Ted Lasso has been shaving since he was seven years old (well, he was rubbing shaving foam onto his cheeks and wiping it off with the handle of his hairbrush while he stood next to his father, but the point stands).
It’s a daily act of self-care, a moment for him to stare himself in the mirror, take deep breaths, and shape the person he wants to be that day--literally.
Rebecca, it turns out, is equally as fascinated with this daily ritual. She watches him carefully from her side of the vanity, mouth foaming with toothpaste as she finishes brushing her teeth and watches him fill the sink basin with warm water and lay out his razor and foam.
“Can I do that?”
The request seems to surprise them both and he blinks at her in surprise. “You want to do what?”
She spits out the last of her toothpaste and dabs at her mouth demurely, time used to cover the slight pink in her cheeks. He’s touched every inch of her body, heard her hiss filthy demands in his ears, and she’s seen him come apart while he’s buried inside of her, but this-- this --makes her blush.
Rebecca sidles over to him, insinuates herself between him and the bathroom counter and he automatically puts his hands on her hips, a new second-nature instinct he’s no longer fighting.
Her fingertips dance along his stubbled jaw and tickle his mustache before brushing over his lips, fingers spreading over his cheek to cup his jaw. "Let me?”
His mouth goes a little dry and his heart races. He’s still learning how to let go, how to let others care for him, how to lose control and trust in those around him to catch him if he stumbles. There’s no one he trusts more than the woman in his arms, the one who has become such an integral part of his life.
He nods and is rewarded with a soft kiss and a murmured, “ Thank you.”
She perches herself on the edge of the bathroom counter, just needs to barely lift herself onto her tip toes and settle back given her height.
“Come here,” she sighs out affectionately, pulling him between her legs by his worn and thread-bare Kansas City BBQ shirt (the one she normally steals on his away games--the sort of thing she never thought she’d catch herself doing, preferring silk to cotton, but as is always the case with Ted, he is the exception).
"Don't go shaving my mustache now," he warns playfully, hands splaying and settling atop her thighs, squeezing gently.
"Wouldn't dream of it.”
(He knows she wouldn’t, not when he knows she likes the way her skin reddens when he gets particularly focused on one area of her body--her neck, her thighs, the inside of her knee.)
A thick tension permeates the room as she gently lathers up the shaving cream and spreads it over his cheeks, her fingers strong and sure and certain and gentle. It’s the gentleness that surprises him, the act of such deliberate care. Something warm and heavy settles in his chest as he finds himself the focus of her attention, each act an act for him .
“Okay?” she asks, dipping her hands into the water to rinse the foam off. He nods, unable to speak past the lump in his throat, unable to explain that this one simple act--something no one has ever done for him--is slowly undoing him.
She touches his abdomen, a fluttering moment of reassurance and contact, and it makes him suck in a breath, makes him shuffle imperceptibly closer. She keeps her palm flat on his belly with one hand as the other reaches for the razor, dipping it into the sink and shaking it off. The combination of her manicured hand wrapping around the cool metal has him feeling off-kilter and aroused.
With her tongue between her teeth in concentration, she carefully drags the razor down his cheek. He shivers unexpectedly, the combination of sharp metal, warm water, and the knowledge that it is Rebecca taking care of him in such a simple way hitting him all at once.
His cock twitches in his pants when she leans forward, her breath hitting his freshly smooth skin, and he gets a whiff of her shampoo as she repeats the motion over and over again: razor, rinse, shave. The hand on his stomach stays there, anchoring him to this moment, her fingers curling into the soft fabric and bunching the material, nails scratching against him.
He sucks in a sharp breath at the unexpected surge of arousal he feels, needs to touch her and tightens his hands on her thighs.
"Ted?" she asks worriedly, fingertips probing at his cheek, looking for cuts. "Did I nick you?"
Ted swallows hard, shakes his head; too embarrassed to admit the simple act of her shaving him is making him hard and needy and desperate to touch her.
"No, no, I'm fine.” He can hear the roughness in his voice, can hear the lowness. “You're doing great. K-keep going."
She gives him a look, like she can hear the neediness, the desperation for her to not stop, but nods, continuing. Once more, she shakes the razor into the pool of warm water in the basin. Again, the drag of the razor excites him and when she nudges at his jaw to encourage him to look up, exposing his neck to her, he groans softly.
"Just--uh--enjoying this more than I thought."
Rebecca’s eyes drift to where he is now fully hard, cock straining against the front of his sweats. He sees her mouth open, her breath come a little more shallowly. "Sorry," he mumbles, embarrassed. "Just feels good, can’t quite explain it myself."
She kisses a patch of freshly shaved skin near his Adam's apple and the simple pressure, the gentle touch, makes him jerk forward, hissing.
"Don't be sorry for that, Ted. Let me take care of you,” she insists softly, trailing her fingertips over his neck and shoulders and jaw. He shivers, wills himself to let go, to let her catch him as he falls apart in her arms.
