Rebecca Bunch’s Boyfriend is a Hot Piece of Ass
Inspired by a conversation with @msjessicaday about this incredible t-shirt. Also on AO3.
Maybe it was the way the moonlight was streaming in through the windows, or the distant music playing from a car parked outside. Maybe it was because she was still feeling flushed after they had literally raced up the stairs to the door, or the thrill of her extremely predictable victory, or the memory of the intoxicating kiss she claimed as her prize.
Whatever the reason was, but it had all built up to this moment, this one, brilliant moment of absolute clarity, when she couldn't hold back her feelings any longer.
Rebecca Bunch's boyfriend was a hot piece of ass.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Hmm?"
Greg raised an eyebrow at her. "I believe I just heard you say your boyfriend is a hot piece of ass. Which, I believe, raises two follow up questions."
Rebecca's heart began to flutter in her chest. They'd only been on four dates -- at least, this time around. Five, if you counted that ice cream they got after her first open mic night. They hadn't actually sat down to discuss what they were to each other. It didn't seem necessary. They were just Rebecca and Greg, Bunch and Serrano, back to their old witty banter but now with the heat dialed up to Sahara levels.
And this time it also felt...
Like she didn't have to think about what they were.
Which was all well and good, except for moments like this, where she accidentally blurts out something she only meant to say in her head, and it has the potential to turn this really wonderful evening into one that's awkward and uncomfortable and...
"First, I'm the boyfriend, yes?"
Rebecca exhaled, then smiled. She and Dr. Akopian had talked about this. She and Greg weren't the same people they were three years ago. They'd proven that time and time again. There was no need to assume any discussion of softer, more tender emotions toward each other would end in disaster.
She had feelings for Greg, and he had them for her. They were on the same path. Everything else was just figuring out the details.
"Well, it was either going to be you or that waiter who brought us the free chocolate cake tonight, but all things considered, I still felt you brought more to the table. Metaphorically speaking." She paused. "Literally, too, when it's lasagna night."
Greg nodded. He was clearly trying to keep his face solemn, but given how he was practically glowing, it wasn't particularly effective. "Well, you can see why I had questions. He was a hot piece of ass, and he came bearing your favorite dessert."
"I figured we can work on replicating the recipe," Rebecca said. "Who needs him?"
"Fair point, and I do like a challenge," Greg said.
He was joking, but from his tone of voice, Rebecca could tell he was already contemplating the sugar to flour ratio and what type of cocoa powder to use. She loved when he got like this, when he lit up thinking of all the different ingredients he could experiment with to bring to Serrano's. He had really found his passion in life, and he was so good at it. She felt lucky to be able to watch him at work and to witness those moments when inspiration struck. In some ways, it felt more intimate than sex.
"You had a second question?"
Greg shook his head slightly, and Rebecca could practically see him mentally filing away the details for the undoubtedly far superior chocolate cake somewhere off in his brain. "Right. Tell me more."
"About..."
Greg reached out for Rebecca's hands, swinging them from side to side. "How your boyfriend is a hot piece of ass."
"Technically not a question," Rebecca pointed out.
Greg sighed dramatically. "Can you please share more with me about how your boyfriend is a hot piece of ass?"
"Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Serrano?"
"Yes," Greg said immediately. "I am. It's the first time I've ever been referred to as a hot piece of ass and I want all the details committed to memory for when I am old and gray with wrinkly balls that sag down to my ankles."
"First time that you know of," Rebecca said with a smile.
Greg raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"
"Mmhmm." She bit her lip and then looked up to meet his gaze. "Paula always thought you were the sexiest thing since Richard Gere in Pretty Woman."
Greg laughed. "Fine, fine, don't tell me. Just see if I'm going to share my chocolate cake with you."
"And if I tell you, then do I get an extra slice?"
Greg kissed the tip of her nose. "I may even let you lick the spoon."
"Promise?" She didn't need the promise, of course. She'd happily tell Greg all the million and one things about him that made him so attractive to her, if they only had the time. It was just that she was so comfortable standing here like this, fingers intertwined, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, swaying ever so slightly. It was the same kind of feeling as when her alarm first went off in the morning, and her limbs were liquid and her movements languid as she was one with the blankets, soaking up their comfort and warmth as no thoughts entered her head more complex than "fuck, this feels good."
Point is, it was just really difficult to speak at the moment, and Greg deserved all kinds of amazing words, and she just needed one... more... minute.
"Rebecca?"
Rebecca blinked. “Right, sorry. Well, first, there’s obviously your face.”
“My face. Interesting.”
Rebecca nodded, then pulled back ever so slightly, both so she had a better view of said face and so she could hopefully focus a little better when she was no longer so intimately acquainted with how his breath smelled of espresso and chocolate. “Classic good looks but without looking like a generic polo shirt model. Handsome, yet approachable. Kind eyes. Fluffy eyebrows.” She smiled, and rubbed her thumb across the length of one of those delightful eyebrows, raising all the little hairs and then flattening them back down. “A very good face.”
