. Lapping and kissing and sucking gently at your clit, alternating pressure, drawing tiny sounds out of you one after the other like he was memorizing every response.

And still–he kept looking up.

Every few seconds, his gaze would flick up your body, pupils dark and blown, and meet yours with this desperate, tender intensity that had your stomach fluttering uncontrollably.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever tasted,” He rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips already slick with you. “Always so warm… always so wet for me…”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs squeezed slightly around his head, and he groaned at that too–loved when you did that–before ducking his mouth right back down and closing it over your clit.

He sucked.

Not hard–but deep. Pulling it into his mouth and curling his tongue around it until your whole body trembled. Then he licked again–quick, focused strokes right where you needed them most–and you could already feel that pressure building fast and thick in your lower belly.

“Rhett–” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Rhett holy shit–”

He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you still as he sucked again, then slowed–drawing a long, slick stroke down your slit before groaning again, low and needy.

“I could stay down here forever,” He mumbled against you, and that sound–the low timbre of his voice reverberating through your center–made your legs tremble even harder. “This–this is the best damn thing I’ve ever had.”

He flicked his tongue just beneath your clit again, then flattened it, slow and firm, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until your mouth fell open in a silent moan.

“Look at you,” He whispered, glancing up through his lashes. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come apart for me…”

And you did—nearly right then.

Your back arched as the tension snapped. A sharp, desperate cry tore from your throat as your orgasm rolled through you in wave after wave. Rhett didn’t stop. He never stopped. He kept his mouth on you, licking and sucking and moaning like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Your fingers found his hair and tugged hard as you came, and he groaned like it drove him wild, like your pleasure was the only thing tethering him to earth.

When you finally started to come down–shaking, gasping, your chest rising and falling hard–he pressed one last, soft kiss to your center before pulling back slightly, lips slick, chin wet, eyes wrecked.

“You good, darlin’?” he asked, his voice still hoarse, his hands still warm and steady on your thighs.

You blinked down at him, dazed.

“Barely,” you whispered, your body still twitching from aftershocks.

He smirked, running a hand slowly up the inside of your thigh.

“You still got enough in you to make that dream come true?” He asked, thumb brushing gentle circles into your thigh, lips slick and pink from everything he’d just done to you.

You let out a breathless laugh, voice still trembling. Your gaze flicked toward the foot of the bed–where his hat sat in all its quiet glory–and then back to him.

“I always have enough in me to please my cowboy.”

That made his smile flicker wider, that dimple creasing his cheek just before he surged up from the floor, bracing one palm on the mattress and leaning in to kiss you–messy this time. No hesitation. Just hunger and heat and a mouth slick with your arousal pressing against yours like he couldn’t get close enough. It was wet and open-mouthed and a little uncoordinated, noses bumping, teeth catching on swollen lips, and when you both pulled back to catch your breath, there was a thin trail of spit still clinging between your tongues before it broke and smeared against the corner of his mouth.

You swiped your thumb over it.

He licked it from your skin without shame.

Then his fingers found the hem of your tank top and lifted.

You raised your arms without a word, letting him pull it up and off and toss it aside. His eyes swept down over your now fully bare chest like he was trying to memorize every freckle and curve, every little mark he already knew by heart.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, a little dazed. “Don’t know what I ever did to deserve this.”

You kissed the edge of his jaw, warm and reverent. “Shut up and take your shirt off.”

He did.

The thin cotton clung a little to his stomach from the heat of his skin, but he peeled it over his head and dropped it behind him, revealing the warm flush across his chest, and the super light trail of hair down his navel that disappeared beneath his waistband.

You leaned in and kissed the base of his throat, then lower–tracing the center of his chest, lips dragging over the rise and fall of each breath.

“God, I want you,” You whispered.

He swallowed hard. “I’m yours.”

And then he was shoving his pajama bottoms down–quickly, too worked up now to be careful. His cock sprung free, flushed red and hard, the tip already glistening.

Rhett had barely finished kicking his flannel bottoms to the floor when he climbed back into bed, propping himself against the pillows, chest heaving with anticipation. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to grab you or just sit back and let you ruin him.

You stayed on your knees at first, watching him settle. The lamplight painted him in golden hues–his chest flushed and rising with ragged breaths, his thighs taut, cock heavy and twitching where it rested against his stomach. His eyes never left you, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

Then, with that quiet confidence you knew he loved, you shifted up onto his thighs and slowly climbed into his lap.

You made sure your knees bracketed his hips perfectly. Making sure the skin of your inner thighs brushed against his, and then, still holding his gaze, you reached for the hat.

Your fingers slid under the brim, lifting it from where it lay beside you. The moment the crown settled in your hands, Rhett’s breath caught–audibly. His eyes went wide again, not just with heat, but with something deeper. Worship. Wonder. Like watching you hold it turned a fantasy into something sacred.

Then slowly you brought it to your head, and you slipped it on.

The wide-brimmed Stetson sat low over your brow, casting your eyes in shadow and making your mouth the brightest thing on your face. Your lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk, and Rhett visibly shuddered.

“Jesus Christ,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”You smiled wider. He reached up like he couldn’t help himself, and with the gentlest touch—like it was second nature—he flicked the brim of the hat once with his knuckle.

“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” he murmured, a soft laugh catching in his throat. You giggled back, the brim tipping forward slightly with the motion, and that light, giddy sound made something in Rhett’s chest physically stutter.

Then you leaned forward, just enough for your bare chest to press against his, the heat between your bodies rising, coiling, fusing into one steady burn.

Your hand slid between your bodies.

Rhett inhaled sharply as your fingers wrapped around him–hot, thick, hard, already slick at the tip. You stroked once. Twice. Slow, deliberate movements that had him tipping his head back against the pillows with a guttural groan. His hands flew to your hips like instinct, gripping them firmly, grounding himself in the feel of your skin.

You teased him, letting your slick gather at his head as you guided him through your folds, rubbing the crown against your entrance, but not quite letting him in.

“Jesus,” He hissed, his hips twitching up slightly, fighting the urge to thrust. “Baby… please…”

You didn’t give in right away.

Instead, you leaned in, letting your chest brush his again, your breath ghosting over his jaw as you murmured–

“You dreamed about this, didn’t you?”

His hands gripped tighter.

“Yeah,” He rasped. “Every goddamn night since.”

You held his gaze as you tilted your hips–slow, careful–until his tip nudged your entrance. You paused there, savoring the moment. Savoring the heat, the stretch, the way his lips parted as if to beg, but he held back.

Then, with a steady exhale, you started to sink down.

He was big. You both knew it. Every time you took him it was a stretch–deep and toe-curling, your body adjusting to every thick inch of him.

But this time? It felt even more intense.

Maybe it was the hat. Maybe it was the fuel of the dream behind everything. Maybe it was the way Rhett looked up at you like you were some kind of goddess kneeling above him, his mouth open, his brows drawn, like the sight of you riding him like this might actually break him.

You sank down inch by inch, slow and steady, your jaw dropping open as the burn turned to fullness, and then to pleasure. Rhett groaned like a man possessed, his fingers flexing hard on your hips, his knuckles white.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and shaking. “You feel so good–so fuckin’ good–”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too focused on the way he filled you, stretched you, your hands bracing against his chest as you slid down until he was seated completely inside you. Your walls fluttered around him involuntarily, and he let out a choked sound, his hips jerking up once with a desperate need to move. You let out a shaky breath, lifting your gaze.

You started slow. Just the barest roll of your hips, your thighs trembling slightly as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you. Every inch of him pressed deep, dragging against your walls in that way that made your breath hitch and your belly clench. Your palms flattened over his chest, steadying yourself against the tremble that spread through your limbs.

Rhett’s hands stayed tight on your hips, not forcing, not guiding–just holding.

His eyes locked to where you were joined, and he let out a choked, reverent sound. One of his hands slid up, tracing the curve of your waist, the slope of your ribs, until his thumb brushed reverently beneath the underside of your breast. His other hand reached for the brim of the hat.

He tilted it back slightly on your head so he could see your face better.

“Look at you…” He whispered, voice low and ruined. “My girl…ridin’ me like a goddamn dream.”

You rocked your hips again–slow, dragging friction that had you both gasping. Your folds were slick, soaked, stretched wide around him, and the wet sound of your bodies moving together filled the room, lewd and obscene. His cock pulsed inside you, thick and throbbing, and your walls squeezed around him reflexively.

The brim of the hat shaded your eyes, and Rhett looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You leaned forward, your hair falling in soft strands around your face, and you kissed him again–sloppy, wet, desperate. Your tongue licked into his mouth as your hips picked up a slow, grinding rhythm, your clit dragging over the soft patch of hair above his base with each rock of your hips.

He moaned into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before pulling back slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse–like it had been scraped raw from how badly he needed you.

“You’re killin’ me,” he groaned. “Feelin’ you like this–watchin’ you on top of me, wearin’ my hat–fuck, baby, it’s too much.”

You rolled your hips again and leaned back slightly so he could see the way your body moved above him, the way he disappeared inside you, the way your stomach fluttered with every rise and fall. His hands slid to your thighs, then your ass, gripping tight, holding you open, watching every slick, filthy grind.

“You want me to stop?” You teased, breathless.

His head shot back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as he let out a guttural, almost-pained sound.

“Don’t you dare,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’ll lose my mind.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, and began to ride him in earnest.

Not fast. Not yet.

Just deep.

Grinding circles, pulling nearly all the way off his cock before sinking back down with a slick, breathy moan. Your hands slid down his chest, dragging over his stomach, and Rhett watched with glassy eyes as your body moved in perfect rhythm over his.

Every stroke was a worship. Every roll of your hips drew a cry from him–half groan, half prayer.

“Look at you,” He panted, hands sliding up your waist, thumbs stroking your ribs. “Takin’ me so good…So goddamn deep…”

He sat up, slowly, arms wrapping around you as he buried his face against your chest, mouth hot and open over the swell of your breast. He pressed kisses there–wet, messy, dragging his lips across your skin like he couldn’t get enough. His stubble scraped your sensitive flesh, and you gasped, your hands finding his hair, holding him close.

“You’re all I think about,” He whispered, voice trembling. “You in this hat…ridin’ me like you were made for it…You feel so good, baby–so warm, so wet–I could die right here…”

You rocked harder, your breath catching with every grind, every drag of his cock against that aching spot inside you. His tongue flicked your nipple, then sucked it into his mouth, and your head tipped back as you moaned.

“Rhett–fuck–Rhett, you’re gonna make me–”

“Come on, darlin’,” He rasped against your breast. “Come for me. Wanna feel you all over me. Want you to make a mess. Let me feel you clench around me while you wear my fuckin’ hat.”

You whimpered–high, needy–and rolled your hips faster now, chasing it. Your slick dripped down between your thighs, coating him, sticking to his skin in hot, wet strands. The bed creaked under you, and Rhett’s hands clutched your ass, helping you ride, pushing up into you as you rocked down onto him again and again.

The hat stayed perfectly perched on your head.

And Rhett looked up at you like he’d gone and seen heaven.

“Come on,” He begged, “Show me how good it feels. Come on, baby–I need it–fuck, I need it–”

You came with a cry.

Your hips jerked, thighs trembling as your orgasm tore through you, slick flooding around him. You clamped down on his cock, pulsing hard, your moans broken and raw. Rhett groaned and held you there, grinding his hips up once, twice—and then he followed.

“Fuck–fuck–oh Jesus–” His head tipped back, mouth open, eyes glassy, and he came inside you in thick, hot spurts that you could feel dripping down between your thighs.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, sweating, your skin sticking where it touched.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.

And then he reached up, breathless, and tipped the hat off your head just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, before he removed it completely and put it on the nightstand.

“You just ruined me for every other fantasy,” He whispered. Rhett’s breath was still coming in soft, uneven waves beneath you, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

The afterglow wrapped around you both like a weighted blanket, warm and heavy, laced with sweat and the slow pulse of satisfaction. His arms were still locked around your waist, one hand splayed across your back like he didn’t want to let you go, not even to breathe.