In between swipes of the razor, Rebecca occasionally dips her hand between their bodies, strokes her palm over this cock, squeezes and palms him in a way that makes him shudder and shake. "This seems like a safety hazard," he rasps, eyeing the razor in her hand.
"Don't you trust me?"
She maneuvers the blade around his jawline, takes care of the last few swipes of shaving cream, leaving his face clean-shaven save for his mustache which she swipes at with the pad of her thumb.
Ted grabs her wrist, stopping her motions, eyes dark, intense and serious. "I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever known, Rebecca."
His hands slide up her wrists and forearms, press into the sculpted muscles of her arms and shoulders and settle on either side of her face. He presses his forehead against hers, just breathes her in and tries to calm his racing heart and mind, the way he feels out of control and small and vulnerable and—
The razor clatters to the counter as shaving is forgotten, her mouth pressing against his eagerly, sloppily. He groans against her, his tongue brushing against hers, hands ghosting over her body—grazing over the curves of her breasts and hips and thighs, pushes them apart and pulls her to the edge of the counter, fingers dipping and pushing at the waistband of her sleep shorts to touch her.
Rebecca’s hands mirror his, curling against him and tugging at his shirt, pushing it up and getting her skin against his, nails scratching through the hair on his stomach and chest, dancing back down to loosely cup his cock, hot and heavy and thick in her hand.
“Fuck,” he pants against her, mouth latching onto her shoulder, nuzzling her shirt out of the way. When his teeth graze the jut of her collarbone, she groans, drops her forehead to his shoulder and strokes at him while he works her up into an equal state of frenzy—not that she’s far behind him, can feel herself wet and ready.
“Here?” she asks, pushing at his sweatpants and scooting forward to the edge of the counter, legs spreading for him.
He grins wolfishly at her and for a moment, she is breathless at the sight of him: hair wrecked and mussed from sleep and her own fingers, cheeks smooth from her earlier care with the razor, chest heaving and the pulse in his neck pounding. She did that to him.
“Bedroom’s next door,” Ted reminds her, eyes dark and blown wide with a reckless desire. With confidence, he drags his hand down her body, settles it between her legs and easy pushes the fabric of her shorts and panties aside, slides his thick fingers through her folds where she’s almost embarrassingly wet and ready.
“Too far,” she murmurs, kissing him frantically and pushing his sweats down around his ankles. “Now.”
Everything after that is a frenzied rush—he grasps her hips and pulls her to the edge of the counter, has just enough leverage to slide into her, both of them pausing and gasping at the sensation of coming together. Her legs—long and lean and smooth and beautiful—wrap around his waist, those manicured hands, the ones who so expertly, deftly, gently wielded his razorblade, now dig into his back, urge him closer as she pants in his ear, “Yes, there. There. Fuck me.”
He buries his face into her neck, licks a stripe there and grazes his teeth against the tendons straining beneath the skin, thrusts in and out of her, savors the feeling of her heels pressing against his lower back, her breasts pressing to his chest, the feel of her body slick and hot against his.
Her fingers scratch at his back and shoulders, slip up into his hair and tug gently, cradling him against her, encouraging him to plaster himself to her body. She clenches around him as he fucks her, tightens her muscles around him and grins, pleased with herself, when his rhythm stutters.
“Almost there,” he pants, nuzzling at her jaw and ear, mustache tickling her skin.
“Me too. Me too.”
Ted’s thumb dips between their bodies, presses against her clit and rubs in quick, tight circles that has her jerking against him, groaning and keening. When they come—Ted first and Rebecca right after—they slump against each other, Rebecca’s legs still wrapped around his waist, Ted’s palms smoothing over her thigh and knee and calf.
He catches his breath, eyes screwed tight, the aftershocks still rushing through him, overwhelming him. Rebecca’s lips brushed along his hairline and over his cheeks and smooth cheeks. “You’re alright,” she soothes, hands running through his hair and cradling him against her. “I’ve got you.”
“I—” He pulls back, kisses her softly but can’t quite bring himself to step away from her, still craving the closeness and warmth between them. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”
She huffs a small laugh, kisses his forehead and slides her hands over his chest like she can’t stop touching him either. “We’ve done that more than once,” she reminds him coyly.
“No one’s ever done that for me, taken care of me like that. It just—” He tangled their hands together and lifted their joined hands to rest on his chest, right above his heart. “It hit here. Like a bullseye.”
Rebecca’s expression softens, twisting a lock of his hair gently around a finger. Ted’s eyes go unfocused at that and he growls like a sleepy puppy, tilting his head into her touch. “Quite a start to our day,” she murmurs, continuing to stroke him.
“You’re tellin’ me. Don’t know how the heck I’m goin’ to look at shaving the same ever again…” He grins and adds, “For that matter, don’t know how the heck I’m goin’ to look at this countertop again.”
Their laughter reverberates in the bathroom as they clean themselves up and prepare for the day, relaxed and loose and happy and cared for and safe. Together.