Jack’s brain Physically Cannot Handle how Incredible Eric Richard Bittle looks at this moment in time.
“It’s not too much, right?” Bittle asks, looking down at his toes, as though anything he does or might ever do could possibly be too much for Jack.
“Bits,” Jack manages, and even he can hear how wrecked he already sounds, how gravely his voice is.
Because Bitty is standing there, the skin of his chest flushed pretty pink, a pair of thigh-high hockey socks wrapped up his beautiful legs, and, like a bow on a fucking Christmas present—the best Christmas present Jack Zimmermann could ever hope to receive—he’s wearing a pair of Falconer blue lace panties.
“Lardo picked them out,” Bitty admits, twisting his fingers in front of his stomach, looking as though he wants to adjust the underwear, and it’s almost obscenely revealing, the way it clings to every bit of Bitty. “She said they were bonus material for the box.”
Jack wouldn’t care if they were hand delivered by Mothman, the fact that Bitty’s wearing them is all that matters. “Bits,” he repeats, because that’s all his mouth can do right now.
“I hope you don’t mind that I picked one without you. But I wanted to surprise you, and I figured you liked the other ones so much, I could get something ready? And then the one I picked said ‘Lingerie’ and had special instructions, but I—”
Bitty’s still talking, kind of rambling at this point, and Jack should pay more attention to that, he really should, but it’s taking everything he has to just stand in the entryway of their apartment, staring at his beautiful boyfriend.
“Bits,” Jack practically growls, and then he moves, sweeping into the apartment and slinging Bitty over his shoulder.
Bitty lets out a breathy laugh that’s one part self-conscious, six parts relieved and Jack can’t even get them all the way to the bedroom. He settles for cleaning the sofa later and drops Bitty onto the cushions.
And then. He just kind of stands there. It’s probably kind of pervy, what with his tented jeans and what is probably a very hungry glint in his eyes, but, God, Bitty looks unlike anything Jack has ever seen before.
“You gonna join me or just stare all day?” Bitty raises an eyebrow, and Jack kind of wants to worship whoever taught him how to do that.
Jack drops to his knees, unbothered by the coffee table or couch pillows that serve as no longer relevant obstacles to him being near Bitty. He slides a hand reverently along the socks, thumb picking at the symbol at the top.
And apparently he’s capable of speech now, because the thing that comes out of his mouth is: “I didn’t know they made hockey socks this high.”
Bitty laughs, a beautiful sound that quickly becomes a moan when Jack continues to move his palms along the material until his thumb is on the edge of the sock and his fingertips stretch across the waistband of the lace on Bitty’s hips.
“I wasn’t sure they did either. But Lardo helped. She knew I’d want to make it,” Bitty hesitates, briefly, “realistic.”
Jack laughs, or at least that’s the sound he tries to make, it sounds a little strangled to his ears, and really, with everything in front of him, he can’t be blamed.
He moves down, closer to Bitty’s feet, and wraps a hand around one of his ankles. “I like it,” he says, and Bitty’s chest puffs up a little bit.
“Is there anything in the world you love more than hockey?” Bitty teases.
Jack leans in, cradling one of Bitty’s sock-clad feet closer and pressing a kiss to his ankle.
“You,” he says.
Bitty presses his other foot to Jack’s face and shoves him gently. When Jack finally manages to stop laughing long enough to wrestle Bitty’s feet away, he can see that Bitty has his hands pressed to his Very Red face. As though, out of everything they’ve done, Jack telling Bitty just how much he loves him is too much.
“Lord, you’re a fucking sap, Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty says, but he sounds breathless.
Jack shrugs, crawling up onto the couch (suddenly Very Glad that they picked one of the larger sofas) so that he can settle his chin on Bitty’s stomach, the lacy of his Falconer blue panties brushing Jack’s neck. Bitty’s cock jumps too, and Jack can’t help but smirk.
“It’s true, bud. You and hockey, that’s it for me.”
This time Jack manages to dodge Bitty’s feet and instead wraps Bitty’s thighs over his shoulders.
Bitty doesn’t seem to mind the change in position and squirms a little on the cushions.
“Can I?” Jack doesn’t even have a real end to that question, a concrete hold on Everything He Wants To Do, but Bitty seems to understand because he just nods and lets Jack explore.
His hands continue tracing the lace on the panties—and holy fuck, even just the feeling of them under his fingers, the thought of them wrapped around Bitty’s arguably Incredible Assets is almost Too Much for Jack to handle. He didn’t think he felt so strongly about underwear until Bitty was the one wearing it. Now, he wants to find out where he can buy more in all sorts of colors so that they can do this all the time.
He settles for straight up burying his face in Bitty’s crotch and mouthing at his cock through the thin fabric. It doesn’t contain anything, not really, but it sure does feel wonderful catching on the scruff on Jack’s face and gradually soaking through with Bitty’s pre-come.
