Inevitable - Bottles finds a letter on your kitchen table.
Prequel to:
Forward - You discuss your decision to stay in Santo Padre.
Tonight, Bottles takes you for a ride out to the desert, it’s something you’ve done a couple of times before because you love the tranquillity of the area, the spirituality. The two of you make a fire, you try to do it using the tricks you learned in Girl Guides before Bottles takes pity on you and uses his lighter to ignite the wood. He spreads his bedroll out in front of the fire while you toast marshmallows, waiting for them to crisp before popping them into your mouth.
You taste like burnt sugar when he kisses you under the stars. Your lips are sweet and sticky, and he smiles into your mouth because he likes you like this. Wild and free spirited.
He makes love to you in front of the fire. The glow from the flames illuminates your skin as he lays underneath you, his hands chasing up your waist holding you in place as he rolls his hips.
Already the pleasure is too much, the ecstasy chases through your veins as his cock rakes over that deviant little place inside of you. There’s a thrill in being out here like this but there’s also a serenity, a peacefulness that you never would have expected because you’re not just connected to him in this moment, you’re connected to nature, the universe.
It’s one of the reasons that Santo Padre is so special to you. However now you’ve had this job offer from the Robinhood Foundation in New York…
Your career had started there, event planning for Manhattan’s elite. Baby showers costing in excess of hundreds of thousands of dollars, charity events that were thousands of dollars per plate, kids parties held in museums that had budgets to revamp them into literal princess castles. You were excellent in your role, you’d made some big money but then you’d met Ben at a baby shower, and everything had changed.
“Don’t you think it’s excessive?” He’d asked you as you chaperoned a birthday party for a one-year-old which cost over two hundred thousand dollars.
“What I think is irrelevant.” You’d told him, ticking a checkbox on your clipboard.
“If you ever want to change that.” He tells you, handing you, his card. “Give me a call, the charity I work for is looking for a fundraising director. I think you’re wasted here.”
He hadn’t been wrong; you’d followed him all the way here to Santo Padre. The work you did at the community centre was some of the most meaningful you had ever undertaken. You actually made a difference in people’s lives. You may not be making the same money as you did back in New York, but your heart was full and that’s all that mattered.
Bottles fucks you like it’s the last time because to him it is. He’d seen the letter from the Robin Hood Foundation on the kitchen table this morning, the start date set for next week. He can’t compete with a job in New York, not one with that salary. He would never ask you to stay, that wouldn’t be fair so instead he gives you something special to remember.
A night underneath the stars before you head back off to the big city.
He draws it out, keeping you on the edge until your skin is flushed and your eyes are bright. You kiss him when you climax and he drinks down your pleasure, savouring it because this isn’t going to happen again, and he wants to remember this moment every single time he closes his eyes.
In the aftermath, you lay draped across his chest, your legs tangled up in his. The blanket from the back of his bike tossed over the two of you.
I’m going to miss this, he wants to say, I’m going to miss you.
He doesn’t say those words out loud. Instead, he just holds you close because the love of his life is leaving in five days, she just hasn’t told him yet.
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When your dad gets sick you pull away from him. Bottles isn’t sure if it’s a self defence mechanism, if you need the brain space or what. All he knows is that you aren’t around, and that you stop picking up his calls. When he goes past your house, it’s dark and locked up. It goes on for a few weeks. The two of you have only been together a few months but the idea of you in pain wounds him, your absence in his life cuts deep.
When he does catch up with you it’s at the supermarket of all places. It’s ridiculous how something as normal as buying toilet roll can turn into a twist of fate. He isn’t looking where he’s going when he comes around the corner of an aisle, and he bumps into you literally. He knows it’s you before he even registers your face, the recognition is instinctive at this point, he’s attuned to your presence. He catches the scent of your perfume, sensual and soft with a hint of mandarin.
You look tired, your hair is pulled back into messy bun and looks like it hasn’t been washed for days. Your face is gaunt and there’s dark shadows underneath your eyes. You are far from the vibrant girl he knows and loves, and it kills him.
“Talk to me.” He requests his hand coming to rest upon your arm, his thumb chasing over the hollow of your wrist. “As a friend, as a lover, I don’t care what.”
It’s at a table, in the outdoor seating area of the café next door, that the whole thing comes pouring out of you. Your dad’s been sick for a while, longer than you realised and you don’t have time anything else in your life right now.
