Bitty’s sitting in the middle of their bed when Jack gets home.
Normally, that’s a very Sexy Thing. It equates to middle-of-the-day sex, which, if Jack were hard pressed, he would admit to being his favorite kind of sex. And not just for the sunshine factor, thank you very much.
But this time, Jack knows it isn’t a precursor to sex. Mostly because Bitty is fully clothed (though he is drowning in what looks like one of Jack’s sweaters, which enhances both the warmth in Jack’s chest and the stirring in his pants) and wearing a particularly perplexed expression.
“Hey bud,” Jack says, dropping his gym bag in the doorway. He can shower when Bitty doesn’t look so Confused. “Everything okay?”
“Hi, sweetpea.” Bitty glances up enough that Jack can tell nothing is Seriously Wrong, before looking back down at his hands, which, now that Jack is closer, he can see are cupped around a little paper note.
“Oh no, did you finally pull the weed-based sex act out of the box?”
Bitty laughs, and it does wonders to erase the serious set of his shoulders, but not much to rid him of the way his nose is wrinkling over a particularly Difficult Thing.
“Thankfully no, although I’m certain Shitty and Lardo will have devised some way to get us to have sex while inebriated, as though we haven’t already.” He rolls his eyes and Jack scoots further in, settling on the bed beside him. “Drunk Stanley Cup victory sex is hard to top.”
“I dunno, I’d kinda like to top during victory sex.”
“Next time, dear.” Bitty reaches out and pats Jack’s knee.
“Are you bribing me with victory sex so I’ll win another Stanley Cup?”
Bitty looks at him out of the corner of his eyes. “Is it working?”
Jack pretends to think, even going to far as to stroke his thumb and forefinger over his chin. “I could be persuaded. If I was allowed a sneak peek at the prize.”
“Well, Mr. Zimmermann, you’re fresh out of luck then,” Bitty says, dropping the note on the bed between them before scooting off. “Because this note has some very specific restrictions.”
“More restricting than the handcuffs?” Jack mutters, plucking up the note.
“In a different way,” Bitty replies, nudging Jack’s bag out of the doorway and disappearing into the hall.
Jack takes the opportunity to watch Bitty’s ass while he walks away (the Better Bitty Booty Bureau continues to do Great Work), then looks down at the perplexing, restricting note.
And Jack gets it now.
‘No touching (each other), this is an exercise in self-love’
While not particularly confusing, Jack can see why Bitty may have been a bit puzzled. The notes, up until this one, have all been about giving each other pleasure and trying things as a couple.
This feels more like a solo venture. Which, don’t get him wrong, Jack still indulges in, especially when Bitty’s gone or Jack’s on a roadie. It’s necessary sometimes, but one of the perks of having a partner who just so happens to be very compatible with Jack sexually is that a lot of time he doesn’t have to masturbate. Bitty is more than willing, and in fact very enthusiastic about Being With Jack. And Jack feels the same way.
Jack looks up to find Bitty in the doorway, practically engulfed in Jack’s sweater, but this time sans his sweatpants. The shirt falls just high enough on Bitty’s thighs that Jack can see he’s either wearing a very small pair of underwear, or very possibly no underwear at all, but low enough that everything's covered. He strikes a very casual silhouette, but in a way that makes Jack want to scoop him up and see about that topping thing.
Jack swallows, eyeing the hem of the shirt, the way it falls on Bitty’s tan skin, draped across his thighs like Jack so Desperately wants to be. “Very.”
Bitty pushes off the doorway, wandering into the room like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to do, and Jack thinks that he might get his middle-of-the-day sex after all.
“It’s pretty obvious what it means,” Bitty says, plucking at the sleeves of the sweater, which are long enough to cover his hands. That should be Cuter than it is Blisteringly Attractive, but Jack might have a Thing for their size difference. Sue him.
“Shitty didn’t beat around the bush with this one.”
Bitty smirks. “He probably beat something.”
Jack closes his eyes. “Please don’t talk about Shitty masturbating while you aren’t wearing pants, it’s distracting and not in the way I want it to be.”
Bitty laughs and drifts closer, sweater-covered hands moving to play with the collar of the sweater where it hangs off his shoulder, and the movement hitches the fabric up enough to give Jack another lovely, teasing inch of Bitty’s thighs.
