Let Me Tae Care of You

Author Note:

Thank you so much for every letter, comment, and quiet moment of resonance. Your messages have meant more than you know. I wrote this one slowly, with love--and I'm honoured it found you. ✍️💌

Content Warnings:

⚠️ age gap, emotional dependency, grief, power exchange,

🍼 DDlg themes, explicit sex, creampie, overstimulation,

🫶 caregiver kink

He was gone for too long. Her body remembered him before her mind did. Now that he's home... she doesn't just want his hands. She wants his promise.

🌿⏳🛏️

Settle in, darling. This one's slow, filthy, and full of feeling.

He'd been gone for three weeks. Not gone-gone. Just... somewhere else.

She found out about it the morning he packed a bag.

There wasn't a big announcement. Just him standing in the hallway, folding a sweater she hadn't seen him wear in months.

"You leaving?" she asked, keeping her tone light, like maybe this wasn't what it looked like.

He nodded. "Just for a bit. Nova Scotia. John passed."

She blinked. "The guy you used to sail with?"

"Yeah." His voice was steady, but something behind it frayed. "He didn't have anybody left to deal with things. Thought I'd go sort it out."

She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling around the hem of her shirt. "Is it bad?"

"It's not good." He glanced at her, then away. "He died alone. House is a mess. His daughter doesn't want to deal with any of it. I said I'd help."

She didn't know what to say to that.

So she just asked, "How long?"

"Couple weeks. Maybe three."

He looked tired already. Like the weight of the job was pressing into his spine before he even zipped the suitcase shut.

She wanted to say please don't go. She wanted to say I don't want to sleep in your bed without you in it. She wanted to ask are you coming back the same way you're leaving?

But instead she stood up, crossed to him, and reached for his wrist.

"You'll call?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"And you'll... come home?"

He looked at her then. Really looked.

"Of course I will."

At first, she tried to be understanding. She told herself this was just a pause, not a rupture. That he would come back. That this was life, not loss. But the quiet stretched thin.

She still watered his rosemary. Still left his mug by the porch rail. Still checked her phone in the evenings for the little buzz that meant he hadn't forgotten her. But even when he called, he didn't sound the same. He was flat. Distracted. Kind, always. But distant. Like his voice was coming through a tunnel, and she couldn't quite reach him on the other end.

She didn't know how to ask if he still missed her. Didn't know how to say I'm scared I'm losing you again without sounding like too much. So she kept showing up in the little ways. She cooked. She weeded. She left cuttings of lemon balm on his windowsill.

She found his jacket in the shed one day, half-draped over a broken rake. She touched it, held it to her face. It still smelled like him--just barely. She didn't cry, not then. Just folded it neatly, and set it beside the door.

When he came back, he looked older. Not physically. Not exactly. But his eyes were tired. His voice quieter. There was no playful hum to the way he moved, no easy grin. Just a man carrying something too heavy for words.

He knocked once. She opened the door without speaking. They stood for a moment in the stillness, then he reached for her hand. Just a brush of fingers.

"Hey," he said, like it hadn't been three weeks and a lifetime. She nodded. Didn't let go.

They tried to find the rhythm again. Sat on the bench. Drank tea. Shared space. But something was missing. He didn't tease her like he used to. Didn't flirt. His touch was soft but brief, like he didn't trust his own hands.

She caught him staring at the rosemary sometimes, like he couldn't remember when it had started blooming. She missed him. Even when he was right there.

That night, she couldn't sleep. Her body felt too full--of hope, of fear, of all the words she hadn't said. So she wrote him a note.

I'm trying not to need you more than I should. But I miss you. Even when you're beside me. If there's something I can't see--please don't hide it from me.

She left it tucked under his mug. The next morning, the mug was gone. So was the note.

That day, he came to her door. Held out her favorite tea without speaking. His hands were steadier than they'd been.

