It takes Jack longer than it should to recognize the pattern.
It’s just, Bitty bakes All The Damn Time. Pies, cakes, cookies, frosting covered monstrosities that have the Falconers’ nutritionist praying to various gods that some terrible thing will befall Jack and Bitty’s oven. It never does, because Dex visits frequently enough to keep their expensive new oven in great condition.
(Jack has a theory that if he and Bitty were to ever break up, there would be a line of young hockey players ready to swoop in and steal Bitty, even at the hearty disapproval of their nutrition staff. Samwell and Falconers. And maybe Bruins too, Bitty’s been to a lot of his closer away games. His pies have wooed Millions.)
And Jack doesn’t usually pay attention to what Bitty bakes when. There’s usually a pie cooling on the counter when he gets home from roadies, sometimes something in the Sharks cookie jar Chowder got them for their third anniversary.
And, yeah, maybe it’s the same maple sugar apple pie every time. But it’s Jack’s favorite, and really, who is he to question Pie and Bitty’s baking tendencies?
Jack is a tired guy. He’s a busy dude. He can’t really be blamed for how long it takes him to finally realize what’s happening.
“Bits,” Jack says incredulously, still clutching his gear bag because epiphanies happen at inconvenient times. “Did you bake a sex pie?”
Bitty looks down at the pie in his hands, cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. “Um.”
Jack takes that as a yes.
It takes him two steps to cross the kitchen, two steps to stand close enough to Bitty that he can feel the heat coming off the pie in his hands.
“It’s not so much a sex pie,” Bitty says, still refusing to meet his gaze. “It’s more of a ‘welcome home, Jack’ pie that is usually a precursor to sex. And sometimes I think about you while I’m baking it. Because you’re coming home. And we’ll probably have sex.”
He’s bright red at this point, almost as red as the oven mitts on his hands, and Jack has never been so pleased.
“So,” Jack says, drawing the word out, “it’s a sex pie.”
“Alright!” Bitty turns and drops the pie on the cooling rack, and, oh, his flush extends to the back of his neck too, how lovely. “It’s a sex pie. But you can’t tell anyone.”
Jack’s sure his grin is at Ridiculous proportions. “I think Tater already knows.”
“How does Tater know about the sex pie and the cowboy hat?” Bitty groans and hangs his head, dangling precariously close to the sex pie that Jack suddenly very much wants to eat. Maybe off Bitty’s naked body.
“You’re apparently pretty predictable, bud,” Jack offers. “Or repetitive? He saw a snapchat you sent me and mentioned something about a special pie. So he knew way before I did.”
“Remind me to withhold jam from that man until he learns to mind his own business.” Bitty huffs and pulls the oven mitts off his hands. He finally turns around, flush subsided a little bit, and Jack kind of wants to put it back.
He doesn’t get to, though, because Bitty brushes past him out of the kitchen, already jabbering about the phone call he had with his Moomaw and a recipe he’s hoping to try for his next vlog.
Jack follows him and it’s a nice night, just getting the chance to talk.
They even eat the sex pie. In a non-sexual way.
Jack isn’t disappointed, really.
Jack is Not Disappointed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Bitty looks about ready to throw down his metaphorical gloves and head to Shitty and Lardo’s apartment here and now.
“They know us, bud,” Jack says, hoping to salvage both their friendship with Shitty and Lardo and what has the potential to be a really epic night of sex. “It was bound to happen eventually.”
“Yeah, but,” Bitty sputters, tossing the note down in what Jack is pretty sure is dramatized disgust. “This can’t be serious. They can’t be serious.”
Jack shrugs. “You know we’ll pull a historical fantasy out eventually, this is just a more you-themed version of sexually charged interests.”
“But ‘inappropriate use of baking supplies’? Really?” Bitty crosses his arms. “It’s unsanitary. And it’s not like I just have bonus baking material laying around.”
“Bud,” Jack says gently. “I’ve counted the rolling pins. And the cutting boards. We have A Lot of baking supplies.”
“But we can’t use any of those things for sex!”
Jack’s glad their walls are on the thicker side, because this is a truly hilarious conversation, but not one he wants his neighbors to know he’s having.
Then he remembers the pie.