Bitty’s thighs shake, Jack can feel them against his shoulders, and he’s moaning beautifully beneath Jack, gasping his name.
Jack thinks he should move, climb further up Bitty, maybe take them both in hand, but he has no immediate desire to put his mouth anywhere but where it is, so he keeps tonguing over the growing wet spot. When the panties are tented enough that Bitty’s cock is slipping over the top, Jack hooks his fingers in the fabric and tugs them aside, just enough that he can press his mouth to more of Bitty’s skin.
Bitty squirms, thighs tightening a bit where Jack’s face is between them, and honest to God, if Jack suffocated here, between Bitty’s thighs, his face buried in his panties, cock rubbing desperately against the side of the couch, he wouldn’t even complain.
At some point, Jack slips the panties off Bitty, so that he can properly press his tongue against all the parts of him. He leaves the socks on, though, because they aren’t in the way. And Jack may or may not Really Like the feel of them under his hands.
Bitty doesn’t cry this time either when Jack presses into him with his tongue. He just continues to make beautiful noises.
Jack works his tongue, then one finger, then two fingers into Bitty, before the idea hits him hard, and he’d rutting against the sofa at just the thought.
It takes him a moment to articulate what he wants, because Bitty’s still making delicious noises and is Generally Very Distracting, but eventually, Jack gets there.
“Can I?” Jack repeats, tugging the lace panties off the floor and motioning toward where his fingers are still twisting inside Bitty.
“You want to fuck me while I’m wearing them?”
Jack can feel his cheeks burning, and he’s not embarrassed by this sudden hunger, just. Really Really Excited.
Bitty blushes but nods, letting Jack slip the lace back over his legs until he’s tucked in once again, a repeat present for Jack to unwrap.
He tugs the crotch aside, so that Bitty’s hole is exposed once more, and can’t stop himself from moaning at the sight.
Jack shoves his pants down, a little amused that he couldn’t even bother to strip before this (and then a Whole Lot Turned On, because the fact that he’s still dressed and Bitty’s in just lace and socks is Ridiculously Hot) and reaches into the side table drawer to find lube. From there, he slicks up and pushes in, pressing his lips to Bitty’s neck, and he kind of wishes they’d filmed this version.
Bitty comes not long after, and Jack’s right behind him. He’s sated, probably glowing, and he gives himself a few seconds to just press against Bitty before pulling back to see the mess between them.
The panties survived, but barely, covered in a variety of fluids that Jack kind of wants to taste. So he does, ducking down and peeling the fabric back to lick at Bitty’s come and sweat-soaked skin.
“Jack 110% Zimmermann,” Bitty mutters above him, shaking minutely, and Jack doesn’t really want to ask, so he just keeps pressing kisses to Bitty’s hip bones. Maybe he should send Lardo and Shitty a fruit basket.
“So, what did Jack think?” Lardo’s eyebrows are more expressive enough on their own, but just the implication in her voice makes Bitty want to bury his face in the meringue pie. Lardo didn’t deserve pie if she was going to tease him like this.
By the time Bitty peels his fingers off his face (which is probably ridiculously red, good Lord), Lardo is finishing a slice of pie and looking like she’s contemplating going in for a second.
Bitty clears his throat once, twice, before speaking. “How did you know? That he would like it?”
“Bits, I’ll be real with you, he probably only liked them because you were the one wearing them. Jack doesn’t really strike me as a lingerie kind of guy.”
Lord, Bitty’s mother would probably have a lot of things to say about Lardo’s casual assessment of Jack Zimmermann’s underwear preferences, but she was never going to know that Bitty wore panties for Jack Ever, so her potential feelings were moot.
“I’m just glad you came to me for a pair,” Lardo continues, shoveling pie in her mouth at a rate that shouldn’t have been possible for maintaining a conversation. “I was worried you’d be too embarrassed to follow the special instructions.”
Bitty shakes his head. “What would you have done if Jack had been the one to draw that card?”
Lardo shrugs. “I bought a pair in his size too, but I was really hoping it would be you.”
And Bitty. Well, Bitty’s brain short circuits a little bit at the idea of Jack in lace instead of him and. Huh. That might be worth pursuing.
From the expression on Lardo’s face, Bitty’s sure he’s not doing a great job of hiding his train of thought.
“Lord, Larissa, I think you’ve gone above and beyond the requirements of friendship. There aren’t any other special requirements for the box, right? Because I don’t know if I could handle another gift like that.”
Lardo’s eyes gleam and she just keeps eating pie, and Bitty kind of feels like he should hide the box in the kitchen drawer where he first found it.
He won’t, but he certainly won’t tell Lardo that.