"I'm still here," he said quietly. "Just a little... wrecked." She nodded. Took the cup. Then her fingers brushed his. And when he didn't pull away, she leaned forward and let her body rest against his chest.

"I can help carry it," she whispered.

"I know," he said. And even though his arms didn't wrap around her, his breath hitched like they already had.

The next morning she woke up warm. His jacket hung from the peg beside the door. The rosemary had been watered. And the ache in her chest was still there--but smaller now. Not gone. But held.

She couldn't sit still. All day she'd floated between warm and needy, aching and soft.

And under that--something steadier.

She kept watching him. Not just because of the way his forearms flexed when he rinsed dishes or the way his back moved under his worn tee. But because she was starting to believe it.

The way he made her tea. The way he folded her laundry. The way he looked at her like care wasn't a transaction.

He was still here. And that was the hottest thing of all.

By mid-afternoon, the ache was unbearable. She found him in the study, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, a book half-open on his lap.

She curled up on the rug at his feet. Pressed her cheek to his knee. Waited.

He didn't say a word. Just ran his hand through her hair.

"I want you," she said finally.

He stilled. "I want your cock inside me."

His breath caught. He set the book down carefully. "Sweetheart..."

She looked up at him, eyes wide, voice steady. "I'm ready."

He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone. "This isn't like last time. If I fuck you, I'm not holding back."

She swallowed. "Good. Don't be careful. Be here."

His eyes darkened. He stood. Held out his hand. "Come with me."

They moved to his room like they'd done it before--but this time, something was different. Not just want. Welcome. Not just submission. Safety.

He undressed her slow. Lifted the shirt over her head, kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, the soft underside of her breast. His hands skimmed down her waist like he was already memorizing what it felt like to hold her open.

She reached for his belt. Undid the buckle with trembling fingers. Slid the denim down his hips. His cock sprang free--thick, flushed, already glistening.

She dropped to her knees and kissed the spot just below his navel. Licked the crease of his thigh. Looked up.

"You're beautiful," she whispered.

He groaned. Fisted his hands in her hair but didn't pull. "Get in the bed before I lose my mind."

She lay back, knees parted, pussy soaked and open. He knelt between her legs. Spit in his hand. Stroked his cock once, twice. Rubbed the head against her slick folds, spreading her open until she whimpered.

"You ready for me, baby?"

She nodded. Chest rising fast. "I want all of you."

He pushed in slow. The tip caught. Her body clutched around him. She gasped. "Shhh," he soothed. "Just like that. Let me in."

He sank into her inch by inch, the stretch deep and dizzying. She moaned, high and wrecked, thighs twitching.

"Oh my god--Daddy--"

He froze, breath breaking. "You say that again, I'm gonna fuck you harder than I should."

She smiled. Ruined. "Then do it... Daddy."

He growled--low, primal--and drove into her fully.

Her whole body jerked.

"Fuck--yes--More, please--don't stop--"

His hips found rhythm, deep and relentless, each stroke pulling a new sound from her throat. She clawed at his back, wrapped her legs around his waist.

"You feel so fucking good, sweetheart," he panted. "So tight--fuck--you were made for this."

She was gone. Gone. But not just from pleasure. Gone into that place where someone else was holding the rhythm.

He fucked her through it--her gasping, shaking, begging. His hand found her breast --not squeezing, just holding. The other gripped her thigh and pulled it higher, opening her further.

"You're mine now, aren't you?" he whispered into her ear. His fingers having gravitated to her aching, swollen clit. Swirling... slow, steady, even.

She gasped. "Yes--yes, Daddy--yours--"

That did it.

Her orgasm hit like a wave slamming into the rocks. Her cunt spasmed around him, sucking him deeper. Her body convulsed. She keened into his shoulder, legs locking, arms trembling.

"That's it," he groaned. "Come on me. Show me."

She did. And he followed.