“Bits.” Jack’s fairly certain he’s cut off a long-winded ramble about the sanitation required for certain tools and the incorrect anatomic shapes of most of his stuff, (“Jack, we can’t just shove a rolling pin up one of our asses, it just wouldn’t work!”) but Jack doesn’t really care. He’s not interested in having sex with a rolling pin. “What if we interpret it our own way?”
“And what does that mean?”
Jack glances at his watch and determines a grocery store somewhere will probably be open, if they need it.
“Do you have all the ingredients to bake a sex pie?”
Bitty goes pink, then in an incredible show of composure says, “Jack Zimmermann, I always have the ingredients for sex pie.”
Jack smiles. “Then let’s get baking.”
Jack doesn’t normally consider baking sexy. Sure, Bitty has great forearms and Jack will never deny enjoying watching him roll out dough or pound it against the counter, or bend over to put things in the oven. But it’s not normally a sexy activity.
Until suddenly it is.
And Jack’s pretty sure that after tonight, baking might be his new favorite form of foreplay.
Bitty’s got flour smeared across his cheek and forehead, and a glob of apple filling has somehow migrated to his neck. Jack wants to lick it off, so he does.
Bitty swats at him but leans into it. He retaliates by kissing the maple syrup off Jack’s chin and, really, when did baking get so messy?
“This is what we get for baking at midnight,” Bitty says, brushing sugar off his chest. Jack decides shirtless baking is a Phenomenal Idea. “I just need to do the lattice and then it can go in the oven.”
“Is it a special kind of lattice?” Jack isn’t sure if he genuinely wants to know or if he’s convinced there’s been a secret message in the sex pie the whole time.
“Nope.” Bitty pops the p, but Jack knows he’s lying.
“Eric,” he tries, because first naming Bittle is always a sure-fire way to get him to tell the truth.
Bitty ignores him and starts picking up strips of dough.
Bitty keeps working.
“Lord, fine, I decorate it differently because it’s a sex pie I bake for my NHL boyfriend, are you happy?”
Jack is Ecstatic.
“What’s the difference?” he asks, knowing his grin is Obvious, settling his hands on Bitty’s hips, his chin on Bitty’s head.
Bitty sighs. His answer is quiet, embarrassed, and Jack melts a little bit. “I make a little, woven heart at the center.”
Jack squeezes Bitty’s hips, because he’s not great with words, not great at expressing how much that tiny, embarrassing detail makes his love for Bitty surge in his chest. So he just stands close and lets himself feel.
Bitty takes his time with the lattice, but he’s always been fast with his hands, and it feels like no time at all before they’re standing in front of a beautifully latticed maple sugar apple pie with a little heart snug in the middle.
“It’s beautiful, Bits,” Jack breathes.
“It’s just a pie, Jack.” Bitty pulls away enough to settle it in their oven and punch what seems like a Very Long Time into the timer.
Jack enjoys the view.
Bitty straightens up before continuing, wiping his hands on a nearby dish towel. “Besides, it’s a lot tamer than the name sex pie would imply.”
Jack envisions a pie with anatomy and laughs.
They clean up, because Bitty hates waking up to a messy kitchen.
“What do we do while we wait?” Jack asks, glancing at the timer again. It’s not quite long enough to go to sleep for, but longer than Jack really wants to wait to have sex. But now he's committed to sex with pie involved, so it would feel wrong to continue without the pie.
Bitty hums and his thought process is probably similar to Jack’s. “We could put on The Great British Bake Off or one of those documentaries you’ve been saving? I know you really wanted to watch the one on the rise of preservatives in American food.”
“I think you wanted to watch the documentary on the rise of preservatives in American food,” Jack replies, and he’s only projecting a little.
Bitty seems pleased with this response and sets up a Netflix nest in the living room.
There’s sunlight streaming in through the windows.
Which. Is confusing. Because Jack is sure they closed their curtains last night because Bitty has a hard time dealing with the neighbor’s balcony lights shining through their bedroom window.
And their bed feels. Not bedlike.
Jack has to actually open his eyes before he remembers.
He groans. Because he’s alone on the couch. Not post-sex, not in the middle of sex, but the morning after falling asleep on the couch waiting for sex pie. God, this is disappointing.
“Sweetpea? Are you awake?”