“I was a little bit confused by the note,” he says. “Since masturbation is a pretty solo venture and the box is all about building our creative sex life together. But then,” Bitty’s hands dip into the collar further, thumbing along his own collarbone, fingers stretching up the side of his lovely neck.
His movements are slow and confident, but his voice shakes just enough that Jack can tell he’s nervous. Which. Bitty is the Most Beautiful, Sexiest Person Jack Has Ever Or Will Ever Meet. He loves him more than hockey. Hockey. Bitty has seduced Jack in every room in the house, and perhaps it wasn’t always intentional, but everything about Bitty—even the sometimes annoying or ridiculous bits—is loved Very Dearly by Jack.
So if Bitty’s nervous, it means Jack is going to do every damn thing he can to make Bitty feel like the sex god he is.
“But then?” Jack prompts, and it’s not hard to follow Bitty’s fingers with his gaze, to pass his tongue over his lower lip like he’d love nothing more than to taste the skin Bitty’s skimming across. Because he would. Jack honestly would Really Love That A Lot.
“But then I realized I want you to watch me.”
Jack’s moving before he even realizes it, reaching out towards Bitty’s sweater-clad hips with Great Intentions.
But Bitty moves before Jack can get touch him, fast even if he doesn’t play hockey regularly anymore, nimble and lithe and oh so beautifully tempting wearing nothing but Jack’s sweater.
“Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty chastises, and there’s that confidence, back where it belongs, teasing Jack relentlessly. “I know you read that note more than once.”
And now Jack kind of feels cheated, because, yeah, he did, and he knows it said no touching, but touching Bitty is on his list of Favorite Things. In fact, it’s the first three things on that list. Okay, maybe the first, third, and fourth. Hockey has to go somewhere.
“But, Bits.” It’s not a whine. Jack isn’t whining.
Bitty shakes his head and his fingers dip lower, tugging the collar even further down his right shoulder. “Aren’t you the stickler for the rules, sweetpea?”
“No, rules are dumb.”
“We both know that’s a lie, Jack.” Bitty laughs but continues to dance just out of reach of Jack’s hands, and the bed is between them now, which is ridiculous, because Jack would much prefer it to be underneath them.
“If there’s no touching, what are we going to do?” Jack asks, and that’s not giving in, it isn’t, it’s just gathering more information.
Bitty drops his hands to his thighs, and the movement drags Jack’s eyes down, so he has first row seats to Bitty tugging the sweater material up achingly slowly, revealing more tan skin and soft, fine hairs, and--
“I was thinking I’d do this,” Bitty says, and runs the back of his fingers up the side of his own cock, already half hard and teasing. He holds the sweater up with his other hand, just far enough that Jack gets a delicious peek at the skin of Bitty’s stomach.
But there’s still a bed between them.
This time Jack does whine.
“I can think of a better idea,” Jack breathes, but he doesn’t move, just tracks up and down Bitty’s form with his eyes, taking in the leisurely strokes to Bitty’s rapidly hardening cock. He licks his lips.
Bitty hums. “Why do I think that your idea involves ignoring the no touching rule?”
“Because rules are dumb.”
“Rules are dumb,” Bitty agrees, “but I think just once we can make an exception. No touching, Jack. Just watch me.”
Then, like he’s testing Jack, he slides onto the bed, looking like the sexiest god damn stalking tiger, and crawls almost seductively across their comforter.
And Jack aches to touch, aches to reach out and brush his fingers in a teasing trail along Bitty’s skin. But he doesn’t. Because rules are dumb but they’ve followed all the other ones up to this point. And while Jack might be frustrated now, he’s not a quitter.
Bitty stops in the middle of the bed, settling down on his calves and generally looking very comfortable, especially with the sweater hiked up to reveal his hard dick. He spreads his thighs and fists his cock and Jack kind of wants to cry he’s so Frustratingly Turned On.
It reminds him of when they first started doing stuff, back when they were both a little shy and a lot wanting, when Jack would watch Bitty and want, but know that he wasn’t going to mess things up by trying to move too fast. Bitty meant too much, he still means too much.