He buried his cock inside her, hips jerking as his climax took him--hot, thick cum spilling deep into her, pulse after pulse as his body seized against hers. His breath caught, teeth gritted against the curve of her neck, one hand locked tight around her thigh, the other braced by her head like he needed something to hold onto or he'd disappear. She felt every surge--warm, claiming, endless--filling her until her whole body throbbed with the weight of him.

Even after he'd emptied himself inside her, he didn't move--just stayed buried deep, cock twitching inside her soaked, swollen cunt. She could feel it: the thick heat of him leaking back out around his length, sticky and obscene, her thighs slick with both of them. He groaned low in her ear, like he couldn't believe what he'd done--what they were still doing--and then he rutted into her once more, just to feel the wet squelch of his cum inside her, just to hear the ruined little sound she made as it spilled down her ass and onto the sheets. "Look at this mess," he rasped, voice rough and reverent. "You're dripping with me, babygirl. Just like I wanted."

She didn't speak. Just curled into his chest.

He didn't rush. He stayed inside her for a moment longer, watching the way her chest rose and fell like waves after a storm. Then, with care that made her eyes sting, he eased out of her--slow, steady, a soft hiss between his teeth as their bodies finally separated.

"You did so good for me," he murmured, kissing the inside of her thigh. "My perfect girl."

She whimpered at the loss, at the ache of being emptied, but he was already moving--one hand stroking her hip while the other reached for the warm cloth he'd left on the nightstand. He cleaned her carefully, reverently, wiping the thick mix of their release from her thighs and cunt, murmuring praise the entire time. "Such a mess we made," he whispered, brushing a fingertip down the crease of her swollen folds. "You let me fill you so deep, sweetheart. Let me have everything."

When she flinched--overstimulated and trembling--he kissed her knee and whispered, "I know, I know. I've got you now."

He disappeared only long enough to grab her water and the blanket from the chair by the window. She blinked up at him, dazed, and he tucked the glass into her hands before folding the blanket around her like a cocoon. Then he crawled into bed behind her, pulled her against his chest, and settled his chin in her hair.

His arm curled around her belly, protective, steady, anchoring her in the quiet.

"I've got you, babygirl," he murmured against her crown. "I'm not going anywhere."

She believed him.

Not just because he said it--but because of how he said her name when she was half-asleep. Because of how he cleaned her, clothed her, fed her. Because of the weight of his body behind hers, grounding her like gravity.

Because he hadn't tried to shortcut the truth to get to the sweetness. Because for once, someone else was helping her carry it all.

She drifted off against his chest, breath slow and sure. But before she fully let go, he shifted--just enough to reach the drawer beside his bed. When he came back, he pressed something warm and worn into her hand.

A leather tag. Cracked. Weathered. Hand-stitched, the edges frayed with time. On the back, a single word, carved so faintly it could have been breath: daughter.

He held it in his palm like something sacred.

"This was John's," he said quietly. "From his bag. He kept it through every deployment. Said it reminded him what he was still fighting for." He hesitated. "I found it when I was packing his things. Thought maybe it should go to his daughter, but she didn't want anything. Said she barely knew him. Told me to burn it."

She didn't breathe.

"I couldn't," he said. "Something in me wouldn't let it go. So I kept it. I didn't know why... not then."

He reached for her hand and placed it in her palm.

"But now I do."

She looked up at him, tears already spilling.

"I want you to have it," he said. "Not just in play. In life. If you'll let me... I want to be yours. And I want you to be mine."

She couldn't answer. Not with words.

But her hand closed around the tag like it was a lifeline. A vow.

And in that moment--she knew.

This wasn't the end of a chapter.

It was the beginning.

Later, when he was asleep beside her, she traced the edge of the leather tag with her fingertip.

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't scare her anymore.

His arm was draped across her waist, heavy and sure. His breath was warm at the back of her neck.

She didn't know what came next. Not exactly.

But the bedsheets smelled like rosemary and cedar and home. And our spilled juices, too.

And for now, that was enough.

There would be more.

A garden to tend.

A new name to grow into.

A life that might finally be big enough for all of her.