He tilted his head just enough to look at you, still dazed, still flushed–and smiled. That slow, crooked, post-orgasm grin that only came out when he was taken care of, and truly spent.

Then he let out a lazy exhale and murmured, “Now whenever I wear that hat, I’m gonna be so goddamn distracted thinkin’ about this moment right here.”

You bit back your smile, leaning in close, your nose brushing his. “Wasn’t that the whole point?” you whispered, and kissed him.

It was soft at first–just a brush of lips, a sigh passed between mouths–but then his hand curled around the back of your neck, and he deepened it, just enough to let the warmth spread again. A hint of tongue. A little groan. He kissed you like a man still savoring dessert.

When you finally broke apart, Rhett gave a breathless, quiet laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners in that way that made your chest flutter–genuine, drowsy, gorgeous.

“Well…” He murmured, eyes half-lidded and glowing gold in the lamplight, “In theory, I didn’t really think past the idea of you ridin’ me with my hat on.” He gave your bare thigh a soft squeeze, his thumb drawing lazy circles against your skin. “Or the long-lastin’ effects it’d have on me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too, your head dropping briefly to his shoulder as your body relaxed against him. You felt him chuckle beneath you, his whole body shaking gently. The sound of it, warm and boyish and sleepy, was your favorite thing in the world.

“You good?” You asked softly, your fingers brushing through his hair again.

“Darlin’, I’m ruined,” he sighed dramatically, but there was nothing but affection in the way he looked at you–like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You let the silence stretch a beat, then whispered, “We should probably wash off before we pass out like this.”

“Yeah,” He said, groaning a little as he shifted beneath you. “Before I end up glued to you for life.”

You kissed him once more, then slowly rolled off, muscles still trembling as you carefully stood on wobbly legs. Rhett watched every movement, his eyes roaming with unabashed hunger and satisfaction, like he was committing the sight to memory.

As you padded toward the bathroom, trying not to trip over your own feet, you felt the air on your slick thighs and winced at the mess between them.

Rhett caught that little shuffle in your step and gave your ass a light, playful smack.

You gasped in mock outrage, laughing as you glanced back at him over your shoulder.

“Hey!” You teased, swatting at the air.

He just grinned up at you from the bed, completely unrepentant.

Then, without missing a beat, you turned and picked up his hat from the nightstand. You gave it a little twirl between your fingers and then tossed it gently toward him. He caught it one-handed, eyes still glued to you, slipping it on his head as a joke, messing with the brim a bit.

“Maybe next time,” You said, voice sweet and slow, “I wanna see you wear this in the bedroom, cowboy. We can make some more memories that’ll ruin you.”

Rhett blinked.

Then his grin went from lazy to wicked.

“Yes, ma’am,” He said, tipping the hat toward you with that glint in his eyes.

You raised a brow at him, lingering in the bathroom doorway with one hand on the frame, your silhouette soft in the dim light. Steam had just begun to curl from the faucet, misting up the mirror. You leaned your weight on one hip, letting your fingers brush your thigh, voice light and teasing.

“You just gonna sit there lookin’ smug,” You asked, “Or are you actually gonna join me?”

Rhett blinked once, then twice–like your words hadn’t fully registered at first–and then his expression shifted into something downright wolfish.

“Hell yes, I’m joinin’ you,” He said, practically throwing the hat onto the nearest pillow as he stood, bare and flushed and beautifully wrecked. “Can’t miss an opportunity to get you all soapy and wet, now can I?”

You laughed, and so did he–both of you loose and glowing in the afterglow haze, your bodies still humming from everything that had just happened. He was already halfway across the room before you could turn, catching your hand as you disappeared into the bathroom, tugging you back toward him for one more lingering kiss. Hot, slow, and full of promise, that the night was far from over.

#rhett abbott x y/n #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #rhett abbott fluff #lewis pullman the man you are #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman #sweet Lordy lord we love cowboys lol #give me the strength #Spotify #x reader smut #x reader

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liviawildrose · 3 months ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝟏𝟎𝟏

listen up, pookie your kitty (yes, her) deserves to be treated like royalty. she works overtime for you, keeps you feeling good, and deserves top-tier maintenance. if you’ve ever wondered how to keep your girl fresh, healthy, and thriving, then sit back, grab some tea (preferably one that benefits her—more on that later), and let’s dive DEEP into the one and only guide you’ll ever need on vaginal health, hygiene, and overall reproductive wellness.

taking care of your kitty isn’t just about hygiene, it’s about honoring your femininity, connecting with your body, and embracing your divine energy. when she’s healthy, fresh, and balanced, you feel more confident, radiant, and in tune with yourself. a well-cared-for kitty enhances your sensuality, self-love, and overall well-being, making you feel empowered in your femininity. it’s an act of self-respect and self-care, a ritual that reminds you that your body is sacred. when you nurture her, you’re not just maintaining hygiene, you’re cultivating a deeper connection with your womanhood and stepping into your most powerful, feminine self.

1. internal care: what you put in is what you get out.

your kitty is a self-cleaning queen, but she still needs your help to stay in her best shape. what you consume directly affects her smell, taste, moisture, and overall health. let’s break it all down:

🎀 water is your bestie

first things first “drink your damn water, babygirl.” if your kitty has ever smelled a little “off,” felt dry, or just hasn’t been vibing right, chances are you’re dehydrated. dehydration leads to:

• stronger vaginal odors (not the good kind)

• increased risk of infections

• dryness and discomfort

how much should you drink? at LEAST 2-3 liters a day. and if you struggle with drinking plain water, add:

• lemon (helps balance pH)

• cucumber (hydrating AF)

• mint (cooling & refreshing)

🎀 lemon water = ph queen

starting your day with warm lemon water is a game changer. why?

• it flushes out toxins

• it helps balance your vaginal pH (prevents infections, odors, and irritation)

• it keeps your skin glowing (bonus win)

make it a daily ritual, and your kitty will thank you.

🎀 tea time = kitty care time

certain teas work wonders for your vaginal health. here are some of the best ones:

• ginger tea → reduces inflammation, fights infections

• red raspberry leaf tea → strengthens the uterus, great for periods

• chamomile tea → reduces bloating & period cramps

• green tea → full of antioxidants, helps with vaginal odor

sip on these daily and watch the magic happen.

🎀 probiotics: the real MVPs

your vagina needs good bacteria to stay healthy, and probiotics help maintain that delicate flora balance. if you’re prone to yeast infections, BV, or UTIs, adding probiotics to your routine is non-negotiable

best probiotic sources:

• greek yogurt (plain, no added sugar!)

• kimchi & sauerkraut

• kombucha

• probiotic supplements

🎀 best food for your kitty

pineapple

watermelon

strawberries & berries

coconut water

citrus fruits (oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruits)

plain yogurt (probiotic-rich foods)

cucumber

celery boosts pheromones and gives a clean, light scent.

ginger & mint.

pheromones are natural chemical signals your body releases that can subconsciously attract others and enhance your sensual presence. they play a huge role in sexual attraction, confidence, and even how people perceive you. the more balanced and active your pheromone production, the more naturally alluring, magnetic, and desirable you become.

foods to limit or avoid (can cause strong or unpleasant odors)

asparagus

onions & garlic

red meat

too much dairy

excess sugar & processed foods

alcohol & coffee

2. external care: keep her fresh & clean (but not TOO clean)

your kitty is a self-cleaning goddess, which means less is more when it comes to washing. over-cleansing, using harsh soaps, or douching = disaster. let’s talk about how to properly care for her.

🎀 washing: gentle, gentle, gentle

• use only warm water to wash your vulva (external area)

• if you need a cleanser, pick one that is pH-balanced and fragrance-free

• never wash inside your vagina (she cleans herself)

avoid:

• anything scented (no bath bombs, no perfumes, no harsh soaps)

• douching (throws off your pH and causes infections)

🎀 menstrual care: keep it fresh

your period is not dirty, but you need to maintain proper hygiene:

• change your pads/tampons every 3-4 hours

• if using a menstrual cup, sterilize it before and after each cycle

• wear breathable cotton underwear during your period

• drink iron-rich teas and foods to replenish nutrients

during your period, your body is already working hard to clean itself, so you don’t need to scrub down excessively. instead:

wash with lukewarm water & a gentle pH-balanced cleanser

avoid harsh soaps, fragrances, or douching — these strip your natural protective bacteria, making you prone to infections.

if you need a quick refresh, use unscented, pH-balanced feminine wipes (no alcohol, no fragrance!)

pads & tampons – change every 4-6 hours to prevent bacteria buildup. leaving them in too long can cause bad odors, irritation, and even infections.

menstrual cups – empty every 8-12 hours, wash with mild, unscented soap, and boil between cycles for proper hygiene.

drink 2-3L of water daily – helps flush out toxins and reduces bloating.

eat fresh fruits (pineapple, watermelon, oranges) – these keep your kitty’s natural scent light & sweet.

take probiotics (yogurt, kimchi, kombucha) – maintain a healthy vaginal pH & prevent yeast infections.

avoid too much caffeine, alcohol & processed foods – these can make you smell stronger and increase cramps.

drink herbal teas (ginger, chamomile, raspberry leaf) – these help relax muscles & ease cramps.

do light movement (yoga, stretching, walking) – keeps blood flowing & reduces bloating.

apply a warm compress or heating pad – this soothes your uterus & relieves pain.

take magnesium & vitamin B6 – these reduce cramps & mood swings.

cut down on salt & sugar – excess sodium & sugar make bloating & cramps worse.

🎀 underwear game: cotton only, babes

ditch the synthetic panties and switch to 100% cotton. why?

• it’s breathable

• reduces sweat buildup

• prevents yeast infections

also, sleep without underwear when possible, let your kitty breathe. (i don’t wear at home at all lol)

🎀 yoni steams: ancient but powerful

yoni steaming is an old practice that helps:

• cleanse the vagina and uterus

• balance hormones

• improve circulation

• relieve menstrual cramps

how to do it:

1. boil water and add herbs like mugwort, lavender, and rosemary.

2. sit over the steam (like a chair with a hole or squat over it but please don’t burn yourself, pookie).

3. let the steam cleanse and refresh your kitty for 15-20 minutes.

subliminal for yoni (listen whenever possible)

3. maintaining, tightness & strength

a strong kitty = better bladder control, better sex, and a healthier reproductive system. let’s talk about keeping her snatched and healthy.

🎀 kegels = tight & right

doing kegels daily helps with:

• stronger orgasms

• bladder control

• postpartum recovery

how to do it:

• squeeze your pelvic muscles (like you’re stopping pee)

• hold for 5-10 seconds

• repeat 10-15 times

do this every day, and you’ll notice a difference.

how to do kegels exercises?

pelvic exercises for women

🎀 waxing, shaving, or au naturel?

how you groom is completely your choice, but here’s the tea:

• waxing → lasts longer, reduces ingrown hairs

• shaving → quick but can cause irritation

• lasering → best long-term option, reduces hair permanently

• natural → totally fine but at least trim it time to time and clean it nicely to avoid any odour or infection

🎀 wipes: do we love them?

YES—but only the right ones.

• fragrance-free

• pH-balanced

• alcohol-free

use them after sex, gym sessions, or when you need a quick refresh.

4. sex & post-sex care: protect, cleanse, and glow

listen up, pookie—what happens in the bedroom affects your kitty’s health. whether you’re getting spicy on the regular or once in a blue moon, proper aftercare is a MUST. neglecting this step can lead to infections, irritation, or discomfort, and we don’t want that, do we?

always, ALWAYS pee after sex

i don’t care if you’re tired, cuddly, or just feeling lazy—get up and pee. this flushes out bacteria that might have entered your urethra, preventing UTIs (urinary tract infections).

wash her up (gently)

• rinse your vulva (external area) with warm water

• if needed, use a mild, fragrance-free cleanser

• pat dry with a soft towel—don’t rub! (also keep a separate towel only for her) (her means your vagina)

does pineapple really change taste?

yes and no. diet does influence how you taste down there, but it’s not just about pineapple. your diet plays the biggest role in how you taste. the goal is to eat foods that are light, fresh, and naturally sweet.