Bitty appears in the doorway, his yellow apron covering a decent portion of what Jack is sure is bare skin. He’s practically glowing in the morning light.
And nestled in his hands is the sex pie.
“Bits,” Jack groans. “I fell asleep.”
“I noticed.” Bitty smirks. “Luckily, I didn’t, so the pie didn’t burn. And I figured, late night sex with pie seems nice and all, but you know what sounds even better?”
Jack tracks Bitty across the room, and when he walks around the couch to stand in front of Jack, his theory that Bitty is naked beneath the apron is confirmed. It’s almost kinkier than the lace panties, and Jack doesn’t really want to stop and think about that right now.
“What?” Jack asks, since it seems like Bitty’s waiting for an answer.
“Early morning lazy sex with pie,” Bitty replies brightly, like Jack’s dick isn’t already tenting the blanket draped across his lap. Morning wood has never been so handy.
Jack blinks at him, still kind of asleep, and there’s a thought in his brain that he’s dreaming, that he can’t actually be lucky enough to have Bitty standing in front of him wearing nothing but an apron, cock pressed against the material, pie cradled in his hands.
“Yeah,” Jack says a little dumbly, because whether this is a dream or not, Jack will be taking advantage of it, Thank You Very Much. “Yeah, okay.”
Bitty brightens and his smile is more luminous than the sun. “Great. I just want to say one thing first, so we’re on the same page.”
Jack nods. As long as he doesn’t have to fuck a rolling pin, he’s open to whatever Bitty’s going to say.
Bitty leans in close, so his breath tickles the stubble on Jack’s jaw, so his lips brush Jack’s ear as he speaks. Just the anticipation makes Jack shiver.
“I’m not going to fuck this pie. It’s still food and I refuse to be one of those people. However, I have every intention of eating this pie off of you and enjoying every second of it.”
Jack just nods again, because Yeah, that Sounds Great.
Without hesitation, Bitty sticks his hand into the middle of the pie and smears a big chunk of it right over Jack’s heart.
It’s probably not supposed to be romantic, the heart on the pie placed on Jack’s heart, because it’s sticky and kind of strange, but Jack’s sentimental, okay? He’s allowed to—
Bitty leans down and licks a stripe of filling off Jack’s chest, dragging his teeth over Jack’s nipple.
Jack’s not really sure the sound he makes is human, but at this point, he Doesn’t Care Anymore. His beautiful boyfriend is licking pie off him and doing a hell of a job.
Bitty keeps going, licking and sucking at the sticky filling on Jack’s skin. He pauses along the way to nip at Jack’s skin, lave at the sensitive skin of his nipples, and leave a hickey or two for his troubles.
All Jack can do is lie back on the couch and take it. He doesn’t think licking is supposed to be this hot, but his dick is suddenly Very Interested in being covered in pie and then swallowed by Bitty, so Jack figures he can handle learning about a new interest or two.
When Bitty’s finally finished enthusiastically cleaning Jack’s chest with his tongue, he reaches for the pie again.
Jack, in his hazy, lust-induced cloud, has the foresight to put his skills as a professional athlete to good use and snatches it before Bitty can. Because Jack loves a few things, including Bitty, Bitty’s skin, and Bitty’s pie. Which is probably why combining all three suddenly sounds like the Greatest Idea Jack Has Ever Had.
So he manages to get Bitty below him on the couch—sans apron, a shame--, quite the feat given that one of his hands is also dedicated to keeping the sex pie aloft and out of Bitty’s hands. But he manages it because Jack is Dedicated and Also Larger Than Bitty. He smears his own handful across Bitty’s chest, dipping lower to drag his fingers across Bitty’s stomach and his wonderful hip bones.
Then, because Jack has embraced the 110% that has been unofficially added to his name, he goes to town.
Bitty gasps and writhes beneath him, dragging his fingers through Jack’s hair and making noises that are almost as delicious as the pie spread on his skin.
It’s sweet on Jack’s tongue, and no matter where Jack presses wet kisses—dipped into Bits’ belly button, curled around his hip bones, traced up each rib—there’s the lingering syrupy sweetness that just seems embedded in Bitty’s skin.
“You’re sweet, Bits,” Jack mumbles against his skin, hot and wet and lovely.
