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Tunatober, Day 1: Hair Washing (Rhett Abbott x F!Reader, Fluff)

Based on my Tunatober Day 1 prompt: 'hair washing', combined with the prompt "Why'd you stop?" Cause lord do I want to get my hands into this man's hair, I just know he's never had the luxury of having someone wash his hair nice and soft and slow.

Ship: Rhett Abbott x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2.3k

Warnings for this fic: fluff, no use of y/n, pet names, Rhett absolutely melting as you wash his hair

Fic Summary: Rhett's convinced there's nothing special about getting his hair washed by someone else. You're determined to prove him otherwise.

GIF by vivian-rutledge

You still couldn't believe you managed to talk him into it.

It started in your kitchen—you perched on a rickety old dining chair, and Rhett sprawled out on his back on your floor, his upper half buried beneath the kitchen sink.

"Why do you think half of us go?" you asked him with a snort. Rhett only grunted, far more focused on fixing the stubborn leak in the pipes you'd been dealing with on and off for a year now. "Sure, the main reason is getting our hair done, but it's also about how good it feels to get your hair washed. You have no idea what you're missing."

Especially not someone like Rhett, who'd been getting his hair cut by his ma and a trusty pair of kitchen shears since he was a baby. On top of that, short of the gel he used to slick his hair back and keep his curls tamed, you were pretty sure his hair hadn't been touched in twenty years by any product other than a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. It was an ongoing tragedy you were determined to stop.

"It can't feel much different than me washin' my own hair." Even from where you were sitting, you could see him wrinkle his nose. "Besides, I don't need some strange lady scratchin' my head like I'm a dog."

"It absolutely feels different. Also, I scratch your head like a dog."

And goddamn, was he pretty when you did.

"It's cause I'm your dog. Sure do make me howl for you," he muttered, low enough that you suspected he thought you hadn't heard him, his words mostly covered up by the sound of metal clattering beneath your sink. He adjusted his position on the floor, his worn t-shirt sliding up enough to show a tanned, freckled strip of skin along his belly. You spent a delightful moment staring at that tempting bit of skin and lean muscle before reaching out with one socked foot to poke it. He half-heartedly lifted his own socked foot, kicking playfully back at you with those long legs of his.

"If you won't let someone else do it, let me do it," you tried, crossing your arms on top of the chair's back where you leaned forward against it. "I've got everything I need in my bathroom right now."

Including some new shampoo and conditioner you'd bought specifically for him in hopes he'd let you do this, not that you'd give that away just yet.

"You wanna wash my hair that bad?" He tipped his head to squint at you skeptically around his raised arms. A single drop of water rolled off his stubbled cheek, courtesy of the leaking pipe. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

You drummed your fingers, trying to think of a reason that might convince him. "Because it'll make you feel good?"

A scoff. He went back to the leaky pipe.

Fine. Time to bring out the big guns.

You lowered your head onto your crossed arms, and blinked at him so very sadly.

"Please, baby?" you asked softly, your voice dropping into that quiet, tender little register that always made him fold. It was rare that you used it on him, but it had a ridiculously high success rate. Rhett may have had a scowl that could send a grizzly bear running, but he was soft as a kitten for you inside. "I really want to after you're done with the pipe. Just this once. Then I'll never bring it up again."

Silence from under your sink as he met your eyes.

Then—

"Fuck."

Thirty-two minutes and one fixed pipe later, you had a grumbling Rhett Abbott in your bathroom, his head in your sink.

Success.

Before he'd even come over, you'd set the new bottle of shampoo and conditioner along the side of the bathtub in easy reach, just in case you'd managed to get him in here. You'd even thought about including a hair mask, something to really soften and pamper his hair, but you'd wound up nixing the idea. Getting to wash and condition his hair would be enough for now. Instead, you'd focused on making him comfortable, ignoring his amused snort when you slid a towel beneath his neck to pad the porcelain rim, made sure the water was warm before you'd rinsed his hair with the little spray attachment you'd connected to the sink.

"How long you been plannin' this, darlin'?" he asked you, more than a little amused.

"Just a few days," you said casually.

Or a month.

Part and parcel of waiting for packages when you lived in East Jesus, Nowhere.

"Liar."

"Hush, let me have this."

Now came the good part.

You grabbed the bottle of shampoo, popping the cap open to squeeze out a heavy dollop of shampoo into your hands. The air quickly filled with the scent of sandalwood and cardamom, faintly spiced but earthy. You'd tried to pick something that wouldn't drive Rhett crazy if the smell lingered.

Those deep blue eyes of his blinked up at you, his brow furrowing. "That ain't your shampoo."

"Nope," you said lightly, smearing the shampoo between both hands, warming it up. "Got it just for you. I figured you could use it when you showered here even if you didn't let me wash your hair tonight. Why? Thought I was gonna use mine?"

"Kinda," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. Edgy, restless, fidgety. He got like this sometimes when it was you taking care of him rather than the other way around, or when he had to sit still too long.

Or maybe…

You cocked your head. "Did you want me to use mine instead?"

One of his socked feet tapped against the tile floor, jittery, hesitation in the way his mouth opened and then shut tightly, lips drawn into a thin line. His eyes darted reluctantly over to the shower to linger on your shampoo and conditioner on the shelf—vanilla and honey scented. It was a scent he'd mentioned loving more than once, often with his face buried firmly in your hair or pillow.

You shrugged, rinsed the shampoo from your hands in the sink, and leaned over to grab those bottles instead.

