Jack’s sorely tempted not to look into the bag at all because the last time Shitty left him something he’d been chained to the headboard for several hours.
Shitty even has the decency to look sheepish while handing it over, like he knows exactly where Jack’s mind is spinning and neither of them are pleased with that direction at all.
“It’s not like last time.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
Shitty sets the bag on the kitchen table, in between overflowing brunch dishes, because apparently, he can’t even wait until they’re done eating.
“How about I swear on the Haus Rules, may they live on for centuries, that this won’t trap you in any way?”
Jack considers this.
Shitty sighs. “I would’ve had Lardo give it to Bitty, but it’s definitely more your thing than his.” He slumps down into his chair and plucks a mini quiche from the table.
“Is it wearable?”
Shitty pushes the bag closer to Jack, mindful not to knock Bitty’s lovingly crafted cinnamon rolls off the edge of the table. “On a scale of the cowboy hat to handcuffs, it veers much closer to full body garb.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“You said I wasn’t allowed to actively talk about your sex life, although I know for a fact that Bits and Lardo share all the dirt. All of it, Zimmermann. I thought we were brothers.”
“I’m an only child, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not familiar with the sibling culture surrounding appropriate knowledge of each other’s sex lives.”
“Jacques, do you talk like that in the bedroom or is that just for me?” Shitty bats his eyelashes. There’s quiche in his mustache.
Jack takes the bag and puts them both out of their misery.
Once he sees the contents, Shitty is Completely Forgiven for the handcuff incident.
He manages to not pull everything out and lay it on the bed in proper order before Bitty comes home, but it’s a close thing. He even distracts himself by locating the specific note from the box, too impatient to wait for it to crop up naturally. Jack can be patient when he wants to be, but not about this.
Jack manages to find the right note just before he hears Bitty’s key in the lock.
He practically jumps Bitty the moment he comes in the door.
“Hello,” Bitty says breathlessly after Jack stops frantically trying to shove his tongue into Bitty’s mouth. “I’d appreciate if you did that every time I came home.”
Jack’s practically vibrating, the note still clutched in his hand.
“Can we have sex today?”
“Sweetpea, we can have sex every day if we want, but I can be convinced to get creative today. Anything in particular?”
“Shitty left us a bag.”
“Lardo hinted as much.” Bitty heads toward their bedroom and Jack trails behind. “Did you find the right note?”
Jack hands it to Bitty and grabs the paper bag they got from Shitty, carefully pulling out the various components and articles of clothing.
“Build your own creative historical fantasy, featuring Jack’s uniform kink.” Bitty whistles. “They certainly went all out for this one, but knowing you I can see why.”
Jack brushes his hands over the uniform shirts, thumbing at the starched collar.
“Which era?” Bitty asks, sliding up behind Jack and wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist.
“World War II.” Jack doesn’t have to look at Bitty to know he’s smirking. “Yes, I’m predictable, I know, but he went outside the box by giving us British military uniforms.”
“There’s nothing wrong with predictable.” Bitty pushes up on his toes to press a kiss to Jack’s cheek and then ducks around him to look at the uniforms. “They’re pretty realistic.”
“Shitty knows I have a thing about historical accuracy.”
“We all know that. Did they have lube back then?” Bitty asks, holding the sleeve close to his face like he knows anything about costume fabric.
And, Jack thinks, maybe he does. Those old figure skating outfits had a lot of flare, and he did put together some great Halloween costumes. Mrs. Lovett stands out in Jack’s mind, with the swishy skirt and the sheer material that had circled Bitty’s collarbones. Jack’s mouth is suddenly very dry, and he wonders if Bitty still has that costume somewhere.
But World War II naval uniforms are calling, and Jack puts the thought aside for another day. “It was the forties, Bits, they weren’t primitive.”
“Yes, well, forgive me if the rampant homophobia of the twentieth century doesn’t give me much hope for proper preparation.”
Jack laughs. “Vaseline was used a lot back then, since it’s waterproof. But it wasn’t very conducive to safe sex because it damaged latex. Oils, though, have been used since around 400 BC.”
Bitty lets go of the sleeve and looks at Jack. “Since when are you the leading edge on the history of lubrication?”
“Since Shitty handed me a bag of British naval uniforms from the forties and I decided I wanted this to be historically sound.”
“We’re not using vaseline, that stuff is thicker than Crisco and tastes like wax.”
“Why do you know what it tastes like? Do you eat vaseline?”
