Pairing: Heath/his girls
Disclaimer: This account is fictional and has no commercial purpose whatsoever.
I'm afraid I have written a bit of poetry here. But never fear, down and dirty Jake and Ennis will be back! It’s my first try at RPS, and (gasp) it’s a little het. But if you adore Heath, read on. [Note: Mantra, when I write one about Jake, I will dedicate it to you, okay?]
It is 5:30 in the morning. It is Heath’s turn to tend to the baby when she wakes up. Michelle pulls the bedspread over her head as the little girl’s morning stirrings waft in from the nursery. Heath is groggy but knows his responsibilities, knows the routine. He rolls out of bed, naked, glances around in the dim room for a pair of boxers but doesn’t see any. He’s done it like this before, and lord knows, the baby doesn’t care.
He sees by the night light that she is wide awake, legs kicking and arms flailing at a colorful mobile hanging above her crib. As soon as either of her parents picks her up in a warm hug, however, the baby quiets down, soon relaxes into a nap.
Heath reaches for his daughter, lifts her to his chest. It is a small room, and in only a few steps, he reaches the rocking chair near the window, where he sits down.
It feels good holding the warm bundle on his naked lap. He doesn’t think about it, but it’s a natural, innocent meeting of two precious things: his beautiful baby daughter, and the penis that created her in a moment of love.
He sits there rocking the little girl for some time, and soon she is sound asleep in his arms. He closes his eyes and nods off, too, head bent protectively forward.
Some time later, Michelle walks quietly into the room. It is past dawn now, and she is going to open the blinds, let the sun in to light up the pastel striped wallpaper with its border of baby animals. But she stops. What right has she to disturb this, this half-light playing so sensuously on the two loves that have made her life complete?
They seem to her like a beautiful statue. Of the most perfect marble, that pale skin they share. Something by Michelangelo, perhaps. A madonna with child, but here it is a young man with his daughter. And why not? she wonders. Why not indeed?
She takes in the beauty of her man: the muscular body that she knows so well by now. His sturdy feet, never wavering. His shapely, athletic calves. His massive thighs … they fill his jeans so well, she thinks, not forgetting the alluring curves of his tight butt. His scrotum, source of his seed, rests on the seat of the chair, the loose skin spilling out from beneath the pale sheath of his penis. And then the forest of light curls that seem to protect all that tender manhood.
There is a trail of fine hair that follows the ridge up to his belly button, to the taut, rippled stomach that presses so firmly against her whenever he enters her. The well-formed ridges of his chest, his own nipples perked up due to the slight chill in the air that makes him wrap the infant ever more tightly in his arms.
The sinews of the muscular arm on which he supports himself when he leans down to kiss his lover’s breasts as he caresses her … a gentle lick, a kiss, for each raised nipple, one at a time, before he stretches out to kiss her on the mouth.
That very same arm cradling the little girl in all her ivory nakedness.
Her angelic face snuggled against the patch of soft hair on his chest.
His chin bowed down toward the top of her downy head.
Her chubby little arm drawn up toward her daddy’s Adam’s apple.
Ah, Heath … ah, Matilda Rose!
The sculptor has captured every loving detail, not judging any parts of the body to be unseemly, unworthy of being loved.