• sweet, hydrating foods = milder, pleasant taste

• too much processed food & dairy = stronger, unpleasant odor

foods that help:

drink at least 2-3L of water daily – keeps your juices light, clear & fresh.

add lemon or cucumber to your water – natural detox, makes your fluids lighter & more neutral.

drink coconut water – packed with natural electrolytes & lightens your natural taste.

chlorophyll water = internal deodorizer – helps your kitty and cum stay fresh & clean.

pineapple, mango, strawberries, watermelon – these are nature’s candy and make your cum sweeter & fruitier.

oranges, lemons, grapefruit – full of vitamin C, which neutralizes strong odors.

apples, grapes, kiwis – naturally sweeten your fluids.

cinnamon, honey, vanilla – add natural warmth & sweetness to your juices.

cucumber & celery – high in water & help flush out toxins, keeping you light & clean-tasting.

mint & parsley – natural breath & body fresheners.

sweet potatoes & yams – help maintain a balanced, natural sweetness.

foods to limit:

onions & garlic or strong spices

too much red meat and processed

alcohol and coffee

excess dairy

🎀 protect your pH: condoms matter

raw is fun and all, but if you’re not in a committed, tested relationship, you NEED protection. unprotected sex can:

• throw off your vaginal pH

• increase risk of infections (BV, yeast, UTIs)

• expose you to STIs plus girl you don’t wanna get pregnant especially if you’re not committed

if condoms make you itchy or irritated, you might be allergic to latex switch to non-latex condoms instead.

5. infections & odor: keep things fresh & problem-free

let’s be real sometimes, your kitty acts up. you might notice a smell, unusual discharge, or irritation. this is your body talking to you pay attention!

what’s normal vs. not?

your vagina has a natural scent—it’s NOT supposed to smell like flowers, vanilla, or candy (despite what some brands try to sell you). HOWEVER, extreme changes in odor can be a sign of something off.

when to worry:

❌ fishy odor → bacterial vaginosis (BV)

❌ strong, foul smell → possible infection

❌ yeasty, bread-like smell → yeast infection

🎀 infections 101: yeast, BV, and UTIs

(please go see a gynaecologist)

yeast infections

• symptoms: itching, thick white discharge (like cottage cheese), redness

bacterial vaginosis (BV)

• symptoms: fishy smell, grayish discharge, irritation

urinary tract infections (UTIs)

• symptoms: burning when peeing, constant urge to go, lower belly pain

6. gym, sweat & hygiene: stay fresh all day

your kitty is working overtime when you’re sweating it out at the gym. here’s how to keep her fresh, dry, and happy:

🎀 gym tips for vaginal health

• wear breathable cotton underwear or moisture-wicking fabrics

• change out of sweaty clothes ASAP

• wipe down with pH-balanced wipes after workouts

• carry baby wipes for quick fresh-ups

7. pregnancy, birth control & hormones: long-term kitty care

your reproductive health is more than just hygiene. hormones, birth control, and pregnancy all play a role in vaginal health.

🎀 birth control & vaginal health

obviously there are so many different types of birth controls like hormonal birth controls like pills, shots, etc. even non-hormonal birth control like using of condoms, copper iud etc. all of them have their own set of advantages and disadvantages so please please please chat with your dermatologist which is well suited for your needs and body

🎀 pregnancy changes everything about your kitty—expect:

• increased discharge (normal, but should be clear/white) and even month long periods (my mom faced this)

• higher risk of yeast infections

• vaginal stretching (kegels help postpartum recovery!) ask your gynaecologist when to start cause possibly your vagina tears during parturition (delivery)

8. womb care

whether you’re planning to have kids one day or just want to keep your reproductive system strong and healthy, taking care of your kitty and womb right now is one of the best things you can do. think of it like preparing a garden: the healthier the soil (your body), the better the flowers (your future pregnancy and baby). even if you’re not sexually active yet, you can build a strong, fertile, and balanced reproductive system so that when the time comes, you have an easy, smooth pregnancy and a strong, healthy baby.

your hormones control everything. your period, ovulation, fertility, and even your mood. keeping them balanced now will make pregnancy much easier later.

eat hormone-balancing foods

• healthy fats: avocados, salmon, olive oil (support hormone production).

• leafy greens: spinach, kale, broccoli (flush out excess estrogen).

• seeds: flaxseeds, pumpkin seeds, sesame seeds (help regulate your cycle).

reduce stress

• high stress = high cortisol, which can mess with your fertility.

• try meditation, journaling, or long walks to calm your nervous system.

limit processed foods & sugar

• too much sugar can cause hormonal imbalances & irregular periods.

avoid plastic food containers & BPA

• these contain chemicals that mess with your hormones & fertility.

tip: try seed cycling (eating specific seeds during your menstrual cycle) to keep your hormones naturally balanced.

maintain a balanced vaginal pH (3.8-4.5)

• drink water with lemon to help detox & balance your system.

• take probiotics (yogurt, fermented foods, or supplements) to maintain good bacteria.

• avoid harsh soaps, scented products, & douching—these strip away natural protection.

practice proper menstrual care

• switch to organic pads or tampons (regular ones have chemicals that disrupt vaginal health).

• if using a menstrual cup, clean it properly to avoid infections.

protect your womb

• avoid sitting on cold surfaces for too long (cold affects circulation to your uterus).

• practice yoni steaming with gentle herbs like lavender, rosemary, & chamomile to cleanse your womb.

EAT FERTILITY-BOOSTING FOODS

• avocados → full of folate, which is essential for pregnancy.

• eggs → contain choline, which helps with baby brain development.

• berries (strawberries, blueberries, raspberries) → full of antioxidants that protect your eggs.

• walnuts & almonds → improve egg quality.

• leafy greens (spinach, kale, broccoli) → rich in iron & folate.

DRINK WOMB-FRIENDLY TEAS

• raspberry leaf tea → strengthens the uterus & prepares it for pregnancy.

• ginger tea → reduces inflammation & improves blood flow to your womb.

• nettle tea → full of minerals to keep your reproductive system strong.

AVOID FERTILITY-KILLERS

too much caffeine (it affects egg quality).

alcohol & smoking (lower fertility & harm future pregnancy).

too much processed food (affects your hormone balance).

START TAKING PRENATAL VITAMINS EARLY

prenatal vitamins aren’t just for when you’re pregnant—they help prepare your body years before conception.

folic acid (B9) → prevents birth defects & supports healthy eggs.

iron → prevents anemia & strengthens the uterus.

vitamin D → improves fertility & hormone balance.

omega-3s (DHA & EPA) → support baby’s brain & eye development.

final words: love your kitty, and she’ll love you back

babygirl, your kitty is a queen and deserves royal treatment. stay hydrated, balanced, and mindful, and she will always be fresh, tight, and healthy.

this guide? your new bible. bookmark it, re-read it, and share it with your besties. your kitty care era starts NOW.

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beloveds-embrace · 6 months ago

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Okay what if (and stop me if I'm wrong here I'm new to A/B/O) the guys see someone flirting with the designation-less reader and they start subtly start marking them with pheromones to tell everyone else to back off?

I love this idea so much ugh 😩 scenting in the omegaverse always makes me so jdjsjen and no worries! Nothing about what you said is wrong and welcome to the blessed cursed space that is a/b/o

Original post

It started with Price and Ghost stepping into the armory.

You hadn’t noticed them at first, too focused on trying to edge away from the overly friendly Alpha soldier who just wouldn’t take the hint, no matter how disinterested you made sure you looked. He was leaning in closer than necessary, voice dropping lower with each word like he was trying to make the conversation feel more personal. Though your nose picked nothing, you just knew he was probably, likely, drowning the area with his stench.

You didn’t know how to stop it without making a scene. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong- just too many compliments, too much interest in your plans after hours, too much weight in the way he said your name. It left you off balance, unsure if you were imagining the tension curling low in your stomach. Unpleasant tension, as if youmd accidentally eaten spoiled food.

These days, it seemed as if you either garnered no attention, and when you did, it was unwelcome attention. At least it was different and far more pleasant with the 141.

“So, love, I was wondering-“

Then Price cleared his throat.

It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a gunshot, sharp and commanding. Both you and the soldier froze, heads snapping toward the sound, and there he was- Captain Price, standing in the doorway like he owned the entire building, eyes locked right on the man in front of you.

Ghost was just behind him, silent and still as a shadow, but the weight of him filled the room like a second presence- dark, heavy, watching, shoulders tense like Price. You’ve been with them long enough to tell when they are angry based on body cues, and right now, that’s what they were.

Not for the first time, you wondered just what they’d smell like. Would it be heavy and harsh on your nose? Somehow, you doubted it. Then again, Soap did tell you that angry Alphas smell like burnt rubber most of the time.

You eyed the way your… admirer’s nose wrinkled, jaw tight, eyes shifting around.

You hoped it smelled worse.

The soldier stumbled over a few words before making an excuse to leave. He didn’t even try to finish the conversation- rude- and barely managed to keep his composure as he slipped out the door.

Letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your shoulders relaxed slightly as you turned to thank them- but the words caught in your throat when you saw the way they were now looking at you.

It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was something… sharper. Something that made your pulse quicken and your palms feel clammy, even though you hadn’t done anything wrong.

But then Price strode towards you and nodded, low and firm, clasping a hand on your shoulder, and Ghost lingered just long enough to brush his shoulder against yours before following him out the door.

… weird Alphas.

“Weird Alphas.” You said outloud as well, huffing.

You thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

It was subtle, so subtle that you almost didn’t notice at first.

Soap was the easiest to miss, playful and touchy by nature so much so even one as people-averse as you were comfortable next to him by now. He slung an arm over your shoulders whenever you were nearby, leaning into your space like it was nothing. He’d linger there just long enough that your skin was warm before pulling away, flashing you a knowing grin you didn’t understand.

Gaz was more deliberate. He’d pass you things- gear, water bottles, paperwork, pens- and his fingers always brushed yours and lingered. Small steady touches, leaving traces of his warmth on everything he handed you, leaving traces of his warmth on your skin. When you worked together, he’d lean in close enough that his presence settled over you, wrapping around your skin like a second layer. Your shoulders and thighs would touch, and sometimes you swore you could feel a deep purr coming from him.

Price didn’t touch you often, but when he did, it lingered and was acutely felt. A hand at the small of your back to guide you through a crowded hallway. A warm palm resting against your shoulder during debriefings, right where your faulty scent glands are. Solid, steady touches that felt heavier than they should’ve- clearly intentional even to the likes of you, and yet you didn’t want to really, truly acknowledge them.

And Ghost- Ghost was the worst.

He didn’t say a single word when he draped his jacket over your shoulders after a long, rain-soaked training session, the heavy fabric still warm from his body and shielding you from the wafting chill. You’d tried to give it back later, but he pushed it into your hands with a low, demanding “Keep it.” That left no room for argument. You didn’t think much of it at first- just a practical gesture- but you caught the way the others looked at you after, the raised brows and faint smirks that made you second-guess what it really meant, especially when you found yourself wearing it long after the cold had faded. You’d tried wearing your own jacket, but the look he gave you had you sighing, leaving, and returning to wearing his.

You didn’t understand it at first, didn’t recognize it for what it was. But others did.

It was possessive. Territorial.

The stares started- quick, assessing glances from the other soldiers that led to widened eyes. People moved out of your way in the hallways, gave you more space than before. Conversations shifted when you walked into a room, voices dropping, eyes darting toward the men who always seemed to hover just behind you.

You didn’t know what to make of it.

And then Soap grinned at you over lunch one day where you wearing a shirt of John’s now and Ghost’s jacket, leaning close enough to bump his shoulder against yours, and said, “Looking good, bonnie. Don’t think anyone’s stupid enough to try sniffin’ around you now.”