It had started with him calling you at odd hours to ask when Family Fortunes was on, something that he had never done before. Bottles remembers these phone calls vividly, because they always seemed to occur around a similar time on a Saturday. Your phone would ring and the two of you would look at the clock and he’d say “It’s your dad” without even looking at the call display.
At first you had thought he was just lonely, your job as an events manager kept you busy especially with the Santo Padre Summer Festival on the cards. Then one day you’d popped over and discovered he’d had a mini stroke. He’d lost movement in his left hand, he could barely hold the remote, his memory was shot to shit, and he was asking where your mother was despite the fact, she had passed away five years earlier. It was soul destroying.
You are one of the strongest people he knows, so when you start to cry it breaks something deep down inside of him. He shifts seats to the one alongside of you and wraps his arms around you because this shit is far too much for one person to bear. He holds you close as you sob into his chest, cradling you close.
He knows a thing or two about being exhausted and overwrought, how it feels like a weight bearing down on you. After his father died of an opioid overdose, his mother hadn’t been able to get out of bed for weeks. His relationship with both of his parents had been fraught, but he had spent that time taking care of her. He made sure she ate, that she had company and little by little he’d helped pull her out of the depression until she had started to function again. He knows that this shit isn’t easy. That between your job and caring for your father you’re wearing yourself down, he can see in your eyes how your struggling to cope.
“Let me help.” He asks you. “Please just let me help you.”
He must catch you in a moment of complete weakness because you agree.
The first time Bottles turns up at your father’s house, the old man thinks he’s one of the in-house nurses that he’s managed to run off. There’s been a couple of them so far and none of stuck around more than a few days. After spending a couple of hours with your father he can see why.
He’s a veteran, he used to be a Captain. People like that hate anyone to seeing them vulnerable, so they lash out. Bottles thinks that’s part of the reason he didn’t tell you about the mini stroke in the first place, he didn’t want to shift this burden onto your shoulders.
Albert or rather Bertie, is not kind with his words but Bottles has lived through worse. He’s entire life has been far from a walk in the park and he’s now a Prospect in the Mayans. Your father is a cake walk compared to that. He isn’t sure how it happened but the three of you slip into a routine. You’ve taken as many days as you can away from work, so Bottles steps in to cover the time you’re away. He cooks for Bertie, he helps bathe him, cleans him up and changes the sheets if he doesn’t make it to the bathroom in time, he does as much of the heavy lifting as he can until Bertie starts to get a little better.
When you come home, he shoots out and deals with club business. At night, he curls up around you in your single bed, holding your close and whispering tender words into your ear until you fall sleep, surrounded by Blink 182 posters and Evanescence playing on the C.D player because he’d forgotten that they’d even existed. He switches it up with a couple of Green Day C.Ds after he’s flicked through your collection.
“There’s no money you know.” Bertie tells him one day when the two of them are in the living room watching Family Fortunes. It takes Bottles a minute to understand what he’s saying. “She doesn’t get much if I die. That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”
“I’m not here for the money.” He informs Bertie as he raises to his feet and collects Bertie’s bowl from the tray set across his lap and places it inside his own. “I’m here for her, to make sure she takes care of herself.”
“I used to take care of her and now she takes care of me, how fucked up is that?” Bertie says in a rare moment of clarity. “I fucking hate it.”
Bottles can understand that. Parents are God in the eyes of children, and this is what happens when you realise that they’re just mere mortals like the rest of you. He knows how jarring this whole experience has been for you, and for Bertie. Confronting your own mortality changes you, he knows, he spent his entire childhood, thinking he was going to die every time he went under the knife because a child with a disability wasn’t good enough for his parents. He sets the bowls down on the floor beside his usual chair before sitting down again.
“I had forty-six surgeries by the time I was eighteen,” He confides to Bertie, pulling up his trouser leg and showing your father his scars embedded deep within the tissue of his leg. “Suffering isn’t new to me, you can’t imagine the shit I’ve gone through, and I can’t imagine the shit you are going through but I know what it’s like to feel like your life isn’t your own, to feel frustrated by your own capabilities.”