So Jack stays still and watches and feels himself get Ridiculously Hard.
Bitty arches his back and it makes his thighs spread a bit more, even where they’re bent beneath him. His hand strips up his cock a little faster, twisting near the head, and Bitty’s flushed and panting under the careful motions of his own hands and it’s not fair, because Jack Knows Bitty’s body, knows how to make it sing as well as Bitty does.
Bitty’s other hand has steadily worked its way up under the sweater, and Jack can’t see it, but he knows Bitty’s brushing teasing fingers over his own nipples, dragging his fingernails down his own chest. Jack knows because that’s what he’d be doing if he was allowed to touch.
“You should try this, Jack,” Bitty hums, breathing hitching when the hand Jack can’t see does something under the sweater.
Jack can feel more than hear whatever noise he makes, caught in his throat like his hands are caught at his sides--not touching, just watching. Dumb rules, dumb note, beautiful unreachable boyfriend.
Jack’s fingers twitch, whether to move toward where his dick is currently rioting in his pants or to try and touch Bitty again, Jack isn’t sure. All he knows is that Bitty pleasuring himself is So So Hot and So So Frustrating because Jack desperately wants to help. But instead, he’s stuck standing at the foot of the bed, watching Bitty move and writhe under his gaze, like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than letting Jack watch him masturbate.
And. Oh. The light bulb goes off in Jack’s head, and he feels stupid. Because the note was as transparent as possible and his brain refused to work beyond not liking that he couldn’t touch Bitty. Beautiful Bitty, encouraging him to move and touch himself, had paved the path for him. And past the frustration, once he lets himself just enjoy the way Bitty moves, enjoy the way his dick presses up, ready and willing to join the party, he gets it. This isn’t a lesser sexual experience or a way to torture Jack, it’s a way to watch and gain pleasure in seeing Bitty enjoying himself.
So Jack unclenches his fists from where he’s probably been doing permanent wrinkle damage to his shirt and settles a hand over the tent in his pants.
Because he might as well enjoy himself too, since he’s the only one he’s allowed to touch.
“That’s it, sweetpea,” Bitty croons, pupils blown and cheeks flushed, watching Jack with heavy-lidded eyes, an expression Jack is sure he’s mirroring.
Jack steps closer to the bed and peels off his shirt. He kicks off his pants and underwear too, for good measure, because he might not have a giant sweater to drown in, but he knows Bitty Really Likes his muscles, and he’ll give what he can.
Bitty hums appreciatively when Jack settles down in front of him on the bed, pose almost identical. They aren’t touching, but the space between their folded knees is only an inch at the most.
The note said not to touch, it didn’t say they couldn’t be close.
And Jack is really close, not just proximity-wise. He hadn’t realized until he touched his dick, his body too attuned to Bitty’s pleasure, Bitty’s movements, to recognize how far along he really was.
Watching Bitty masturbate was an Insane kind of foreplay.
“Jack,” Bitty groans, and Jack speeds up to match Bitty’s pace, the two of them moving.
“You’re doing great, bud,” he says, rolling his hips minutely.
“So are you, Jack.” Bitty manages to sound appreciative even while he’s clearly racing toward release, biting his lip and dragging his gaze down Jack’s front.
Jack uses his free hand to press against his balls, then further down, shivering at the feel of fingers along his perineum, tracing closer and closer to--
Bitty gasps and drops his head back, fist jerking only a few more times before he spills across the comforter. Some of it lands on Jack’s knee and quick as lightning Jack swipes it up and adds it to where his own precome is slicking his motions.
Bitty, still perched across from him, panting and sated, keeps his gaze locked on Jack’s. He bites his lip and buries his hands in his sweater like he knows he’ll reach out for Jack if he doesn’t.
Jack rolls his hips one more time and comes all over himself with a groan.
That’s apparently all Bitty needs because Jack’s not even completely finished when Bitty throws himself at Jack, pressing messy, desperate kisses to his lips.
“Next time,” Jack says once they’ve come up for air and Bitty is draped across his chest, beautiful and flushed and properly kissed, “I’m including you in my self-love.”
“That’s fair,” Bitty pants, and goes right back to kissing Jack.