“Promising,” Greg murmured. “Was hoping for something a bit more seductive, but…”
“And really great hair,” Rebecca continued. “And when that that one stray curl falls just so…”
“I thought we were aiming for more seductive.”
“It is seductive,” Rebecca said as she twirled her finger through said curl which, coincidentally enough, happened to fall just so at that exact moment. “It’s my favorite curl.”
“Your favorite curl.”
“My favorite curl,” Rebecca repeated. “Because it also reminds me of how lush and thick the rest of your hair is, and how much I love to grab it when you’re, shall we say, tickling my hedgehog.”
Greg’s cheeks flushed pink, and Rebecca briefly considered circling back to the very good face thing and how exquisite it looked when he was embarrassed, which was rare, or turned on, which was far more common, but decided to keep that little detail in her back pocket for when she needed it.
“And your arms,” Rebecca said. “Never really thought of myself as an arms girl, but have to say, your kickboxing classes have definitely turned me into one.”
“Well, I’m glad that $174 a month membership has paid off,” Greg said.
“Mmhmm,” Rebecca said. “And then I’d have to say… your style.”
“My style?”
“You’ve become quite the sharp dresser,” Rebecca said. She tugged at the front of his leather jacket. “This jacket, the sport coats...you’ve definitely stepped up your style game.”
“A decent suit makes me a hot piece of ass?”
“Of course it does. Especially when it’s tailored to properly highlight your hot ass.” With a wink, Rebecca gave his butt a firm squeeze, and then leaned in for a long, searing kiss.
“Wow,” Greg said when they finally parted. “If I had known all I needed to improve my love life was to buy a new wardrobe, I would have done it years ago.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Rebecca. “I loved your old flannel shirts too. They looked warm and cozy and comfortable. These just have a little extra zsuzh. ”
“I’d like to zsuzh your kangaroo,” Greg murmured, nuzzling Rebecca’s neck.
“I love it when you zsuzh me,” Rebecca said. She slid Greg’s jacket off his shoulders, then made quick work of undoing the buttons of his shirt while he started tugging at the sash of her dress.
Then, suddenly, it all stopped.
“Oh, my god.”
Greg paused from his efforts to pull the dress over her head and frowned. “What?”
“Your shirt.”
“My --” Greg looked down. “Oh, crap, I’m sorry, I ran out of time to do laundry and didn’t have any clean undershirts, I didn’t think --”
“No, you don’t understand,” Rebecca said. “This is my all-time favorite shirt.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “It is? Also, you have a favorite shirt?”
“I do,” Rebecca said, “and it’s this one.”
This one, was, of course, a black t-shirt with a rather large blue metallic-ish shark riding a bicycle on the front. His teeth were bared and his eyes were a little dazed, as if he, too, was wondering exactly why he was riding a bicycle but had resigned himself to his fate as it was easier to just keep going than to ask such silly existential questions such as what need does a shark have for a bicycle and how exactly is he moving those pedals.
“I hardly ever wore this shirt,” Greg said. “I’m surprised you even saw it.”
“I did, only once, and it made an impact,” Rebecca said. “Because it was just such a weird shirt and I never saw you in anything like it. And I always wanted to ask you about it. Did you get it because the metallic sheen to it made it stand out, or because it was a reference to a band, or because it was feminist or anti-feminist…”
“I think I just got it because it made me smile,” Greg said slowly.
Rebecca was vaguely aware that her hands were flying in every which direction and she should probably be a little less excited about finding out the rather mundane answer to a question that’s been circling her mind for years, but she didn’t care. This was big. HUGE. “See, but that’s perfect!”
“I feel like I’m missing something to this story.”
“You are, so I’m going to tell you,” Rebecca said. “You see, when you moved to Atlanta, I mostly tried not to think of you, but when I did, most of the time I pictured you wearing one of those flannel shirts, because that is what you wore 80% of the time, which never really made sense to me because we’re in California, dude, flannel generally seems kind of overkill. But the other times I pictured you, you were wearing this t-shirt. And I think it was because I always wanted to ask you about it, but I never got the chance. So in my head, this t-shirt symbolized all the conversations we never got to have, all the moments we never shared, all the things I’d never know about you...and now I do.” She smiled. “It made you smile. It’s perfect.”
Greg smiled, and his eyes were so soft, and his hands were so gentle when he reached up to cup Rebecca’s cheek that she nearly melted right then and there. “You’re a truly exceptional woman, Rebecca Bunch. You know that, right?”
She reached up to cover his hand with her own. “Well, I do now.”