“I don’t want this for her.” Bertie tells Bottles. “I don’t want her putting her life on hold to take care of me and I don’t want to end up in one of those homes where they feed you gruel and leave you to die alone in a bedroom where the curtains are still drawn because nobody bothered to open them.”
“So, what are my options?” Bertie asks him. “I rely on my daughter and her… What even are you?”
Bottles shrugs his shoulders because truthfully the two of you have never really put a label on it. All he knows is he’s committed to you; he has been since the moment he kissed you on your doorstep.
“The man who loves your daughter.”
“Boyfriend? Partner? The guy who hoses me down when I make a mess of myself?”
Bottles finds himself smiling before he shrugs his shoulders.
“All of the above.”
“I’m serious when I’m asking you what my options are.” Bertie informs him, his gaze straying back to the T.V. “I need to start figuring shit out before I start losing my marbles and the decision is taken away from me.”
“I could find out.” Bottles offers as he leans in close. It feels like the two of them are engaging in a conspiracy, because the both of them know that the idea of putting your father in a home is not something you agree with. “One of the guys in my club, his mom has memory issues. She started to fall down a lot. He managed to get her into this sweet place up by the community centre. She loves it there, she’s made a lot of friends, there’s all these clubs she goes too, they do some pretty cool shit. I could look into it for you?”
Bertie reaches across the space between the two of them, his strong hand grasping Bottles’.
“Could you?” Bertie requests before he tilts his head to the bedroom door where you’re sleeping. “I have a feeling we’re gonna have a fight on our hands.”
"I'll talk to her." Bottles promises the older man. "See if we can't all get on the same page."
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It isn’t until you’re going through Bottles’ wallet looking for a couple of dollars for the takeout that you come across the polaroid from the community BBQ. There had been a guy going around taking snapshots with his polaroid camera to sell. You’d forgotten about it completely until this moment.
The two of you are sitting side by side on the picnic bench, Bottles’ arm slung around your shoulders, a beer in his hand and a paper cup in yours. You remembered that it wasn’t long after that that he had kissed you on your doorstep, that he’d made love to you until the early hours of the morning, drawing out your pleasure until you combusted like star.
You hear the bathroom door open behind you and glance over your shoulder to see him clad in one of your sage-coloured towels and nothing else. It hangs low on his hips, the beads of moisture rolling down his muscular chest as he steps towards you.
“What did you find?” He asks, using his palm to push the wet hair away from his face. You turn to show him, ass resting against the kitchen table, his wallet still clasped in your hand.
“I had no idea you were so sentimental.” You tell him, with a teasing lilt.
He smiles as he looks down at picture in your hand before he takes it from you and returns it to the safety of his wallet. The two of you have never put a label on the relationship, he thinks you want to, but your history has taught you to tread carefully. He knows that it’s on him to lay his cards out on the table.
“I like having a part of you with me.” He tells you softly as he sets his wallet back down upon the kitchen table. “When I’m having a shitty day, I take it out and it reminds that there’s something good in the world, that I have a woman who loves me as much as I love her.”
You see the honesty in his eyes as he looks at you. There is no doubt in his mind that this is how he feels, and it makes something inside of you soar. Your fingertips trail over the line of his jaw as he leans in close, his body caging you in.
“Christ…”
You can feel the heat rolling off his skin as that wicked grin of his tips up the edges of his mouth. There’s a heat in his gaze, one that sends a pulse of anticipation rushing through you.
“You wanna fuck me again, don’t you?” He says, his mouth brushing over yours as his hips press into the apex of your thighs, parting them.
He’s hard already, you can feel his erection through the fabric of the towel as he rocks slowly against your molten core, his fists gripping the material of the silk robe you’re wearing.
“So emotional intimacy does it for you.” he teases, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Say it again.” You request, your fingers seeking out the towel before you undo it completely. It slips from his waist, landing on the tiles underneath his feet.
“I love you sweet girl.” He whispers against your lips as he unties the belt of your robe. It falls open, revealing your naked form underneath. He uses gentle palms to push the fabric down over your shoulders until you’re completely bare for him. “Now let me show you how much.”
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You look so good on your knees in front of him, your lips wrapped around his cock, tongue teasing over the tip in that wicked little way of yours. He cradles your head with his hands, fingertips tugging gently at your hair as you take him deep. That euphoria, it rides up inside of him, he feels the tightening in his balls, the tingle across his lower back. His breathing is ragged as he pulls away, his dick leaving your mouth with a lewd ‘pop’.