It took you a second too long to process what he’d said. When you finally did, your eyes darted toward the others- toward Price, who didn’t even look up from his plate, and Gaz, who only smirked and in your shock, slipped the bracelet he was wearing on your wrist. Toward Ghost, who met your gaze with something dark and unreadable before leaning back in his chair like he wasn’t affected at all. No; he was satisfied, like a smug bear.

You swallowed.

It should’ve felt suffocating, overwhelming, but it didn’t.

It felt… safe. Secure in a way you didn’t know how to explain. The guy that had been bothering you had even requested a transfer.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t call them out on it.

But later, when Price pulled you in his face and rubbed his face, his chin and beard all across your neck, you didn’t move away.

The “good girl” you got was all you could think about hours later.

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thefemigirl · 6 months ago

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✦ Women's Hygiene Tips

▪ Thoroughly dry key areas Dry areas like the intimate region, armpits, and feet completely after showering to prevent bacteria and odour caused by trapped moisture.

▪ Apply deodorant at night It allows sweat glands to absorb the product more effectively when they’re less active, making it last longer.

▪ Moisturise after a shower Moisturise immediately after showering while the skin is damp to lock in hydration and keep the skin soft.

▪ Apply body oil after moisturizing Layering body oil over moisturizer seals in hydration and gives the skin a healthy, glowing appearance.

▪ Layer perfume and mist on damp skin Helps the scent adhere better and last throughout the day.

▪ Avoid scented products for intimate areas Scented products can disrupt the natural pH balance, leading to irritation or infections, so opt for plant-based, fragrance-free washes.

▪ Use a dedicated razor for intimate areas A specialised razor designed for sensitive areas gives a smoother shave with fewer ingrown hairs or irritation.

▪ Apply oil after shaving Using oil post-shave hydrates the skin, prevents ingrown hairs, and reduces dark spots or hyperpigmentation.

▪ Carry baby wipes during menstruation Baby wipes are essential for freshening up during periods, especially when access to water is limited, ensuring better hygiene.

▪ Incorporate dry brushing Dry brushing exfoliates dead skin, improves circulation, and leaves the skin baby-soft and radiant. Do not dry brush your skin if you have eczema, psoriasis, or rosacea or any skin condition similar.

▪ Always shampoo your hair twice The first shampoo removes surface oils and build-up, while the second deep-cleans the scalp and hair for optimal cleanliness.

▪ Use unscented soap with a washcloth Unscented soap paired with a washcloth or sponge provides a gentle but thorough cleanse, avoiding irritation from harsh chemicals.

▪ Include glycolic acid in skincare Glycolic acid exfoliates and removes dead skin cells, reducing body odour by keeping pores clean and clear.

▪ Don’t rinse out toothpaste completely Retain some fluoride by avoiding a full rinse after brushing to strengthen enamel and protect teeth longer.

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rafey-baby · 6 months ago

Text

rafe has always been close with his sister...(part two)

c/w: incest, some dubcon touching & a kiss from rafe, both of them are more or less drunk, 18+ mdni!

wc: 1.3k

previous part & moodboard

if this is something u don’t like, scroll & read something else xx

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

It’s well past 3 am when they stumble through the front door— wobbly on their feet and drunkenly giggling about some stupid joke Rafe had muttered while fumbling with the keys. Yet another party her big brother had dragged her into, and if it weren’t for his hands on her hips guiding her upstairs right now, she’d wake up the entire house tumbling down the stairs when she’d inevitably loose her footing.

“Rafe, m’never going out with you again. Told you I wanted to leave like two hours ago,” she complains the moment they make it to her bedroom; her feet aching and head spinning.

“‘N she’s complainin’ again. I mean, my apologies for wantin’ to—to show m’little sister a good time,” he huffs, peeling off the shirt that’s beginning to stick to his skin. “Don’t even try t’act like you didn’t have fun.”

“Well, yeaah, but now m’sooo tired and gross and I need to shower and…” she yawns around the rest of the words; hand on his bicep for balance while she kicks off her shoes.

“Don’t— don’t need to worry ‘bout that, told you I’d help you out, yeah?” he slurs, already beginning to tug down the zipper of her dress.

“Nooo…can’t shower yet. Need to take m’makeup off first,” she blabbers, brows pulling together as if he’s just committed some heinous crime, making him roll his eyes before he’s searching through her vanity for makeup remover.

And despite her drowsy resistance about wanting to shower alone, Rafe manages to drag her into the bathroom (after wiping her face clean) anyway — the thermal water soaking through her fatigued limbs feeling entirely too good for her to push him away when he corners her behind the shower curtain, its printed seashells beginning to twirl against the cream-colored material when she stares at them for too long.

And she’s almost starting to believe he’s truly doing all of this for altruistic purposes; thoroughly washing her hair for her and making sure to coat the strands with a generous amount of conditioner afterwards.

But when his soapy palms mindlessly glide along the wet skin on her tummy— inching closer and closer towards her tits, she realizes that she was wrong. However, she’s far too out of it to care, and upon noticing the fact, he’s letting his eager paws grope at the squishy flesh; covering them in the foamy shower gel in the process.

Only when his thumb is smoothing over a sensitive nipple, does she blink away the haziness blurring the lines of what a brother should and shouldn’t do to his sister. And at first, her dozy complaint doesn’t even reach his ears because he’s entirely too focused on the way her tits fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, wondering how it would feel to—

“Rafe…can you not do that?” she suddenly takes a tentative step back.

“Hm? Jus’ makin’ sure you feel all nice ‘n clean,” he drawls out, seemingly confused before he’s tugging her closer with a hold on her waist. “Can you wash my hair next?” he pleads; an abrupt attempt to distract her intoxicated brain.

“I can barely stand and you want me to wash your hair? Can’t even reach your head when you’re a fucking giant.”

But when he leans down for her, she reluctantly begins to lather the shampoo into his roots— gaining a delighted grunt from the back of his throat when her fingers absentmindedly dig into his scalp. However, with the new position, he’s now eye-level with her tits; soap bubbles and water droplets trickling down the smooth skin, and with his thoughts muddled, he’s unable to resist the allure for very long before he’s gravitating towards them.

“Rafe, stoop,” she stumbles backwards when she feels the flat of his tongue laving over the valley of her breasts.

“M’sorry.” But he doesn’t seem all that sorry, not when he looks up at her under his lashes, offering her an inebriated grin— something nauseating coiling in her belly in response.

- - - - - - - - - -

When they finally make it out of the shower, he insists on patting her dry, the foggy mirror saving her the absolute mortification of having to watch her brother’s eyes skim across the expanse of her bare skin during the unnecessarily long process.

“Let me take care of m’favorite sister, yeah?” he croons when he’s tugging down the hem of her sleep shirt afterwards — a shirt that just so happens to be stolen from him, the worn fabric apparently softer than anything of her own.

She’s unsure as to why he’s suddenly being so nice, but she’s not exactly complaining when his uncharacteristically gentle fingertips daub her face with her night cream when they sit down on her bed— making sure to rub the moisturizer into her forehead as well. And she thinks he almost looks cute like this; brows furrowed in concentration, flicking her nose with a sleepy smile when he’s finished.

“That smells so fuckin’ good,” he groans after applying a layer of chapstick to her lips; his heady gaze fixed on the action of her rubbing them together, something she’s too dozy to notice.

“I know, right? I looove anything vanilla-scented,” she gushes over the product while placing the rest of the skincare on her nightstand.

“Can I— uh, try it?” his question sounds innocent enough, but she should know better.

“Of course,” the naive girl fully expects him to uncap the lip balm once more but instead, he’s suddenly grabbing her jaw into his massive hands and pressing his mouth against hers— swallowing her surprised squeak before she’s quickly pulling away.

“Rafe, you promised you weren’t gonna do that anymore,” she whines, but the way her button-eyes blink up at him — the betrayal so tangible — lures him in to do it again; smearing their mouths together with a satisfied hum before she’s shoving at his shoulder.

“Ray, m’serious, it was one time,” she lets out an annoyed huff.

“Calm down, m’lips were jus’ dry, alright?”

“You could’ve just— nevermind, m’too tired for this right now,” her attempts at putting some much needed space between them prove to be futile when he just follows her under the covers— acting as if he doesn’t hear her muttering how he should sleep in his own bed for a change.

“Listen, m’sorry, okay? Don’t like when you’re mad at me,” he ignores her protests and nestles his face into her neck, nose soon nudging her throat and eliciting a somnolent giggle from her.

“Ray, stop. You’re being annoying,” she tries to swat his hands away when his fingers suddenly begin to poke and prod at her sides because he knows how ticklish she is.

“Yeah? Tell me you forgive me then.”

Involuntary laughter bubbles from her chest when she shakes her head and squirms in his arms— desperately trying to wriggle away, but he’s much stronger and she’s no match. And when she grows even louder, he’s forced to slap his palm over her mouth to muffle the noise.

“Shut up, Sarah’s gonna wake up ‘n tell dad we were out late again,” he hisses, suddenly remembering how his other sister is sleeping on the other side of the wall, nonetheless continuing his attack when she attempts to escape once more.

“Stop tickling me then,” she manages out between fits of laughter, uncomfortably writhing in his hold because she hates when he does this. However, she quickly realizes he’s not planning on stopping anytime soon, and the feeling is quickly turning into something unbearable, more or less forcing her to finally let out a sigh in defeat. “Okay, okay, I forgive you— whatever, jus’ let me sleep.”

His breathy chuckle fans the expanse of her neck before he finally relents, but when she tries to shift away from him, he merely tucks her closer against his naked chest; large palm slipping under the hem of her shirt to splay over the expanse of her stomach to keep her right where she is.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs into her hair, tone suddenly desperate, needy. It makes her swallow around the knotted coil in her throat before she reluctantly gives up altogether— entirely too exhausted to put up a fight when sleep is already dragging her into its dreamy embrace and she feels so warm like this.

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eowynstwin · 5 months ago

Text

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fight to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #am i happy with the photos i used? no #am i going to make an effort to change them? also no #does that image of a whirlpool look terribly erotic? oh yes #selkie soap #peristalsis

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sushirrrry · 2 months ago

Text

AU PAIR

a harry styles x you one-shot cw: solo female masturbation, slow burn, tension!!! word count: 11,408

summary: a working single dad and his au pair start to bond over simple bedtime routines, but a steamy kiss after bath time threatens their professional boundaries tag list: @esposa-do-harry @fangirlstuffsblog @matildasatellite @dipmeinhoneyh @thepopcultureaddict @iloveharrystyles04 @theluckyleprachaun-in-stripes @this-is-tiny-mia @emmie2308

hope you all enjoy <3

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The sound of the house settles into one of those rare, aching silences — the kind that hums against your skin after a long day of toys scattered across the living room floor and tiny feet padding after you, or the sounds of the juice spilling from the table and onto the meticulously kept hardwood.

Quinn, Leo, and yourself are currently sharing one of the small toddler beds for bedtime stories, as you begin smoothing the edges of her quilt on the side of Leo that he is curled up into, the faded colors soft under your fingertips. You can hear the breathing of two worn-out toddlers coming in slow, even puffs now.

Your voice is a whisper as you finish the last page, Goodnight Moon balanced on your knee, thumb running absently over the cracked spine.

“…goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” Your last breath is practically silent as you recognize that the two children have fallen asleep; you knew they would fall asleep seconds after you started reading for the second time.

You close the book quietly, pressing it to your chest for a moment like a shield, before setting it aside on the little nightstand. The main mission now is to get yourself out of the bed, trying to make your way around and down to the bottom so you do not disturb them.

It is not unusual that they fall asleep in each other’s beds; the five- and three-year-old have practically slept in the same bed all along – as long as you have been here to notice it. It was more of a comfort thing, you find. Maybe it has to do with the loneliness that they feel from their parents, you are not entirely sure. All that you know is that you do not find an issue with leaving them to find comfort in each other.