“Keep doing that and I’ll shower in pie,” Bitty replies, tugging at Jack’s hair gently.
“You already do that, eh?” Jack pulls back to grin up at Bitty, unabashed and unashamed, because his boyfriend might actually be made of sunshine and sugar, and the thought alone makes Jack’s heart swell.
And that’s when Jack realizes that Bitty’s skin is redder than just a blush.
And oh, Jack quite likes that development. In fact, he likes it a lot. He’s marking Bitty with just the press of his face, leaving goosebumps and beard burn in his wake. Yeah. Jack Likes That A Lot.
He makes a mental note to eat Bitty out when they’re in the playoffs, so he can really see what kind of havoc his beard can wreak, then goes right back to eating pie off Bitty’s lovely stomach.
He’s made his way almost completely down Bitty’s body—“It’s not a long trip.” “Jack Zimmerman, don’t make short jokes during sex, I’ve lived up North long enough to be significantly less of a southern gentleman.”—before Bitty tugs at his hair again.
“Jack,” he gasps. “I think making out would be a good idea. With pie.”
Jack rests his chin on the delicate crease of Bitty’s thigh, close enough to his hard dick that Jack could probably lick up the side if he wanted to. And, really, he wants to, so he does.
Bitty tugs at his hair harder.
“Bud, let me blow you first.”
“I want to eat pie off your tongue,” Bitty whines.
“You can do that after I put your dick in my mouth for a sec. That okay, bud?”
Bitty huffs but nods anyway.
Jack sucks Bitty’s cock into his mouth, deepthroating without pause. He does, admittedly, have to take a second to make sure he’s breathing, then puts his tongue to good use.
Bitty, who seems to have abandoned his complaints, squirms beneath him, thighs shaking under Jack’s hands.
Jack doesn’t spend too long there, mostly because he’s also kind of eager to kiss pie off Bitty’s face, but also because this early in the morning he’s still kind of tired. His jaw isn’t keen on early morning blow jobs, apparently, which is a crime, because Bitty in the sunlight, flushed red and drunk on pie and Jack? Is Glorious.
Bitty tightens his hands in Jack’s hair and Jack relents, popping off and kissing his way back up Bitty’s body, to where his mouth is waiting, soft and pink.
They kiss, lazy and soft and consumed with nothing more than tasting each other, despite the insistent press of both their erections against one another’s thighs.
Jack rolls his hips, enjoying the slick feeling of Bitty’s cock sliding against his, the smooth feel of Bitty beneath him. Bitty starts to thrust up too, and then a moment later his hand snakes down between them. Jack groans at the contact, then sucks in a breath when the slick of his spit on Bitty’s cock mixed with a fair amount of pre-come smooths the friction.
Bitty kisses with purpose then twists his wrist, and Jack sees stars.
They’re still missing the pie, though. Jack reaches over to the coffee table, where the pie has somehow migrated to relative safety and glides his thumb around the edge.
In between kisses, Jack slides his thumb across Bitty’s lower lip, then follows with his tongue, until their kisses taste like pie filling and syrup, until Jack is almost convinced that Bitty is Sweetness Personified.
“You’re sweet,” he mumbles, and Bitty laughs.
“You already said that.”
Jack grins, and it’s hard to make out with their smiles like this, hard to make out when he’s panting like he just ran a marathon, all from having Bitty’s talented hand wrapped around his dick. But he grins and just keeps trying to kiss Bitty, if for nothing else than the slight beard burn he’ll accumulate.
They don’t last much longer, just rubbing and licking sweet filling from each other’s lips. When Bitty stiffens beneath him, moaning into Jack’s neck, Jack keeps rolling his hips, using the extra slickness from Bitty’s orgasm to push himself over the edge.
The lazy making out continues as the sun creeps closer, illuminating the wreckage that is the last of the sex pie. There’s still quite a bit of it left, Jack thinks. Maybe enough for round two.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
“Bits?” he whispers. “What day is it?”
Bitty, who has also gone still beneath him, scrunches up his face like if he prays hard enough the answer will be different.
Brunch day, Jack amends in his head, as Shitty shouts through their front door.
“Good morning, you beautiful fuckers, open up! I brought the maple syrup you like!”