“Jack Zimmermann, you cannot chirp me about what I know when you just pulled out a veritable treatise on historical lube.” Bitty throws the larger costume shirt at him.
Jack laughs and catches the shirt, pleased with the sturdy feel of the material.
“Historical accuracy may have to give leeway to modern advances,” he concedes, “if only for health and safety.”
“Thank you,” Bitty says, wry smile in place. “And I’m glad we could come to this understanding. Now please put on that jacket and order me around, Lieutenant.”
“I think I’d much rather be a captain.”
“Of course you would.” Bitty grins coyly at Jack. “Let me just put on something more appropriate for a meeting with a senior officer.”
Jack loves Bitty So Much.
Jack slides the last button into place and looks himself over in the
selfie sex full-length mirror in their bedroom. Not terrible, considering he had to Google how to put the pins on properly.
It’s simple, once he’s standing there, white button up and black tie made Something More by the navy blue coat and gold buttons. His new variety of pins practically glitter in the light streaming through their windows and Jack feels a piece of himself settle into place. He’s never felt any sort of inclination to join the military, but the clean-cut, put together man in the mirror makes a rather convincing argument for a career in uniform.
Maybe he can get creative with his cufflinks next season. His game-day suit could use a little bit of sprucing up.
What really sets the scene though, Jack decides, is the hat. Thick wool and brassy pendant add to Jack’s commanding look, and he lets himself run his fingers along the stiff brim, to feel this new kind of authority that came with the title of a different kind of Captain.
Behind him, the bathroom door opens.
“Oh Captain, my Captain.”
Bitty leans against the bathroom doorway, and Jack was wrong, his hat isn’t what sets the scene. Bitty’s tightly buttoned, stark white uniform, looking pinned and proper under a truly delicious lascivious smirk, makes the whole morning waiting for Bitty to get home Worth Every Minute.
“That line originated from a poem about the death of Abraham Lincoln.”
Bitty blinks, his hungry expression dropping away in favor of one that Jack figures is one part exasperated, two parts fond. It’s an expression Jack is Familiar with.
“Well, if there are any other lines that include the word Captain that I can use instead, please let me know.” He saunters across the room, and Jack thinks there’s a reason the British navy retired these uniforms after World War II.
He can’t stop staring at Bitty, because Hot Damn. Bitty’s ass in those pants. Jack feels like all of Bitty’s other clothing would understand if he got rid of everything but those pants. The shoulders of his button up stretch across his shoulders beautifully, and the belt wrapped around his waist has effectively turned Bitty into a study in angles.
His hat is perched jauntily on his head, and the whole image has created a rather stunning array of indecent phrases and images in Jack’s head, ones that he would use if his tongue wasn’t too busy trying to find its way into Bitty’s mouth again.
Bitty almost knocks Jack’s hat off when he lunges toward him, and once Jack has the feel of Bitty’s uniform-clad body under his hands, he knows that these costumes are going to be accumulating a lot of miles in the near future. And probably the distant future. However long Jack can fit into this uniform, he’ll be enticing Bitty to have sex with him in it.
And it doesn’t seem like Bitty will mind at all.
“Did you have something in particular you wanted to do?” Bitty gasps between kisses, his fingers doing their best to touch all the bits and pieces on Jack’s chest without wrinkling anything. He’s not very successful.
“You mean, besides fucking in the uniforms?”
Bitty snorts and proceeds to slow their frantic kisses into something less desperate.
“Sweetpea,” Bitty soothes, pushing up on his toes so he can press their foreheads together, hats be damned. “I thought maybe you’d want something a little more?”
Jack frowns. “We can fuck more than once if you want, but we aren’t teenagers anymore, it’ll take a little bit--”
“That’s not really what I meant.” Bitty walks his fingers over the brass buttons on Jack’s coat, looking rightly nautical now that Jack can see the little pieces pinned to his own uniform. “I was thinking something more along the lines of...creating our own scenario? Like it suggested in the note? From the box?”
Jack blinks, brain whirling into action faster than the rest of him can keep up (except his cock, which stays Very Involved and Up To Speed, thanks), because it sounds like Bitty wants to roleplay a sexy military meeting with him.
Jack Zimmermann decides at that moment that he’ll give Eric Bittle Anything his heart desires, no matter how much cookware they already own.
Bitty’s still talking, blissfully unaware of Jack’s silent promise to spend his entire next paycheck on pie ingredients.
“If I promise not to quote poems about death anymore, maybe I can really give the rank thing a try?”