“Not yet sweet girl.” He tells you, his voice rough as his thumb trails over the shape of your swollen lips. “It’s not your mouth I wanna come in.”
He’s got a territorial streak, he knows that. It’s been ingrained into him since the moment he’d kissed you on the porch. Guero had initially shown an interest but he’d flamed out. It’s Bottles that you had eyes for, Bottles that you imagine when you’re at home alone at night touching yourself, Bottles that knows exactly want you want and how to give it to you. He guides you into his lap, your thighs straddling his waist, he watches your face as he enters you slowly, your head tipping back and breath hitching as you envelop him.
“That’s it.” He whispers as he withdraws and starts all over again. “Fuck sweet girl, you know how to get me there.”
His arm wraps around your waist, pinning you in place as he begins to thrust up in slow, powerful strokes, the head of his cock dragging over that sweet spot as he fucks you. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, fingertips playing over the space where his heart resides. He’s noticed that you seek out connection, that you crave intimacy in moments like this and he’s happy to oblige. His palm clasps your jaw, guiding your mouth back to his. You kiss him with a passion and desperation that ignites something inside of him. He’s never wanted someone the way he wants you, you’re as integral to him as oxygen and he loves you in the same way he needs to breathe.
That familiar pink flush creeps across your skin, your hands tangle in his hair. You come with his name on your lips, whispering it into his mouth as he drinks down each one of the syllables. You combust like a fucking star, stealing away his sanity as he spills his release deep inside of you. He doesn’t move in the aftermath, he holds you in place, his hands on your hips, keeping you there completely filled with him.
Because it’s not just you that craves the intimacy. It’s him too.
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Let you put your hands on me in my skin-tight jeans
There’s something about you in skintight jeans that ruins Bottles. He can feel a stirring in his groin as you bend over the kitchen table, tapping the keyboard on your laptop. He shifts just slightly as you glance over your shoulder and give him that look, the one that makes him weak at the knees.
“Sweet Girl…” He murmurs, his palms rubbing over the denim of his jeans like an addict trying to distract himself from his fix.
“Oh baby, you said you could wait until I’ve finished my work.” You remind him, your lips tipping up into a salacious smile.
It’s a game. A silly little game the two of you are playing, a way of drawing out the seduction. He knows you’re getting him back for last night, for keeping you on edge for hours under the mercy of his mouth, fingers and cock. You clear your throat, drawing his attention back to you. His gaze comes to rest on that ass, and he thinks about the other thing you let him do last night, when he got you so worked up you’d begged him to fuck you there.
He thinks about how good you felt, so slick and tight around his cock.
He’s rock hard, he can feel himself throbbing underneath the denim as the tip of his dick rubs across the seam.
Fuck, he can’t take it. He needs you, he needs you so fucking badly. Before he knows it, he’s on his feet, his hands coming to rest on your hips before he spins you around to face him.
“Enough work.” He tells you as he looks into your eyes. “I want to play a little.”
Please could you do “Make me come alive, come on and turn me on” with Bottles
Bottles is the only man that can do this to you, that can make every single part of your body come alive. He spends hours mapping out your body, hands trailing over your naked form, his lips following suit. He’s a savant at ruining you, building you up until you’re just at the precipice of pleasure before he withdraws and starts all over again.
Your wrists are bound above your head with those black leather cuffs, the ones he purchased just for the occasion. You look stunning spread out amongst his sheets, that pretty flush creeping up your body as you fucks you with his tongue.
“Alex…” You breathe and he smiles against your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the place where he’s already left his mark on your skin.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He whispers against your wetness, his breath ghosting over your clit. “You’re being so good for me. You can hold on a little longer can’t you?”
Hi! Could i get Bottles from Mayans with #80 - And there ain't no place that I'd rather be?
Thanks, hope you’re having a good day!! x
There is no place that Bottles would rather be than in bed with you, tangled up in your sheets as he makes love to you by the light of the moon as it shines through the slats of your blinds. He smiles against your skin, his thumb chasing over the line of your jaw as he moves in slow drawn out stokes that drag over that devious little spot over and over and over again until he has you on the cusp.
“Come for me sweet girl.” He whispers into your ear. “Give me everything you’ve got.”