He kissed her, and it was sweet and gentle and perfect and Rebecca was so glad, so glad that this was where she was right at this moment.
“So, do you want it?”
“Want what?”
“The shirt,” Greg said. “I think you should have it.”
“Really?” Rebecca asked in a voice that was probably an immensely high-pitched squeal, judging by Greg’s barely perceptible wince. “I can have it?”
“Sure,” Greg said. “After all, isn’t that something boyfriends do? Give their girlfriends their clothing to remember them by?”
“Oh my god, I would love that, thank you” Rebecca said. “Can I name him? Can I name the shark?”
“Sure,” said Greg. “Maybe something like Rage, or Bluebeard, or --”
“Stewart,” Rebecca said. “His name is definitely Stewart.”
“Stewart’s perfect,” Greg said.
“So, can I try it on?” Rebecca asked, pulling off her dress.
“Oh, so we’re… we’re really doing this now? Okay, sure,” Greg said, and pulled off his shirt with one hand in a way that would have really turned Rebecca on if she weren’t so distracted by this amazing shark shirt that was now hers. “Here.”
The evening had taken a distinctly G-rated turn of events, which Rebecca did somewhat regret, as Greg and his rather capacious member were not to be missed, but there would still be time for them later. After she tried on this super cool t-shirt she had thought about for years, and now she’d get to hold onto because her boyfriend, Greg Serrano, gave it to her.
A huge grin on her face, she pulled it over her head, and then immediately ran into a problem.
Well, two problems.
“Goddamn boobs,” Rebecca muttered.
“Hey!” Greg said. “Those boobs are beautiful and magnificent and I will not have you insulting them like that.”
“Of course I’m not insulting them,” Rebecca said. She was sweating a bit, still trying to tug the shirt down over her chest, but could see it was a rapidly losing battle. “Ordinarily they look pretty fly in shirts. But I guess the old trope of sharing your boyfriend’s clothing doesn’t really work when you’ve got a pair of triple-D jugs.” She sighed and looked down at poor Stewart, who appeared mildly deformed, all stretched out on his sad little bicycle. “Ah well, it was a nice try.”
“Honestly, I think it works,” Greg said. “Aren’t crop tops in now?”
Laughing, Rebecca swatted his arm, and then, with a little more effort than she’d like to admit, pulled the top back off and tossed it aside. “A little less sass, a little more zsuzh.”
“Challenge accepted,” Greg said, and with a single kiss, banished all thoughts of sharks and t-shirts from her mind.
“I got you something.”
Rebecca looked up from her notebook where she’d been idly writing down song lyric ideas over a cappuccino at Serrano’s. It was one of her favorite places to go for inspiration. Between all the people watching all the customers and wondering what their stories were as they conversed over copious amounts of carbs, and the generally warm and fuzzy feeling she got whenever she saw Greg walk by, the atmosphere was just ripe for her creative juices.
Plus Greg would always slip her biscotti when he could tell she was getting restless. Perks of having a boyfriend who owned the best Italian restaurant in town. Not that she was biased. Even Chris agreed.
“You did? That’s so sweet.”
“Well, I didn’t really get it,” Greg said. He handed her a gift bag and sat in the chair next to her. “I made it. Well, I had Sophia make it. You know Sophia, really tall, works here on weekends?”
“Of course I know Sophia,” Rebecca said as she pulled the tissue paper out of the bag. “She always makes sure I get the bread without the butt.”
“Right, well, I asked her to make it. I just thought --”
“Oh, my god. Greg.”
Greg bit his lower lip. “Do you like it?”
It was the shark on a bicycle t-shirt. Except it was no longer a t-shirt. Now Stewart was proudly riding his bicycle on a somewhat oversized and ridiculously fluffy pillow.
“It’s perfect,” Rebecca said. “I love it.”
“I just thought old Stewart had done his time making me smile, so now it was time to pass him onto you,” Greg said, his lips curving upward. “And since he couldn't fulfill his duties as a t-shirt, then maybe he’d do better as a pillow that you could hug and… think of me? And… smile?"
Rebecca squeezed Greg’s hand. “You big old softie,” she said, and leaned in for a kiss. “Thank you. I will. Always.”
Greg smiled and, after one more quick kiss, stood up. “Well, I should get back to work. Happy writing.”
Rebecca watched him head back to the kitchen, tucking the pillow beneath her chin and squeezing it tight. How lucky was she to be here, in West Covina, writing music while sitting in her boyfriend’s restaurant, living her dream while being able to watch him live his?
It was pretty damn inspiring, is what it was.
With a renewed sense of productivity, she plopped the pillow in the chair across from her and turned to a fresh page in her notebook.
“Well, Stewart, time to get back to work,” she said.
Stewart looked back at her, still somewhat dazed, still riding his ridiculous bicycle.
Rebecca smiled, and pulled out her pen.