Jack’s mouth must still be several steps behind his brain, because instead of enthusiastically promoting the idea, Jack says: “I don’t know if either of us knows enough about naval ranking to get it right.”
“Jack Zimmermann, do you want me to call you Captain or not?”
Jack’s had people calling him captain for years. It was a regular occurrence through junior leagues, college, and now on the Falconer’s team. Bitty teases him with it and Tater makes increasingly creative nicknames around it and Ransom still has it as his name for Jack in his phone.
So the word itself shouldn’t suddenly make Jack want to pin Bitty for the furniture.
But it does.
Oh, It Really Does.
Jack kind of wishes he had a desk to sit behind to really complete the image his brain is rapidly building, but he figures one of the kitchen chairs will do.
Bitty squawks indignantly when Jack scoops him up, but he settles into Jack’s hold immediately, a familiar weight. He doesn’t seem surprised when Jack carries him out of their bedroom and into the kitchen, where the ornate, wooden chairs at their table sit. They’re probably the closest thing Jack thinks he and Bitty will ever get to a fancy office chair. Considering neither he nor Bittle can sit still for long enough to actually get anything even remotely close to office work done, their actual intended office space sits empty. Jack may have to rectify that solely for the purpose of office sex.
Jack sets Bitty down in the doorway and smooths down his uniform, blatantly feeling Bitty more than strictly necessary.
“Wait right here,” he says, and his tone isn’t what it is for captaining hockey, but it branches off that idea. It’s more commanding, more sure, but not in the robotic way Jack knows his pressers sound like.
Bitty shivers and nods, letting Jack straighten his hat, dark eyes trailing across Jack’s body as he moves across the kitchen.
Jack tugs one of the chairs out and settles down into it, legs spread, back straight, and left hand trailing across the top of the table.
He inclines his head towards Bitty and wonders if either of them will be able to keep it together long enough to actually do this.
Bitty, expression schooled into something that vaguely resembles a calm demeanor, knocks on the kitchen doorway.
“You asked to see me, Captain?”
They both immediately burst into laughter.
“No, wait, I can do better.” Bitty giggles and straightens himself out, then strikes a pose against the doorway. “Captain, there’s been an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?” Jack asks, not even bothering to try and keep a straight face.
“A malfunction. The ship is probably sinking.”
Jack laughs so hard he snorts.
“I thought you were going to tell me there was an emergency in your pants.”
Bitty rolls his eyes and steps into the kitchen. “I’ve heard Shitty say that unironically, and I refuse to recycle his lines.” He walks purposefully over to Jack and straddles him, pressing as close as he can get. “Especially not when I can come up with my own.”
Jack grins, his hands brushing the fabric of Bitty’s uniform. The air between them is thick and warm, and not just because they’re both in wool. “A sinking ship, though? Really?”
“I didn’t say it was a good line.”
Bitty leans in and kisses Jack, and it’s light and sweet until he slides his tongue along Jack’s bottom lip and then everything’s heady again.
Jack runs his hands down Bitty’s back, feeling the uniform material under his hands, and settles on Bitty’s ass, thighs spread wide over Jack’s hips.
Bitty’s hands wander beneath Jack’s coat, hooking the brass buttons and tugging his belt out of the way.
Jack tightens his grip on Bitty’s ass and grinds upward.
“Careful, Captain,” Bitty breathes, “we can’t get too distracted while our ship is sinking.”
“I think we’re the ones rocking the boat,” Jack mutters against Bitty’s lips, rocking steadily against him.
“I don’t see how boat puns are any better than quoting a death poem.”
“The puns are thematically appropriate.”
“I’m clearly not doing my job if you can still say the word thematically.”
Bitty grinds down against him, and even with all the layers between them, Jack moans. The pants were great, but it’s time for them to Go. Vacate the Premise.
Jack reaches between them for Bitty’s zipper and grunts when he encounters another belt.
“A shirt belt and a pants belt,” Bitty gasps. “Overkill, right?”
“I don’t think they had this in mind when they designed the uniforms.” Jack manages only to frustrate himself before Bitty presses one more kiss to his lips and disentangles himself from Jack.
Jack pants, slumping in their kitchen chair, uniform in disarray, and realizes he is about to receive the Greatest Strip Tease of All Time.
First Bitty undoes his shirt belt, as he so kindly called it, then the belt hooked through his pants. He looks at Jack when he gets down to his underwear, uniform shirt making him look like he stepped right out of Risky Business.
He’s still got the hat on, though.
