𝓣𝓸𝓶 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔁 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓑𝓸𝓸𝓴 - 4

Thinking About You In That Way - 𝐀.𝐑

𝐀/𝐍 - All credit goes to the writer biracialdisaster on Tumblr

https://www.tumblr.com/biracialdisaster/678080947905822720/thinking-about-you-in-that-way

Parings → Arvin Russell x Reader

Warnings →Fluff with a suggestively smutty ending.

Summary →You bake Arvin a cake on his birthday.

✧･ﾟ: *✧≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫✧･ﾟ: *✧

It's Arvin's birthday today.

You kiss him goodbye as he shrugs on his beat-up jean jacket over a white tee. When he's shoved both his arms into the material he tugs you close, deepening the kiss, his hands settling on your hips.

"You're going to be late," you protest, but it's weak.

He smiles against your lips. "Ain't no rush on my birthday, surely?"

"I doubt Mr. Connor cares that it's your birthday."

He huffs. "Guessin' you're right. I'll see you later."

You cup his cheek, smooth your thumb over his lower lip. "Not if I see you first."

The screen door bangs behind him and as soon as you hear the rumble of the car leaving, you get to work on a cake.

Arvin told you that his grandmother made him a cake every year. They weren't a rich family, infact, they were very poor, but she always made sure he had a cake, with a candle.

No one else, he also said, had ever thought of him like that, save his late sister, Lenora.

Last year, you didn't know him well enough to bake a cake. He hadn't been staying over yet, not back then, and all your interactions consisted of kisses in the drive-through, or wildflowers left on your doorstep.

This year, Arvin Russell is rarely far from your side if he isn't working. He isn't much for drinking with other men, preferring to work on his own car or tend to the yard. He's a quiet soul, happy in his own company, but happiest in yours.

Your dog, Biscuit - although truth be told, he's an extension of Arvin whenever the latter is home - flops at your feet as you set out sugar, flour, baking soda, eggs and butter. You unwrap squares of sweetened dark chocolate and they sit on your counter, glossy with promise.

You mix the cake, pour it into the tin. The kitchen fills with the syrupy scent of cocoa and sugar as it bakes. You drink tea and listen to the news on the radio, and when the cake is cool, you ice it as Biscuit eats his dinner of kibble and yesterday's chicken scraps, his tail thumping on the floor with happiness.

The garage Arvin works at is quiet when you ride up on your bike, the cake settled in a box in the basket on the front.

One of the guys - Miller, maybe? - lifts a hand as you approach, wheeling the bike. "He's in back."

"Thanks." You put the brakes on your bike, lean it against the garage frontage, and head in. The scent of motor oil fills your head, along with the screech of metal tools, and the thump thump of a radio set to rock music outside in the workshop's yard.

You spot Arvin - well his lower half anyway, under a Plymouth Barracuda, his scarred work boots sticking out, one leg raised, the other flat.

"Yo, Russell," one of the mechanics working on the body of a corvette calls out. "Your girl's here."

He slides out from under the big car immediately. His hair is mussed and there's a smudge of grease on his cheek. He's always getting dirty, your Arvin, whether it's through yard work or car work or - well, the other kind of dirty. You like all three.

"Baby," he says, surprised.

"I made you a cake. As it's your birthday."

He tugs a do-rag from his back pocket and swipes it over his face. "Ain't no need for that." But his features are soft. Like he's bowled over that you did this.

You unwrap it. The icing is just shiny enough, smooth, and you've swirled a heart on the top with royal icing sugar. "It's chocolate."

"Smells better'n anythin' I ever had made for me," he murmurs, a goofy grin on his face. "Bet it tastes real nice, too."

You lean up to brush your mouth across his. "I can think of a few other things that taste real nice."

"Fuck, don't start somethin' we can't finish here," he groans. "Thank you. For thinkin' of me this way."

You lean in for another kiss, but you're interrupted by Miller calling over, "Do we get us some cake and a kiss, too? Huh?"

Arvin doesn't take his gaze from you as he replies, "Gonna have to get your own girl and your own cake, Miller. This one's mine."

You settle the cake in his hands. "And you can remind me of that when you get home, okay?"

He inhales sharply, and you watch a muscle in his jaw flex. He nods, as if not trusting himself to speak, and you make a quick getaway before you tell him about your little fantasy, where he bends you over a car bonnet and claims you, hard and fast and perfect, and you tell him you're his for as long as he wants.

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