There were still some things Rhett couldn't quite figure out how to ask for, desires he couldn't bring himself to verbalize, the thought of voicing them too… vulnerable, maybe, too revealing in a place that found such things a weakness. There was no room for any kind of softness. they said: not on the Abbott ranch, not in Wabang, not on this cold, hard land beneath an endless blue sky that stretched horizon to merciless horizon. But you'd gotten good at reading Rhett over the years, at picking up on those wants. This was a clear ask without words, and like with so many others, it was also one you were happy to fill. If there was no softness to be found out there, you'd create it here with him.

Just like that, the scent of sandalwood and cardamon, earthy and spiced, was replaced by the luxurious warmth of vanilla, the indulgently sweet scent of honey as you poured some of your shampoo into your hands, spreading it between your hands.

He huffed, his head rolling against the sink. "Now you're just bein' mean making me wait like this."

You rolled your eyes. "Or I'm trying to make sure I have enough on both hands to get all of your hair."

"You got enough. Come on, it don't take this long when I do it."

"You're awful demanding for someone who didn't want to put his head in my sink thirty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well, my head's cold now. I'm gonna get hypothermia if I gotta wait any longer."

"I'm going, I'm going." You let out another laugh, leaning forward over him when he made a show of starting to get up. "Jesus, you're impossible when it comes to relaxing. Just lay back and let me make you feel good."

"That's my line."

"Not tonight it's not."

He clearly had something more to say, lips curling up into that sly smirk of his. But before he could get the words out, you quickly lowered your hands to his hair, sliding them firmly across his scalp in a nice, long drag.

He froze beneath you, body stiff, his breath stuttering to an abrupt halt. It was almost like he was unsure of what was happening, or maybe waiting to see if that good feeling was a fluke.

It was not.

And on the second slow, delicious sweep through his hair, nails scraping, fingers pressing in circular motions, you could almost see the exact moment that something in Rhett Abbot's wild, chaotic, skeptical mind…

…Shorted out like a goddamn lightbulb.

Knew it, you thought smugly.

His head lolled into your hands as you kneaded and scrubbed, working your way through his hair. You were determined to leave no strand, no section of scalp untouched, working loose the sweat and dirt of his day on the ranch, the gel he used to keep his curling hair swept back and tamed beneath his hat. His eyes, already such a dark blue, seemed to glaze over and darken further in the watery butter-yellow light of your bathroom, his expression caught somewhere between awestruck, glutted pleasure and absolute bafflement.

"The fuck?" he slurred, his mouth hanging slack, the slightest flush coloring his cheeks. At some point he'd grabbed hold of your thigh, big calloused palm hot even through the thin fabric of your pajama pants. It wasn't sexual. It was more like he was using you to stay tethered, hold onto a world in which a hard-edged, bull riding cowboy like him couldn't be melted by something so simple as some shampoo and your fingers in his hair.

"I told you," you sang victoriously, dragging your hands down to the softly curling hair just above the nape of his neck. The scratch of your nails and the pressure of your fingers there at the base of his skull seemed to hit yet another switch in his brain. His eyes rolled fully shut this time, and there was a soft thump against the tile as if he'd just kicked his foot against it. But more important than that—

"Did you just moan?" you laughed as you gently combed through the strands of his hair to the ends, washing away more Wyoming dust and gritty sweat.

"…No," he said, his voice so choked it was almost a whine.

"Yes you did."

"Did not," he growled.

"I know a moan when I hear it, Rhett Abbott. You're enjoying this. Just admit it."

"It's just you washin' my hair. I don't fuckin' get it," he said hoarsely, almost squirming in the chair, unsure of what to do with how good he was feeling. Just to make it worse, you threaded your fingers through the hair and froth at his temples before slowly dragging your nails back in the direction you'd come. The sound he let out was ragged and garbled, as if he'd tried to turn his second moan into a much more intimidating growl at the last second. "I do it every day."

"And yet it's different." You leaned down and kissed his slack mouth. It was a testament to how out of it he was that he only just managed to kiss you back, clumsy, distracted. "Never doubt me again."

"Never," he breathed.

You shifted up above him, reaching over to flip the sink back on with a smug little flick of your hand.

That earned you what was definitely a quiet little whine this time, hovering there on the tail end of a shaky breath, so low you almost missed it.

"What?" you asked, concern slipping into your voice. You'd worked hard to make sure he was comfortable, but god only knew with how often he got thrown around on those bulls, his shoulder or neck could've been acting up sitting like this. "You ok? Need to move?"

He stared back up at you, and for just a moment there was a flicker of vulnerability there, his hand tightening on your thigh almost… nervously. You almost didn't think he was going to answer, and then, soft, tentative, came a quiet, "Why'd you stop?"

Ah. Now you saw the problem.

"I'm not punishing you, I promise." You hummed, scratching at his hair again, which seemed to soothe him just a tiny bit, his eyes fluttering shut on a sigh. "I'm going to rinse your hair now. And then we'll see if your hair is clean enough for conditioner. But it might need another wash depending on how much dirt you got in it today. Up to you."

He eagerly pushed his head back into the sink.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," you teased, testing the temperature of the water with your hand.

He groaned, reaching up to scrub one hand down his face. "Are you really gonna make me say it out loud?"

"Yes. It's called communication, and generally it involves words and not just grunts and growls, as cute as those are from you." You took the nozzle and began to rinse his hair, careful to keep it out of his eyes. Foam and bubbles went swirling down the drain, the white froth now edged with sweeps of pale grey and a touch of brown, dirt and dust and even one little strand of hay swept away with the water. Something about it gave you a ridiculous sense of satisfaction. "Just say the word and I'll wash your hair again before the conditioner. I'll even do it slower this time."

He drew his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing on it as he shifted restlessly beneath you as he thought it over. You had just finished rinsing his hair, running your fingers through the slick, soaked strands, before you heard the slow intake of breath beneath you.

"Please?" he whispered.

You grabbed the shampoo bottle and started again.

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