Jack thinks of himself as a man who knows what he wants.
“Do you want me to leave the shirt on?” Bitty asks, plucking at the buttons.
Jack shakes his head. “I think the hat is enough, you don’t really need anything else.”
Bitty shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he shrugs off his uniform shirt and shimmies out of his underwear, until he’s standing in their kitchen wearing nothing but a jauntily perched naval hat.
It’s like six of Jack’s fantasies rolled into one.
Very aware of how clothed he still is, Jack palms at himself through his pants, loving the way Bitty’s eyes go dark as he tracks the movement.
“Hey, sailor.” Bitty flicks the brim of his hat, abandoned uniform pieces scattered around him like some kind of kinky clothes confetti.
Jack palms himself harder, groaning at the friction.
Bitty carefully settles on his knees, probably cold against the tile, and pushes Jack’s legs apart, like he was made to sit between them.
“I feel like I should say something about being a disobedient subordinate,” Bitty says, running his palm over Jack’s cock and tugging his zipper down. He tugs down Jack’s underwear and Jack’s cock pops free, glistening with precome and Relieved (at least Jack is) to join the party. “But I’m not feeling very clever and I’d really just like to put your dick in my mouth.”
“That’s more than clever enough,” Jack says, then has to focus all of his energy on not choking Bitty, whose talented tongue has taken up residence alongside Jack’s cock.
Bitty drags his fingernails down Jack’s uniform-covered thighs and bobs his head. He’s good at this, Great at this, and as much as Jack jokes that he wants to live between Bitty’s thighs, Bitty has surely made a home for himself between Jack’s.
“Kitchen lube,” Jack gasps, tugging at Bitty’s hair when he starts to feel himself unravel. Because this is Great, this is So Great, but Jack wants the burning feeling of Bitty’s bare skin against his clothes, wants to feel Bitty take him deep in a different way.
Bitty pulls off with a pop, lips slick and red. “I want to be embarrassed that we have kitchen lube, but honestly it’s just sensibility on our part.”
It doesn’t take long to open Bitty up, especially not when he’s perched on Jack’s lap, straddling his thighs with a naked confidence, and Jack loves having Bitty on his lap, Loves It, but it’s So Much Hotter with their clothing disparities and two of Bitty’s own fingers gliding in alongside Jack’s.
Bitty presses a hand to Jack’s chest, nails digging into the wool, and gasps, “I’m ready, Captain, come on.”
“Fuck.” Jack drops his forehead against Bitty’s and breathes.
Bitty finds his footing on either side of Jack’s chair and lifts himself up enough that Jack can line them up, and it puts Bitty’s lovely flushed chest in front of Jack’s mouth, which is a gift if Jack ever saw one.
Jack flicks his tongue out over Bitty’s nipple, dragging his stubbled cheek against Bitty’s skin when he crosses to the other.
Bitty groans and almost drops, thighs shaking under Jack’s hands.
“Jack, I--” Bitty bites his lip, hands winding up into Jack’s hair.
Jack guides him down until Bitty’s ass is sitting on Jack’s thighs, his forehead on Jack’s shoulder.
They sit for a moment, breathing in sync, until Jack hitches his hips up a bit and then it’s like they’re racing to finish.
Bitty wraps his arms around Jack’s shoulders and they’re doing more breathing than kissing as they grind together, but it’s perfect having Bitty this close to him, their noses brushing as they roll their hips.
Jack’s hands fit perfectly around Bitty’s ass, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin his cock is pounding into. He can feel Bitty grinding back and forth, fucking himself back onto Jack and finding friction for his own cock against Jack’s uniformed front.
Before long their movements are more frantic and less coordinated, and Jack can tell by the slackness of Bitty’s mouth, the pink gracing his chest, that he’s close.
“You gonna finish me, Captain?” Bitty asks, heavy-lidded eyes pinning Jack with their gaze.
Jack can’t think.
Bitty rolls his hips twice more and spills between them.
Jack barely makes it another thrust upward, and then they’re both shaking and gasping on the kitchen chair, tangled together.
Bitty pants against his neck, fingers tangled in Jack’s uniform shirt. “I’d say that this was a success.”
Jack hums, not sure he could speak yet if he wanted to.
“I wonder,” Bitty says thoughtfully, fingers finding their way to the skin beneath Jack’s collar, “if Shitty could get us something from World War I. I always thought Jeremy Irvine looked good in War Horse.”
Jack almost accidentally tips them both out of the chair.