i am so obsessed with older!beckett
hmmmm especially ‘bought these for you to wear for me’
hmmmmm underwear fashion show…maybe…
god I have so many requests but I can’t stop writing about him. I got carried away lol
nsfw below
The bags had been piling up, stuffed away in that spare room in his place the past few days. He never let you go in there, and he’d put his finger over his lips, silencing you, when he would emerge from putting the nice packages there. It felt like when you’d spent that first christmas as a child knowing santa weren’t real, scouring the house for presents hidden in closets and dressers, except now you know where they are, and it’s killing you. Beckett’s not really keen on spoiling the surprise. He’s not slick, though.
You’re not stupid. It’s your birthday week. You’ve scanned the shipping label when he procures a new package from the doorstep—how it’s all these stupid expensive lingerie brands that you kind of don’t want him looking at because the models online are so pretty and they’re all airbrushed and like, whatever. Anyway, Beckett’s spending way too much money on you, but what’s new?
“Can I see it now? Please? Can’t wait,” You ask, blocking his view of the television. Now the light cuts and illuminates your back instead of his body, so everything’s dark now, and his face gets hard to see. You’re practically bubbling. Each time you have to walk across the hall, look at that shut door, your resolve weakens.
Your boyfriend sighs. “You can’t wait any longer?”
You shake your head. You nervously fumble with the strings on your hoodie (his olympics hoodie with the canadian flag), because you know what comes next. You know he wants you to show him. He loves watching you get ready in the morning. He’s a little enamored by your routine, by the sun sliding through the curtains and lighting your body in golden color. He just likes looking at you. He also gets this weird pride in his chest when you use the things he buys you—that new laptop for school, skates fitted just for you, bracelets from a beach shop dangling from your wrist. You recognize when he gazes too long, the cogs turning in his brain, pleased to have someone to spoil.
“Okay. Go get them, princess.”
“You want…here?” You gape at him.
Through the dim room, you can see the quirk of his brow, the upturn of his mouth. “You don’t want to open your presents out here?”
“Uhm—uh, okay, yeah sure.”
“Turn the light on.”
You come back, a pile of packaged plastic in your arms, you switch the small light on—so it’s warm and you can see him fully now, his spread legs and his back against the couch cushions. The television is turned off. He’s staring at you, grinning, not saying anything.
You huff out a big breath. “Stop that.”
“What?”
“How am I going to…?” in question to this whole…fashion show out in the living room. He knows.
He tilts his head, a feigned expression of confusion on his face. “You have to open them first.”
“Beckett,” you groan, “I already know what’s in here.”
“Really?” He crosses his arms over his chest, leans further back into the couch like he’ll never leave. You’re already starting to get nervous, standing up in front of him, socked feet and boy shorts and his hoodie on.
“They’re all French labels…” you crouch down, set the bags on the carpeted floor because you don’t want to just drop them. You keep one in your hands. “I’m not dumb.”
“I know. You’re so smart, baby.”
It’s not berating. It’s not sarcastic, he just says it so often, and it makes you flush each time. You’ll never become desensitized to it.
“Why can’t we go in the bedroom?” You whine. Now, when you sit out here tomorrow when he’s at practice, all you’ll be thinking about is this…and that’s his goal—to defile every corner of his apartment—you know it.
“I’m comfortable here. C’mon,” he urges you.
You roll your eyes, though there’s no animosity in it. The plastic crinkles in your hands as you try to pry it open, as gently as you can. The set is wrapped away in a zipped clear bag, hidden by parchment. Your face heats up.
It’s so pretty—this baby pink, semi-sheer bra with little intricate beadings and flowers, etched with a darker shade of pink. And then, its matching panty counterpart, with the same designs and opacity and — ah, it’s too beautiful, too delicate to wear. You kind of want to kill your boyfriend for doing this.
“You like?” You’re pulled away from your mind ramblings; you snap back to the picture of your boyfriend, steadily watching you.
“Yeah, yeah I like. It’s too much…”
“It’s not too much. It’s why I got you more.”
You groan. He deflects all your insecurities, all the time. “You want me—” you stutter, “—want me to try it on, don’t you?”
“If you’re offering.”
Usually you’d throw something at him but you can’t throw this set. “Okay, but…” You look down, tap on your thigh.
“I won’t look,” he smiles, placing his hand over his eyes.
“Wow, thanks,” you deadpan. “Don’t peak.”