As you’ve gotten off the bed, you place the children’s book on the small shelf beside the bed. For a moment, you simply sat there, watching the slow, even rise and fall of their chests, the occasional twitch of a dream beginning to form in one of their tiny limbs. It was a rare kind of peace—something delicate, something sacred. To be a child is an honor, and you feel it’s an honor to watch them.

As you make your way to the door, you’ve smoothed your palms down the front of your denim shorts, casting one last look at the sleeping children before slipping quietly from the room. You pulled the door almost shut behind you, leaving it open just a crack, just the way they liked it – just in case they ever needed to find you.

In the large home in Hampstead, it was quite hard for the little ones to manage their way around on their own.

The hallway was quiet; the light had dimmed outside in the summer heat but hadn’t completely set as it crept through the windows that lined the hall. There was a stretch of warm wood floors and framed photographs—beaches, birthday cakes, candid laughter caught mid-breath. You padded barefoot down the stairs. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap, a comfortable blend that was beginning to feel familiar.

You made your way to the kitchen space, in the small breakfast nook, where your laptop sat waiting for you on the corner, an abandoned Word document still blinking impatiently on the screen as if it had been just sitting and waiting for written words to come that never would.

There was a mug of cold coffee next to it, forgotten hours ago prior to bath and bedtime, even after Leo had demanded "one more story, pleeeease," and Quinn had chimed in with her irresistible little lisp.

You sat down with a soft sigh, pulling the computer closer, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. There was a paper due for your Early Child Development summer course, which, on a complete ironic level you had decided to write about the role that storytelling played on a cognitive level in early childhood. However, you found yourself staring at the cursor, your thoughts wandering lazily through the evening, replaying the sound of Quinn’s giggles and Leo’s earnest questions about dragons and knights.

A sip of the cold coffee wasn’t what you needed – it was truly something stronger, but you knew that you had to get this finished before Monday. On a normal Friday, you would be trying to find a plan – something to do with some of your friends. But now, it was sitting in your boss's kitchen waiting for inspiration to hit so you could at least write the first sentence.

It was an hour later when you heard the key turn in the lock; the sound that someone had gotten home.

You glanced up just as the front door pushed open and Harry stepped inside, the heat of the summer night air following him in for a moment before he shoved the door closed with his foot. His hands held his satchel, a cup that he used for coffee in the morning, and his keys.

He looked exhausted, a bit of distress coating his face.

His dark hair was a mess, flattened on one side like he had been running his hand through it for hours. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, the fabric rumpled, and his tie hung loose and crooked around his neck. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the hint of a tattoo curling just beneath his collarbone, something you hadn’t dared stare at for too long.

You had never seen it in full detail, but you knew that it was there.

Without a word, Harry tossed the jacket onto the back of the nearest chair and headed straight for the bar tucked into the corner of the living room, without as much as a ‘hello’ to greet you in the dimly lit kitchen space. You heard the clink of glass against glass as he selected a tumbler and set it down with a tired sort of deliberation.

“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if you should interrupt his brooding, or if he might want to do that in the peace of the space he owned.

He glanced over his shoulder at you almost as if he didn’t see you sitting there, the corners of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile—half amusement, half pure exhaustion.

“Oh, I mean, you could say that,” he muttered, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and giving it a quick once over. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured it, generous and unbothered. “Never-ending meetings. Clients who think they know better than their attorneys – which is ironic considering we’re hired to make sure that they win, and they should keep their mouths shut. Partners breathing down my neck about quarterly numbers. You know, just another day in the office.”

He shook his head as he set the bottle back down with a muted thunk.

You closed your laptop, pushing it aside, the document forgotten for the moment. Something about the slump of Harry’s shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck, made you want to offer him something—comfort, distraction, maybe just company if he needed it.

Harry came home a lot to an empty house – no one to talk to, so your presence might have been needed every once in a while. Once he got home, you would go out with friends or go to class or just get yourself out of the house since you were home with the kids all day.

He took a sip of his drink and exhaled slowly, eyes falling closed for a beat. He leaned against the kitchen counter. One at a time, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbow. When he opened his eyes again, they found you across the room, lingering, uncertain.

“Kids asleep?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that filled the cozy space between you.

You nodded in confirmation. “Out cold. Leo made me read Goodnight Moon twice. Quinn didn’t even last through the first time.”

“How many times does the moon need to be told ‘goodnight’?” Harry’s mouth quirked again, softer this time. “Must mean you tell the story in an enticing way.”

There was something in his gaze then—something heavier, quieter, something that lingered a little too long. You felt your skin prickle with awareness, a flush rising in your cheeks that you tried to ignore.

“They’re good kids, it’s the least I can do.” You said, your voice a little too bright, a little too quick. You stood, tucking your chair in, needing the motion to shake off the sudden, humming tension in the room.

“I-I, uh,” You swallowed as you looked at your laptop that was shut sitting next to you. “I should be writing a paper, actually. It’s due on Monday.”

Harry watched you then, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. The look on his face made it seem like had some thoughts in the back of his head.

Then he glanced over at you, almost shyly.

"You want a drink?" he asked, uncertainty in his voice as he didn’t look back up when you didn’t answer right away.

You blinked, surprised at his question. It wasn’t that it was unlike him to be friendly – he was one of the nicest bosses that you could have ever had. It was mostly because it was unlike him to be doing something other than putting himself in his office, shutting the door, and working until two A.M.

"I—" You glanced down at your laptop, the half-finished paper still glowing through the screen. "I probably should keep working..."

Harry’s mouth quirked, a half-smile that felt both boyish and unbearably tired.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the island. "It’s a nice night. We can sit outside. Just for a little while."

You hesitated — but the softness in his voice, the aching loneliness he didn’t even bother to hide, undid you. Something about thinking of him sitting out there alone, in the quiet garden that probably held too many memories, made you nod instead.

"Okay," you said quietly, giving him an encouraging smile.

Harry grabbed a second glass and poured you a measure of whiskey without waiting for confirmation on how much. You slipped your laptop onto the coffee table, accepting the drink he pressed into your hand when you went to receive it. His fingers brushed yours — a light, accidental touch — but it felt like something more.

The dark, tattooed circle on his ring finger always stood out to you, but you never asked.

He led the way through the French doors into the garden that sat off the living room.

The night air wrapped around you, thick and warm, rich with the smell of honeysuckle and something green and wild. Crickets sang somewhere off in the hedges as the warmth of the summer breeze had tickled your skin and left you with an ease. The fairy lights Harry had strung over the small stone patio twinkled overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow.

He slouched into one of the old wooden chairs, sprawling with all the boneless grace of a man who didn’t know how to relax but was trying to anyway.

You settled into the chair across from him, tucking your legs up beneath you. The whiskey glass was cool against your palm as you took another sip.

For a while, neither of you spoke – you stared up into the night sky, seeing the reds and pinks that summer brought to the atmosphere. You just sat there, breathing in the humid, fragrant night, the soft clink of his glass against the chair arm the only sound between you.

Harry broke the silence first. His voice different than usual as he stared at the whiskey glass that settled on the arm of the chair.

"You’re so good with them," he said, meaning Leo and Quinn. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it himself for admitting something he had kept to himself.

You shrugged, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "They make it easy. And it’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at your job, too."

His smile was faint at your own compliment, almost self-mocking. "Not always."

You glanced at him, catching the tightness around his mouth, the way his hands curled around the glass made your eyes want to stare, but your attentiveness made you look up.

There was a moment when you stopped and thought about your next words and if you should say them aloud. You bit on your lip as you tasted the whiskey with hints of vanilla and all-spice.

"You’re doing a good job, you know," you said. "They’re happy. They talk about you all the time.”

Harry made a soft sound — not quite a laugh. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the night sky.

"Some days I feel like I’m just...trying not to screw them up too badly," he said. "Trying to be two people at once, and trying to be present, do things with them. But I’m so glad that you’re around because I feel like… I don’t know, I feel like you’re just good at what you do and you’re good with them and they love you.”

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. It felt like he had been waiting for a long time to say those things to you.

"You’re more than enough," you said, not knowing what else to say to him. You didn’t know if it was the whiskey talking, or if there had been more on his mind. You sat with your heart open to allow him to know that everything would be okay – it was just a rough day. We all had them.

He turned his head, looking at you properly. The distance between your chairs felt smaller suddenly, like the air had shifted, pulling you closer as you sat under the lights in the garden.

Harry’s home had been your home for the past six months as you tried to make your way through medical schooling; you wanted to work with children, and you need to make a bit of extra cash. This was a job that was close to your school, staying in the area you wanted, and Harry was kind enough to try to work his schedule around yours just because you were so good at what you did.

There really hadn’t been a moment when it was the two of you like this, so you treasured it, in a way. You were happy to see this adult side of him – not the lawyer, not the father.

His eyes were dark in the low light, unreadable as he blinked staring at his glass tumbler that was starting to sweat with condensation. But something flickered there — something fragile and aching.

"You're kind," he said, voice low. "I don’t know if it’s true, but...thank you."

You smiled, sipping your drink to hide the sudden rush of heat to your cheeks. Harry tipped his own glass toward you slightly, a lazy sort of toast.

"To another day," he said.

You leaned forward a bit, making sure that you could clink your glass against his. "To another one."

The whiskey burned sweetly down your throat, settling low in your stomach as you took your sip. You leaned back in your chair, letting the wood help perch you up a bit.

Harry shifted in his chair, turning slightly toward you, his knee brushing the edge of your chair. The touch was casual, almost careless — but your body betrayed you, hyperaware of the small point of contact.

"You’ve really changed our lives," he said suddenly, voice rougher now. You could tell that he was having a thoughtful moment; he didn't know how to express it correctly, you could tell by his facial expression after he said it. "Having you here."

Your breath caught.

"Harry—" you started, but the words tangled.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling from his fingers. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt rumpled and open at the throat. He looked undone in a way that made your chest ache.

"I’m probably crossing a line just saying that," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth, he pushed away the comments just as easily as he made them. "I’m just tired. Ignore me."

But you couldn’t ignore him. The words settled between you, too heavy, too important.

"You’re not," you said softly. "Crossing a line, I mean."

He watched you carefully, like he wasn’t sure he believed you. Like he was waiting for you to push him back into his safe, professional box.

Instead, you shifted a little closer, your drink cradled loosely in your lap.

"It’s nice to just...talk," you said. "To be real with someone."

Harry's mouth twisted, something tender and pained flashing across his face.

"Not many people want the real version of me anymore," he said. "Just the lawyer. Or the dad," He paused for a moment, "Or the ex-husband. The...functioning adult."

You looked at him — really looked — and saw the man beneath all the roles he wore like armor.

"I like the real you," you said before you could stop yourself. "You've been very kind to me since I've been here, and I think sometimes we all just need a break from it all."

Biting your lip, you thought about the plans you had in the morning. You thought about how you were going to leave Harry on his own, taking the kids to the farmers market to shop for groceries for the weekend.

"Why don’t you take the kids to the farmers market in the morning? Maybe it would be good for you – just the three of you."

His eyes flew up to you, like he had been unsure of your intentions, so you interrupted his thought.

"I was going to take them because they had this tulip picking event – a bit selfish, because really the tulips were for my enjoyment," You found yourself starting to smile, "But if you want some alone time with the kids without me, don’t hesitate to ask."

You watched as he took in a breath, finally nodding at your request. "That would be really nice, actually. I probably do need that."

The air between you went very still.

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest, most dizzying second — then back up to your eyes. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it.

You stayed frozen, breath shallow, heart thudding so hard it drowned out the crickets, the soft hum of the garden lights.

He smiled then, slow and deliberate but almost shy, and leaned back in his chair, putting just enough space between you to let you breathe again.

"I should probably call it a night before I make a complete ass of myself and say something so regret," he said, voice warm and rough and fond. He downed the rest of his drink before you heard the ice clink against the glass.

You laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough to make your hands stop trembling around the glass.

"Okay,” You agreed, your voice a whisper in the warm dark.

Neither of you moved, though. Neither of you really wanted to – you weren't sure of why. There wasn’t a rush.

The air between you stayed charged, heavy and tender, even as Harry finally, reluctantly, pushed up from his chair.

He stretched his arms overhead, the hem of his shirt pulling just a little at his hips, before he dropped his arms and looked down at you, smiling in a way that made your stomach twist.

"You staying out here a little longer?" he asked.

You nodded, unable to find your voice. It had been a good idea to come out and get some warmth on your skin.

Harry hesitated like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe there was something he could say to untangle the complicated thing sparking between you — but whatever it was, he swallowed it down and shook his head, voting against it.

Instead, he simply said: "Goodnight, moon.”

Your breath hitched — not at the word itself, but the low, absent affection in it, like it had slipped out without thinking.

"Goodnight, Harry." You whispered.

He gave a small, almost pained smile — and then turned and went back inside, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

You stayed there long after his footsteps faded upstairs, the night humming gently around you, the taste of him still lingering somehow, though he hadn't even touched you.

You closed your eyes and leaned back in the chair, cradling the cooling whiskey glass in your lap, feeling the slow, aching bloom of something new — something dangerous — take root inside you.

THE NEXT DAY

The first thing you noticed when you woke was the sunlight that came in slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in pale gold. That was the peaceful thing that you noticed.

The second thing was the sound of the house alive around you, along with what had been going on downstairs. Small feet pattering across hardwood floors, the clatter of shoes being found, the low rumble of Harry's voice cutting through the chaos with patient authority.

"Jacket, Quinn. No, the green one. Leo, leave the dinosaur — please, bud. We don't need to bring that with us."

You smiled into the pillow as you laid on your stomach, stretching your limbs luxuriously, savoring the rare slow start to your morning.

The front door banged open and shut with a final thunk, followed by the muffled sound of tires crunching on the driveway gravel as they made their way away from the house.

Then, there was that sound. Silence.

You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The house, usually bustling, noisy, spilling over with half-finished crafts and impromptu pillow forts, was suddenly, blissfully still.

An unexpected, precious pocket of time all to yourself. You took in a deep breath as you found a bit of a thrill as you let your hand touch the lower side of your hip. Your fingertip slowly circled round, feeling the bone of it. Slowly, you let your hand caress the edge of your panties.

Shutting your eyes, you let your hand fall deeper underneath. The touch of your clitoris confirmed your need; it was sensitive and warm to the touch, needing the affection you had time to give.

All alone.

Then, all the sudden, you hear your name said aloud. Your eyes blink up and open; it had felt so real.

But it wasn’t real. The sound of the voice coursing through your thoughts was from him. It excited you – knowing that he was on your mind. But the total encapsulation of his being had turned you on, giving you a scare as you thought about what that could mean or why it happened in the first place.

You were sitting on your elbows, then. Wondering if you should continue with the thought of him. Licking your lips, you think about the way his hand wrapped around the whiskey tumbler– fingers delicate and and poised around the cold glass. You can imagine him flicking the water off his fingers, cold and with ease.

Your fingers dance around you, guiding your thoughts dirtier. Your fingers dive into you, letting out a gasp as you think about the feeling of his cold hands on your hot skin.

You think about the way that the tattoos on his chest dance along the neckline of his shirts, the forbidden heat of it driving you insane. Curling your fingers, you lift your legs to bend to give you further access inside of yourself. Your two fingers are pushing deeply in and out, missing the feeling when you pull out.

A gasp escapes your lips as you feel your two fingers in a way that excites you – it pleasures you too well. Your swollen and warm and filled with something that is not him.

But his voice echos in your head as you let your thoughts hang above you like they're watching you please yourself at just the thought of him. You palm your clit with the thought of his head dipping between your thighs, opening you, letting his tongue work on your clit a way that feel exhausting.

Your thoughts mimic a feeling of guilt as you can practically feel the flat of his tongue, eyes darting up to see your reaction at the surge of pleasure he allows you.

"Don’t stop," Your murmur to yourself, "Fuck, Harry– please."

You echo the words, murmurs, and whimpers alike. A feeling grabs ahold of you and pulls you onto the bed, forcing you to take a moment to feel the excitement that rushes through you at once.

You're pulsating around your fingers; your orgasm holding you hostage for a moment as you feel the comedown of the high that felt so momentarily strong.

A few moments of clarity were needed as you laid on the white sheets, feeling the warm summer sun come in through the windows. Your heartbeat falling back to normal, your breathing starting to come to a normalcy.

There was so much to unpack in just the small moment for yourself. A lot of questions, a lot of solitude was needed.

Without overthinking it, you pulled away your covers, stepping out of the bed The sun outside was shining high, you could feel the heat just from the window.

You decided that it may be nice to lay by the pool for a bit, since you have some time off this morning for yourself. The paper could wait — after the conversation with Harry last night, this would be good for you.

It took a moment to find, but once you did, you pulled on your swimsuit — a simple black two-piece, practical but flattering — and layered a loose linen button-up over it. The fabric, soft and worn from washing, hung almost to your mid-thighs to give you a good cover-up.

Barefoot, you padded downstairs, grabbing your thick paperback novel that had been sitting on the coffee table and a pair of sunglasses from the hall table where you left your purses and keys.

The back door creaked gently as you pushed it open.

Outside, the garden was bathed in the early summer light, the air already warming but still edged with a faint coolness in the shade. Bees floated lazily among the wisteria vines curling over the trellis, and somewhere nearby, a lawnmower buzzed faintly, already at work.

You crossed the flagstone patio and dropped into one of the lounge chairs with a satisfied sigh, tucking your legs underneath you and flipping open your book. The sun was hot – you could feel it on your skin as you laid there in the summer bliss.

The words swallowed you whole into a captivating space where time and troubles didn’t matter.

Hours slipped by, unnoticed. You read and sipped iced water from a sweating glass, shifting positions when the sun crept higher overhead, letting the heat seep into your skin. It had taken you for surprise every moment your drifted off into a sleep; you felt so at peace.

You were so absorbed in your comfort that you barely noticed the car pulling into the driveway on the other side of the stone wall until the faint sound of car doors slamming echoed down the side yard.

You straightened up, heart giving a small, startled flutter. It was almost like in that small timeframe; this had been your paradise. It was like you had forgotten where you were, or who you were living with.

A moment later, the gate door swung open — and Harry stepped on in.

You watched from down by the pool, unseen for a moment as you realized he had been dropping some items off by the gate.

He looked rumpled in the most achingly appealing way — sunglasses shoved up onto his head, hair mussed from the breeze. A bag of fresh produce was slung over one arm; his sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a looseness about him, a casualness you rarely saw after his long days at the firm.

His eyes lifted and found you almost instantly. For one suspended moment, everything froze. You knew that he didn’t expect to see you here, and why should he have? You weren’t one to sit by the pool, or enjoy your time off like this – you barely got time off, as it was.

The bags slipped slightly down his arm as he instinctively jerked to a stop, muscles tightening. His gaze, dark and unreadable, swept over you in one swift, stunned pass: the bare legs folded under you, the black triangle of your bikini top peeking through the loose, open buttons of your shirt, the lazy, sun-drunk way you lounged there with a novel half-forgotten in your lap.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. Maybe two as you drew in a breath. But you felt it like a physical touch, like static sparking in the heavy air between you.

Harry dragged his gaze away with a visible effort, dropping his eyes to the ground as if scorched by what he had seen. His jaw flexed, a faint pink rising over the stubble roughening his cheeks.

You snapped your book shut without thinking, heart hammering suddenly against your ribs.

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to say something normal, anything — when the kids burst through the garden-gated door behind him.

"Daddy! You have to show her!" Quinn shouted, her tiny sneakers slapping against the ground as she had followed him into the back gate.

You could tell that he hadn't planned for them to follow him, but he had lingered here too long, and they had not been caught.

Leo crashed into his thigh, clutching a brown paper bag like it was treasure.

Harry blinked, as if remembering where he was, and quickly stepped back to let them through. Quinn ran straight to you, a bundle of something crumpled and colorful clutched in her small hands.

"We got you flowers!" She said, breathless with excitement. She thrust them into your lap: reds and yellows spilled out from the paper.

You looked down: tulips, slightly battered from the ride home, their bright heads bobbing on long green stems. Your chest squeezed thinking of your conversation last night and the way he had thought of your disappointment possibly missing out on the tulip festival.

When you look up, you see Harry standing against the gate with a dimpled smile on his face as he watched his children shower you with affection.

"They're beautiful, sweetheart," You said, your voice quiet as you realized you had even really spoken to anyone yet today. You reached out and smoothed Quinn’s hair away from her forehead, smiling. "Thank you."

Leo tugged on your sleeve, brandishing his prize, a small jar of golden honey sealed with a checkered cloth lid.

"Real honey," he said proudly. "We saw the bees and everything!"

"Actual bees," Quinn emphasized, nodding gravely as if her brother could have been kidding, and she needed you to know that.

“As opposed to, you know," Harry stated afterwards, "Fake bees."

With a humorous tone, you stare at him with a smirk, both of your eyes covered by sunglasses. His hands pushed into the pockets of his shorts that came up midthigh, a hat on his head shielded him from the sun.

You laughed, scooping Leo up into your lap without thinking, tucking him against your side as you inspected the jar. His hair was warm and sun-smelling under your chin.

You felt Harry's gaze on you again but it was different this time; heavier this time, lingering.

Something about the way you sat there, barefoot, and golden in the morning sun, arms full of his children, your laugh spilling easily into the bright air… it may have given his heart a ping of something.

He cleared his throat roughly, going to grab at the gate door that had shut behind him.

"I'll, uh," he said, voice hoarse, "grab the rest of the stuff from the car." He disappeared outside before you could answer.

You watched the door swing gently in his wake, your heart still thudding unevenly against your ribs. You couldn’t deny what had passed between you — whatever invisible current had snapped taut across the sunlit garden.

And now, sitting there with the kids chattering excitedly around you, you realized two things with startling clarity: one, Harry was fighting with the idea that you loved his children. And two, you were starting to realize that sense too.

“C’mon, you two,” You say to the kids; Quinn has started to look through the novel you had sitting out but knowing that she couldn’t understand the words made you smile. “Let’s go help your daddy, hm?”

They scrambled ahead of you barefoot, little feet slapping across the hot stone that was baking under the unusually warm England sun, as they darted back into the house from the French doors. You followed at an easier pace, pausing just long enough to brush your damp hair off your neck from when you had taken a dip in the pool earlier to cool off, the thin straps of your bathing suit still just a bit dewy but practically dry. Your cover-up, a gauzy thing that barely reached mid-thigh, fluttered behind you as the breeze filtered through the door.

Harry was just pulling a crate from the boot of the car and into the house when he caught sight of you coming in through the kitchen

His hand faltered slightly on the box.

He hadn’t expected the way the sunlight would frame you like that, haloing your hair, catching the edge of your smile as the kids crowded around his legs to help. His daughter tugged at a canvas bag that he had sat inside and not fully bringing into the kitchen, insisting she was strong enough to carry it herself. Leo squealed with excitement when you bent to lift a carton of strawberries, your cover-up gaping slightly at the neckline as you moved.

Harry tore his gaze away, and grabbed at the list he didn’t really need in his pocket to make sure that he had gotten everything on it.

“Thanks,” He said when you stepped past him with a crate tucked in your arms. He caught the scent of your sunscreen—warm coconut and saltwater—and something else, something that made him dizzy for a beat too long.

“Of course,” You murmured, your voice easy, unaware—or pretending to be, at least.

In the kitchen, the kids were already unpacking the groceries with great ceremony, piling vegetables onto the kitchen counter in chaotic towers as they took one by one out. You joined them, setting down the crate and reaching for a peach to inspect, your fingers brushing the soft fuzz of it thoughtfully.

