It's a present from Shitty, and for that reason alone, Jack feels like he shouldn't accept it, as a matter of principle. Because Jack loves Shitty, he really does, but Shitty belongs nowhere near his sex life. Especially his sex life with Bitty.
"It was Lardo's idea," Shitty says, lounging easily, like he hadn't just handed Jack a box full of sex acts. "She's all over the artsy Pinterest boards and sex is a Form of Art, so."
Jack can actually hear the capital letters on Form of Art, but he's not going to think about artsy sex with Bits with Shitty sitting right there.
"I know, it's a little unconventional, but be open with me and fight the patriarchy. Deny the prison that is masculinity. Embrace the power of love."
"Shitty. This is a box full of sex acts, not love."
"Sex is part of the way you two dudes show your love, bruh. I wrote the vanilla ones if it makes you feel any better. Lards came up with some kinky shit, though, so it could be an exciting evening."
It doesn't make Jack feel better.
He hides the box as soon as Shitty leaves.
It doesn't stay hidden for long.
Jack, despite his reservations, despite his desperate need for Shitty to Not Be Part of their sex life, can't stop thinking about the box. About the myriad of things he could do to Bitty that they'd both probably enjoy, tucked away in the little wooden box.
It can’t hurt just to peek. Just to see if any of it sounds appealing.
"Jack? What's this?"
And of course Bitty found it. Jack should've known better than to hide it in the kitchen. The sight of him holding the box (wearing one of Jack’s Falconer’s shirts, the one that barely drops down to his thighs, the one that makes Jack question every single fucking time whether or not he’s wearing shorts) makes his mouth water, and maybe Jack's been thinking about it a little too much.
“It’s, uh, it was a gift. From Shitty.”
“A, uh, a sex gift.”
Bitty wrinkles his nose. “Lord, that man. Why was it in the kitchen?”
A large part of Jack can’t believe they opened the box.
An even larger part of him feels Grateful that they did.
Jack holds the note in his hands, a little disbelievingly.
'Eat him out until he cries'
And well. Jack can do that. He's good with his mouth and great with his hands. Not to mention, Bitty's ass is truly a Thing to Behold, tight and perky beneath Jack's hands, always spreading beautifully, delightfully flushed and freckled as Bitty himself.
Jack is definitely hard in his sweats.
"Jack?" Bitty says, voice soft, nervous. "What does it say?"
Bitty's already on his stomach, wearing nothing but The Shorts (Jack already checked).
It could work.
He hands Bitty the note.
Bitty turns Very Red and squirms a bit, and Jack can already feel himself getting harder.
“Is that,” he clears his throat. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” Bitty’s voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
Bitty is small and malleable and lets Jack tug him closer wordlessly. His brow is a little furrowed, but Jack smooths the skin with his thumb and then hooks that same thumb in Bitty's waistband.
Once he’s removed that obstacle, Jack settles himself between Bitty's thighs, hands skimming the broad expanse of tan skin before him. Bitty shivers.
"Is this okay?" Jack asks.
Bitty wordlessly nods.
And Jack. Well. Jack just goes to town.
Bitty makes delicious noises above him, muffled by the sheets, but Jack can feel him trembling. They've done this before, both of them, but it's always been a precursor to fucking. A way to ease slick fingers in, never just. This. It's intimate, just Jack surrounded by Bitty, musky and heady and glorious.
Jack almost forgets and starts to slide his hand down to where his mouth is, tongue gliding against the muscle. He stops, just for a moment, the brush his thumb over the puckered skin, slick with his saliva, then withdraws his finger. Jack pushes in with his tongue and Bitty keens.
Jack looks up long enough to see Bitty fist his hands in the sheets, he can feel the way Bitty's rolling his hips against the mattress, trying to find relief for his cock but not leave Jack's mouth.
He's flush all the way down to his shoulders, and Jack can see the way he's biting his lip, the skin red and plush.
Bitty looks wrecked.
But he's not crying yet.
Jack's sure Lardo is responsible for this, because she knows Jack hates it when Bitty cries.
But he thinks it might not be so bad in this setting.
Bitty looks back at him, brown eyes wide and awed, hair mussed and sweaty, and Jack licks over Bitty again without breaking eye contact.
He's hard against the sheets, has been hard, but this is for Bitty.
His cock twitches when Bitty moans brokenly, and yeah, this might not just be for Bitty.
"Jack!" Bitty gasps. "Jack Jack Jack"
Just a litany of his name, over and over, intensely southern and beautifully destroyed. Jack may be made of raw strength and determination on the ice, but it's here, in their bed, with Bitty beneath him, that he's never felt more powerful.
In the end, Bitty doesn’t cry so much as beg Jack for more, and really, who is Jack to deny him anything?
“Did you look inside the box?” Shitty asks. Because apparently brunch includes Talking About Sex now.
“Shame.” Shitty stretches. “We got really creative with a few.”
Jack almost chokes on his coffee.
Jack knows he’s red, knows Shitty’s grin is self-satisfied, but he can’t really find it in himself to care that much.