He hums, his throat bobbing. You lay the lingerie next to Beckett on the cushion, standing back to discard your clothes. You’re anxious, hands weaving under the hoodie to take it off as fast as possible. The air is cool on your bare skin, nipples hard, pebbled over. You step into the underwear first—that’s easier or something. It snaps on your hips just right. It’s soft. The bra is a whole other story. It feels wrong to touch. All handmade, meticulous, and it shines in the dim light of the room. You string your arms through the straps, but the clasp doesn’t seem cooperative today.
“Beckett…” you complain, pouting your lips. You kick his shin. He doesn’t take his hand off his eyes, though, just says, “yeah?”
“Need your help.” You stand between his legs, and finally, he opens his eyes. Color fills his pale face. He’s supposed to be older and more stoic and able to contain his feelings. He can’t do that.
The bra is pressed against your chest with your hand, so you’re not exposing yourself. “Need you to clip it, please.” You turn around, and now he’s filled with the image of your ass and pretty flowery patterns, and—and then you’re sitting down on his lap, your hands awkwardly holding the band and hook for him to take.
“Oh, yeah of course,” his breath is knocked out of him. His hands overlap yours, bringing the band close to hook the clasp. He runs two fingers under it, smoothing it against your skin. “That feel okay?” He kisses the top of your shoulder. It takes a lot, a lot out of him not to hold your hips down and keep you there. He’s constantly fighting with his immature ways.
“Thank you…” you stand, embarrassed. “Is it…you like it, right?” You roll up onto the balls of your feet, avoiding eye contact.
“I love it. I love it, baby. You make it look good.”
You make a face, hair falling in your eyes. “Shut up…”
He’s always confused—can’t fully understand the insecurities of a young woman. He won’t pry—it’ll only make it worse— so he’ll just tell you how pretty you are until you fully believe it, and if that’s for the rest of his life, he doesn’t mind.
“Spin.” He makes the turning motion with his finger. You bite your lip, and do as he says.
When you make eye contact with him again, his hand covers his mouth, his eyes are all dark, and then he’s shucking another package at you.
“Hey!”
“We have to go fast—won’t last long.”
“Ew.” Your nose scrunches up. “Fine.”
The next package is just underwear this time, different types of cuts, from g-strings to briefs, and they have cute designs and little hearts, and a bow right in the middle of the band. Beckett doesn’t close his eyes this time—he shakes his head at your request. And so, you have to put them on, one by one, bare chested, all flushed and really horny that he’s just staring at you, making comments when he wants, but mostly just looking, like you’re a display piece, an expensive car in the middle of the lot.
There’s another set like the first one, a pretty blue color with stars and twinkles threaded in, and it gives your breasts more of a push, like you have more than you got. Usually, you hate underwire, it gnaws, but you barely feel it. You don’t want to think about how expensive it is, trying to gloss over the tag that’s only in French, no English, and then you curse yourself for thinking about the shipping costs and everything. Beckett really likes that one, you can see it in his eyes, how his brows raised the smallest bit more. The panties are cheekier on this one, and when he makes you spin around, you let out a small sound. This is really starting to take a toll on you.
The last thing—or well, the last thing he can get to before he dissolves into mush—is something you really think he accidentally bought.
“You…you meant to get this?” It’s a white-baby doll dress with lace around the chest and the bottom hem. It looks like something he had to purchase going through the bridal section—some type of honeymoon get-up. You’re blushing furiously, fingers shaking a little with it gripped in your hands.
“Yes,” he says, matter of factly. “Is it the right size?” He takes the packaging from your hand, looks over the order receipt.
“No Beckett, jesus. It’s the right size.” At this point, you’re naked, the dress in your hands. “But it’s like…bridal.” You wouldn’t accuse another man your age of the dress having that connotation—they wouldn’t piece those two things together, all that white lace, but Beckett’s older. He would.
He looks at you, thoughtfully, like he really wants to say the right thing. “Hmm. Thought you’d look really pretty in it.”
“Oh.” You breathe out, and now you’re suddenly really naked and you really want to put it on. It shimmies on so easily, the straps a little loose, but it feels better not to be tight anyway. Besides, Beckett would probably like the straps to fall down your shoulders.
“Wow.” Is all he says. It falls mid-thigh, so thin and delicate.
The pictures so intoxicating. You, on top of him in the nicest hotel room, your chemise matching the color of the sheets, a big, sparkly rock resting on your dainty finger, hair mussed. There’s a lot of pressure building up in his brain, like he might go blind, maybe. He extends his leg and hooks his heel to your calf, so you’re forced to walk towards his open legs.
“You know I’m going to marry you, right? Put a ring on your finger?” He looks up at you, his back upright, his hands ghosting your thighs. All you can do is nod, starstruck, as he takes your inner wrist, kissing the soft, warm skin.