Harry brought in the last of the bags. He moved slower now, like he didn’t quite trust himself to get too close. But when he stepped up beside you and saw you standing there barefoot, tan legs bare beneath your cover-up, backlit in the window light—he knew he was in trouble.

“Do you want help with making lunch?” You asked, turning to him. Your lips curved gently, like you knew exactly how he was looking at you and weren’t afraid to let him.

He blinked, taken off guard by your question. “Yeah—uh, yeah, sure. I was thinking something easy. Sandwiches maybe?”

“That’s perfect,” You said, already reaching for the bread.

You moved around him like it was natural. You always had, he realized. Slipping past him in narrow spaces with a hand lightly grazing his back that usually felt like fire on him or brushing his forearm when you passed him the kettle, or leaning just slightly into him when the kids were being rowdy and you both needed a moment of shared silence. It was always small. Subtle.

But now… he was noticing all of it. There was no subtly, it was just happening.

He opened the fridge while you chopped tomato slices. And when you leaned over to grab a plate from the cabinet, the hem of your cover-up lifted just enough to show the curve of your upper thigh, the dark tie of your bikini bottom flashing against your skin. He made the mistake of looking.

Then you caught him; he looked practically ill.

You turned your head slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. “Is everything okay?”

His throat felt dry as he shrugged and tried to play off the behavior. “Yeah. Yeah, just… making sure I’ve got enough…” He trailed off, looking at the list, almost like he hadn’t known what to respond with.

Your heart beat faster at the way he seemed… nervous. You smirked faintly but didn’t press him, only went back to slicing vegetables with quiet focus.

He stood beside you, trying to concentrate on the sandwiches, but every time your arm brushed his, every time your hip nudged his as you both reached for the same cutting board, he felt like the floor might tilt under him. It was unbearable and addictive all at once—the domesticity of it, the small sweetness of this moment that looked, from the outside, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He couldn’t remember what this feeling was, it had been too long since he had felt the draw of someone’s presence. Not with the same ache, the same hesitation. The need was one thing. But the softness of it? The rightness of it? That was new.

You handed him a finished plate with a horizontally cut sandwich, and your fingers touched—longer than necessary. And this time, neither of you pulled away quickly.

From the table, Leo called out, “Are you done yet? I’m starving!”

“Leo, be polite.” Harry stated back at him, acknowledging that the toddler had been a bit rude.

You smiled, breaking the tension, and pulled away to finish assembling the food.

Harry didn’t say a word. But when he caught your profile in the corner of his eye, the dip of your neck, the curve of your shoulder where your cover-up had slipped slightly off, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away fast, chest tight.

Lunch was mostly a noisy affair, as it usually was with little voices bouncing off the walls. The kids sat perched around the kitchen table, chomping on peach slices and crustless sandwiches. You sat beside Leo, wiping mustard from his chin with the corner of a napkin, while Harry stood at the sink rinsing out the tomato-streaked wooden cutting board.

It had almost settled into a rhythm until Quinn suddenly piped up between bites of cheese that she had strategically picked from her sandwich.

“Daddy, when is Mummy coming this year?” The words landed with a thud in the air. Heavy and unexpected. You tried not to make a deal of it, but you had to glance at Harry to catch his reaction to her very innocent question.

Harry froze, hands still under the running water. You glanced at him instinctively and saw his shoulders tense—not a flinch, exactly, but a tightening, like he was bracing himself to give her an answer.

“She said maybe she’d come for the fireworks last time,” Quinn continued, oblivious, swinging her feet under the table. You didn’t exactly know what that meant – a promise made between her and her mother.

Leo looked up from his half-eaten sandwich, interested now. “Yeah, she missed them last year.”

You sat still, carefully quiet.

At the sink, Harry let the tap run another second too long before turning it off abruptly. The silence that followed was too sharp for the easy sunlit mood you’d all just been sitting in, and you felt a shift in the air.

He dried his hands on a dish towel slowly. Then, with a voice that was just a little too calm, he said, “We’ll see, love.”

Quinn frowned at his nonresponse. “But—”

“Let’s not worry about that today, alright?” Harry said, just a touch firmer now. He turned to face them, towel clenched in one hand. “I don’t know all the answers, but I do know you need to finish your lunch so we can continue with our day.”

The kids quieted, sensing the edge to his voice even if they didn’t understand it. Quinn looked down at her plate, nudging a slice of the fallen tomato with her thumb. Leo murmured something about the boat that they had gone on a few weeks ago with Harry’s family and went back to eating.

You felt the air shift like a tide pulling away. Harry caught your eyes across the kitchen. Just for a second. There was something there—something raw and tired and older than the man who’d been smiling moments ago. A look that said: Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

You never did, and you weren’t going to start. But you did know that it seemed to be off limits.

Instead, you wiped Leo’s hands, gathered the empty plates, and stacked them with soft efficiency.

“I’ll take care of this,” you said gently, your voice low but light. “Why don’t you go and get their swimsuits on, and I’ll clean up here.”

“Go swimming?” The kids both perked up again at the mention of it and slid off their chairs after they had their plates removed, already halfway down the hall. Leo followed, dragging a half-eaten peach in one hand.

When they were gone, you placed the dishes in the sink beside Harry who had not made an effort to follow the kids to their rooms, careful to keep your movements quiet. You didn’t want to crowd him, but you didn’t want to leave either.

He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling roughly as if in thought. “She calls when she wants to. Sends gifts. Postcards.” He laughed, short and bitter. “And somehow they still think she might show up and make jam tarts like she used to.”

You said nothing, just rinsed the plates slowly. You knew that listening was the best you could do right now, so that’s what you did.

“It’s been nearly a year,” He added, quieter now. “But I’m still the bad guy if I say she won’t come.”

You glanced at him, turning the sink off. “You’re not the bad guy.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and there was something like gratitude swimming behind the guarded frustration in his face. Something tired and real.

“I didn’t- I don’t mean to get sharp with them,” He murmured. “It’s just… every time they ask, it sets me back. I think I’ve moved on. That I’ve built something steady for them. But then it all just… it builds up. I hate that their only memory of her is going to be the times she didn’t show up.”

“I get it,” you said gently. “You’re trying to hold it all together. It’s okay to be tired of the cracks, and for trying your best.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, drying his hands again even though they weren’t wet. You were close now—only a few inches of space between you. The hum of the ceiling fan, the distant seagulls outside.

“Kids hold onto the hope that things might go back to how they were.” You tell him, leaning against the counter.

He let out a humorless breath at that, shaking his head. “Yeah. Except she’s off in Provence or Cannes or wherever, living in some gated house, and sending ‘love from Mum’ in cursive on postcards from places she’s been that they’ve never even heard of before.”

You stayed quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because it felt like he just needed to say it aloud. Needed someone to hear him for once. The way he opened to you wasn’t shocking – Harry was quiet an emotional man, you could tell that he had a lot being carried on his shoulders, but he never opened up to you the way he had been.

It was just someone to listen and to not judge him.

“She left a year and a half ago,” he said, still holding the towel in his hands. “Didn’t want this life anymore. Said she felt stuck. That she wanted to be ‘a woman again,’ not just a mother.”

Your stomach turned a little, not knowing how a mother leaves her children. You didn’t want to judge, but your impression had already soured. You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head as you listened.

“She married again to a – I don’t know, CEO of something somewhere. They live in luxury. Not that I didn’t try, not that I didn’t give her all of this,” Harry looked around the spectacular Hamstead home that had accommodations far greater than just the four of us that lived there. “She just didn’t want… responsibility. She wasn’t meant to be a mother, and I do feel that maybe I,” He paused, “Maybe I coaxed her into it. Like, she only did it for me.”

His voice was softer when he said, “Some days, I think I’ve forgiven her. Other days, I look at Quinn when she asks about her mum, and I just—” His jaw clenched. “I get angry.”

“She’s allowed to miss her mum,” you said gently. “But you’re allowed to feel angry, too, especially when your resentment is so high. You’ve been showing up. Every single day. That counts for something – the kids will remember that and see that. They will hold resentment too, but they will grow up understanding who was there for them.”

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice low. “For not making it a thing. With them… or me.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile as you thought of the times that Quinn would ask you questions you didn’t know answers to, so you would deflect. Harry looked at you then with something new in his eyes—soft, searching, a question he didn’t quite dare ask.

And just for a second, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to reach up, thread your fingers through the edge of his T-shirt, and kiss him right there in the middle of the kitchen. To drop the pretense.

But you didn’t. Because the kids were down the hall, and because Harry was still trying to figure out how to let someone in again. So instead, you bumped his shoulder gently with yours and said, “Come on, let’s go make sure that peach Leo was holding doesn’t end up in a bed somewhere.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Goddamn kids.”

You laughed, and it broke the tension just enough.

But the look in his eyes lingered—long after you left the kitchen, long after the kids had rallied for their towels and snacks and toys.

It clung to the warm corners of the day like something unsaid but undeniable.

Later that night, bathtime was always a bit of a circus in the house, especially when you didn’t have help. But tonight it felt even more chaotic, their sun-soaked energy bubbling over in the form of shrieks and slippery limbs.

Harry was also here – a lot of the times, he was at the office or working late, which is why you were there to help. He often came home in the middle of bathtime, getting a run down from the kids on the day and how they were doing while trying to eat his dinner as he stood in the doorway while you worked.

But tonight was different – tonight, you two worked as a team, each of you taking a kid and spending time with them. Leo had somehow managed to dump half a bottle of bubble bath into the tub before you’d even turned on the tap. Now the bathtub was just a sea of foam, the scent of orange blossom rising in the warm air.

You sat on the edge of the tub, shorts damp at the edges, scrubbing Leo’s feet gently while he chattered about how he was going to be “the biggest shark” in the pool tomorrow. Harry was toweling Quinn’s hair, his forearms flexing with the motion, tattoos slick and shining from the steam and water. You had to look away.

Or rather—you tried to, but kept noticing how they stuck out around the tight t-shirt he was sporting.

All afternoon, you’d caught flashes of him in the pool: tossing Leo effortlessly into the air as the boy shrieked with joy, letting Quinn ride on his shoulders during splash fights, his own laughter echoing off the garden walls. The sun had traced golden lines across his skin, catching on the wet curve of his neck and shoulders, the faint pink of a sunburn spreading across his back and cheeks.

And the tattoos—how they shifted and twisted with each movement. You’d noticed the faint trail of water dripping down his ribs, over the anchor inked on his wrist, and how your fingers itched to touch them. Not for the first time.

“I think the bubbles are trying to eat me!” Leo shouted, thrashing like a sea creature, and spilling water over the edge of the tub.

“They’ve claimed you,” Harry declared dramatically. “There’s nothing we can do now – you’re lost in the sauce, brother.”

Quinn dissolved into laughter again, slipping off the towel pile in her giggles as she made her way into her bedroom, Harry following.

By the time both kids were dried, lotioned, and wriggling into their pajamas, it was nearly nine. Harry read to them on Quinn’s bed—something about a traveling mouse—and you sat in the hallway, folding towels from the laundry, as you listened to him read. His voice was low, soft around the edges, full of patience and presence especially when the kids would interrupt with questions.

You heard him wrapping up with the story, both receiving a kiss goodnight; Quinn getting a forehead kiss, Leo a noisy cheek one. Harry soon made his way into the hallway and closed the door behind him softly after saying his goodnights.

You turned toward Harry. He stood just a few steps away, one hand on the back of his neck, his own hair still a little damp.

“They adore you,” You said, your voice quiet in the hush.

“I adore them,” he replied, then added, “and they adore you.”

The air shifted. Like the stillness before a thunderstorm, the pressure obliterating.

You started walking toward the kitchen, meaning to clean up the dinner dishes you’d abandoned earlier, but he followed, falling into step beside you. You had wondered if he had something else to do, to leave you to your job. Neither of you said much as you wiped down counters and stacked plastic plates. Your bodies moved in sync, brushes of skin here and there—a shared space carved out of routine.

You bent to load the dishwasher and felt his presence behind you before you turned into him. Straightening, you found him watching you again.

You didn’t know which of you moved first. Only that one second the air was thick between you, and the next, his mouth was on yours.

It was a soft kiss. Cautious, at first. Just a press, a seeking acknowledgement of being felt. Then, it deepened. Just enough that you felt the tenseness in your shoulders fall.

His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, his thumb grazing your cheek as he kissed you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—but couldn’t help it anyway. You tasted the remnants of toothpaste on his lips, the faintest hint of fresh watermelon from earlier, and something else entirely—desire, long-hushed and finally slipping free.

You kissed him back, stunned by how easy it was. How right it felt as you tilted your neck to meet his lips.

Almost like a light switch had turned on, he pulled away – fast.

“Shit,” he muttered, shutting his eyes at the acknowledge; as soon as your eyes met when he pulled away, it was like you were on fire and he was touching you with bare hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—fuck.”

“Harry—”

“No, I know. That was… that was stupid. I crossed a line.”

You blinked, still catching your breath – he wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t want to make him feel worse. You participated; you didn’t end it – you didn’t stop him. You didn’t… want him to stop. “It wasn’t stupid.”

He ran a hand through his hair, backing a step away from you like it might undo what had just happened, or both of you might just forget it.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said. “I can’t… I shouldn’t blur things. You’re here for the kids, and I’m—Christ, I’m a mess, and I just—”

You stepped forward this time, your voice gentle but firm as you go to touch him, but he flinches at the way your fingers grace him. “Harry.”

He looked at you then, eyes filled with panic and something else—something raw and vulnerable like he feels so conflicted with how he is responding.

“I- it may have been a mistake, but,” you said. “Whatever that was… it didn’t feel like a mistake.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, breathing hard. But when he finally nodded, slow and quiet, you saw it in his eyes: the want. The fear. The pull.

The storm had been coming for a while. That kiss was just the first crack of thunder, and you were feeling the effects of the downpour.

You watch as he threads his hands through his hair, leaning against the counter. The way that he starts to fall into an oblivion of dissociation from his thoughts, you worry that he’s going to spiral.

The kitchen was still, filled with the soft hum of the dishwasher and the sound of your breathing. You stood across from him, heart skittering from the kiss and the way he’d pulled away — not because he hadn’t wanted it, but because he had. He had wanted it so badly that he crossed the invisible line to get it.

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting around the room as if searching for something to ground himself.

You didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I’m – I really am sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “That was—impulsive. I didn’t plan it.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”

He glanced up at you, trying to fidget with whatever he can get his hands on as if you will see his hands shake with adrenaline.

“I just…” he trailed off, exhaling hard through his nose. “You make it too easy. Being around you. It’s like I forget how complicated it is.”

Your brows lifted gently, curiosity tugging at your features. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, “I mean—this house. The routines. The mess. Bath time and sunblock and tantrums and grocery runs. It’s all supposed to be exhausting and a bit miserable in some capacity, right?” His lips curled faintly, staring down at his hands that were now wrapped up in an excess tea towel, “But when you’re here, it just… it’s better. Feels like I’m not doing it alone.”

You felt that—deep in your chest. A tight, warm pinch of something unsaid.

“I like the way things feel with you,” he continued, his voice raw now like it had been crafted by professionals, like the truth had worn down any resistance he had left. “Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff. You make it—”

“Easier?” You offered quietly.

He nodded once, then a few times as if he thought of all the times that you had been there when it was hard, each one running through his mind. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, yes—but with something tender. Something on the verge of spilling. You crossed your arms, mirroring him, your hip leaning against the island. “And that’s what’s confusing you?”

He sighed, running a hand along his jaw in thought, resting his head in his hand now. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to want with you,” he admitted, words very clear and concise as if he was placing jigsaw pieces and not wanting to force them, “You’re here because I hired you. You take care of my children. You live in my house. I don’t want to be—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, almost in a bit of disgust.

You tilted yours, stepping closer. “You don’t want to be what?”

He looked at you then, really looked. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse. “I don’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of the girl he hired to help keep his life from falling apart – it’s,” He grimaced, “It’s not who I am, and I don’t want you to get the impression of that. Really.”

Your stomach twisted. “Harry,” you said gently. “That’s not what this is.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to your mouth, your bare legs with the summer sun-kiss on them from sitting out in the sun all day. “I want it to be more. But I don’t know how to let it be that without blurring everything.”

Your voice was quiet but certain in how you came to this conclusion. “Lines are only useful if they’re helping. But if they’re just keeping you from something good, then… maybe they need to be redrawn.”

Harry looked at you like you’d just opened a door he didn’t know he was allowed to walk through.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, with all of the honesty he could. “Not carefully. Not slowly.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “You don’t have to know everything right now. You just have to be honest.”

You were standing directly in front of him now; leaning against the island as he leaded against the countertops. The space between you now was warm, charged again.

“I think about you,” he admitted, “When I’m rinsing Leo’s cereal bowl. When I’m folding Quinn’s pajamas. When I walk into a room and you’re already there, barefoot, humming something under your breath. It’s like—this house… doesn’t feel empty anymore.”

That one hit you deep. You swallowed; throat suddenly tight at the thought of his loneliness being the culprit. It was one thing to let his mind and body talk, but knowing that it was because he just longed for the security of a partner made you feel touched.

“And that... scares me,” he added, voice low and honest as he came to that conclusion. “Because I’m not used to things feeling good and lasting.”

You nodded slowly, trying to understand where he was coming from. “I’m not asking for forever right now, Harry. I just need truth and honesty, and maybe we just…” You trailed off, shrugging, “We take this as it comes.”

The smile that crossed his face caught you off guard, it was showing his dimples that you knew were hereditary just in the way that his smile replicated Quinn’s perfectly. There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks, “The truth is, I want to kiss you again,” he said. “But I won’t. And like you said, we’ll take it as it comes.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You made the first move, stepping just forward until you were close enough to hear his breath in the quiet space. His breath hitched, and for a long moment, it felt like the world was suspended in that space between intention and action.

But he didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said, voice barely audible.

And just like that, the moment folded back into the quiet hum of the house again. But the charge—that didn’t go anywhere.

When you both padded up the stairs, your fingers still linked, it wasn’t about pretending anymore. It was about the start of something quietly, fiercely real but in the most uncommon of instances.

Harry stopped just outside your bedroom door, still holding your hand like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you watched the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile.

“So…” he said, eyes flicking toward the door behind you, “this is your stop.”

You blinked at him, confused for a second — until you caught the playful tilt of his voice. “Are you—are you pretending this is a first date?”

He gave a dramatic shrug, leaning a shoulder against the hallway wall. “What can I say? Feels like I should walk you to your apartment. Make sure you got in okay. Maybe kiss you on the front stoop, ask when I’ll see you again,” He bit his lip, “I want to take things slow but I have to imagine it this way rather than you just already living with me.”

A breath of laughter left your chest before you could help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and the moment slowed, grew heavier. When he leaned in, it was hesitant, like he was asking you to meet him halfway – he was still redrawing those lines.

And so, you did.

The kiss was soft — just the brush of lips, careful and steady, the kind of kiss that lingered long after it was over. There was no rush, no battle for control. Just quiet confirmation that whatever was happening between you had already begun.

When he pulled back, he looked almost dazed, like it had completely changed his perspective. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

You slipped inside your room, closing the door gently behind you. But long after your head hit the pillow that night, you could still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, and you hoped that the phantom touch would haunt you just a little longer.

THE NEXT MORNING

You woke slowly the next morning, the kind of slow that only came after a long, sun-soaked day and a night full of soft, lingering touches and unspoken truths. The sheets were warm against your skin, the pillow still holding the faintest trace of Harry’s cologne – your mind may have just been playing tricks on you. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, as if your body had finally relaxed after weeks of holding tension.

Somewhere downstairs, you heard the faint clang of a pan, followed by the sound of laughter — light and bubbling, the kind that cracked your chest open and made you want to smile without thinking. Afterall, your job was to get the kids up, get them ready for their day.

But the past couple days, you had slept in. you had been given a break from all of that.

You slipped from bed, wrapping your robe around you loosely, bare feet padding softly over the cool wooden floor. The light filtering in through the windows was syrupy gold, lazily stretching across the hallway in slanted lines. You followed the scent first — warm butter, something sweet, something citrusy, and the unmistakable richness of coffee.

When you reached the kitchen, you stopped in the doorway. Time slowed.

Harry stood at the stove, barefoot, in purple shorts and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and arms in a way you couldn’t quite ignore. His curls were a little messy — like he’d run a hand through them too many times — and he had a spatula in one hand, a steadying palm on Leo’s back with the other.

Leo had his knees on the stool as he sat in front of the stove, eyes wide and focused, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he gripped his own tiny spatula like it was a sword. Quinn hovered nearby in her pajamas, as she watched them from her spot sitting on the counter.

“You see those bubbles?” Harry asked, pointing to the pan, “That means it’s almost ready. Gotta be patient. The flip’s all about timing.”

“Now?” Leo asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

Harry smiled at his son’s impatience, “Few more seconds,” He watched as the little boy struggled with keeping it together before Harry nodded at him to act, “Okay, go on.”

Leo flipped the pancake clumsily and unevenly, but it made it onto the pan — and let out a triumphant yell at he did so. Quinn squealed, clapping, and Harry laughed, tilting his head back.

It hit you, then, the vision of him there, eyes soft with pride, his children giggling around him — the warmth of domesticity seeping into every corner of the kitchen. He looked like he belonged there. Like this was his favorite version of himself.

And then… you saw them.

Tulips.

A fresh bouquet — soft pinks and whites and yellows — tucked into a simple glass vase beside the sink, where the morning light caught the edges of the petals and made them glow. Just beneath them sat two coffee mugs. Steam was curling from the tops of them as if they were freshly poured.

Harry looked up just then, catching you standing there. He stilled, biting on the inside of his cheek.

For a moment, it was just the two of you in the space between that look — his eyes raking down your robe, soft at the edges, knotted loose around your waist. Your hair falling around your shoulders. Your smile barely formed. His entire face softened at your presence. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched like he might want to.

“Morning,” you finally said, voice scratchy as you just woke up.

“Morning,” he murmured, gaze still holding you like something precious.

Leo turned, squealing. “We’re making pancakes! Daddy’s teaching us how to flip them!”

“He said we’re officially his pancake assistants,” Quinn added, nodding solemnly.

You stepped further into the warmth of the room, the floor cool beneath your toes as you reached for your mug. Harry passed it to you before you could reach, already fixed the way you liked it with a caramel color indicating he added creamer. Your fingers brushed his as he passed on the mug. The touch lingered — enough to send heat curling low in your belly again, like last night hadn’t fully settled.

“Thank you,” you said softly, glancing toward the tulips.

His eyes followed yours. “We thought you might like them.”

You didn’t have words for that — for how simple it was, and yet how deeply it rooted itself under your skin.

He turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake with practiced ease, letting the kids chatter around him. You stood at the counter, sipping the warm, rich coffee, watching him — the tattoos swirling down his arm as he reached for a plate, the way he leaned down to ruffle Leo’s curls, how he facilitated when Quinn spilled a bit of batter on her pajamas.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he spoke to the kids to meet their needs, but also to navigate their feelings and help them understand the world around them. The way the kitchen had tulips and coffee and warmth and him in it.

You realized, suddenly, that you hadn’t felt this safe in years. He caught you looking again and smiled.

And you knew — just by the way his shoulders dropped, the easy way he moved toward you — that the night before hadn’t been a fluke; it was just built-up feelings that he had needed to express on how easy this life was. That something had shifted. That you weren’t imagining the way his hand had hovered near yours all morning.

That there was more coming. And it would be slow. And tender. And full of moments just like this one.

Fresh flowers, and all.

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