It starts with a box, just not the box that Jack is expecting.
It’s a cardboard box, for one, the white and blue striped ones the USPS sells as folded up little flat strips of cardboard. When all the flaps are folded correctly they form a sizable box, and Mrs. Bittle has expertly built this one. Jack’s never been fond of having to fold his own box together, but he knows the Bittles are almost religious in their use of USPS boxes.
Jack suspects it’s because one of Bitty’s cousins works at the Madison post office, but has never voiced that particular suspicion.
“We got mail?” Jack asks, despite the fact that he can see Very Clearly that they got mail.
Bitty, standing over the open box with a handful of shiny fabric, just shakes his head.
“Mama sent me some old stuff. A few old figure skating medals, peewee participation ribbons, a skating costume or ten.”
“Skating costume?” Jack sets down his bag and wanders further into the kitchen, peering over the open white flaps of the box. Nestled inside are a variety of colored fabrics, swirled around a few odds and ends. Jack recognizes a couple of items from the times they’ve visited Madison and knows they’re a small percentage of the various trophies hung in Bitty’s childhood bedroom.
“Yeah, though what she thinks I’ll do with them I have no clue.” Bitty tugs another one out of the box, this one blue and sheer in a few places, and, really, Jack should have seen this coming.
It shouldn’t be surprising since Jack knows some of his turn-ons are competency and sheer fabric. And Bitty wearing both of those things. So Bitty holding a Fancy Costume he won awards in is Definitely Doing Things for Jack.
“I mean,” Bitty continues, oblivious to the way Jack’s lizard brain wants to wrap him in sheer fabric and blow him on the spot. “We’re going to Georgia in less than a month, she could’ve just waited and given them to me then.”
“But then she wouldn’t have gotten to use the USPS box,” Jack mumbles, reaching in and hooking a fold of smooth black fabric around his finger. It’s softer than he thinks something worn by skaters should be, something built for durability and speed. But he can picture it stretching over Bitty’s skin, fitted snug so he can speed across the ice.
Bitty laughs and rolls his eyes. “My family’s dedication to the United States Postal Service is no laughing matter, Jack, you know that.” He drops the material back into the cardboard box and puts his hands on his hips. “I wonder if we could find a place for them in the coat closet. Or maybe somewhere more secure? Tater would have a field day with this stuff.”
Bitty turns, like he’s going to check the coat closet, or maybe just leave the kitchen, and Jack feels the potential for Something slipping through his fingers.
He can’t let that happen. He can't let this box be tucked away somewhere, hidden from the world and from him. He just can’t.
“Do you,” Jack clears his throat, voice thick and caught with Something, and it makes Bitty turn to look at him, really look. “Do you think any of them still fit?”
Bitty squints at him, at what is surely a pink face, at where his hands are fisted at his sides, trying not to touch the soft fabric. He’d be embarrassed about how it’s tearing him apart without having to do a thing, but Jack is fully aware of the things he finds Unbelievably Sexy.
Bitty is usually Very Aware too, but it takes him a moment in this instance to Realize it.
When he does, Jack can see his expression change, a switch that goes on inside him.
“I’m not sure,” Bitty says slowly. Seductive and cautious all at once; a combination that’s lethal to Jack, who has always loved Bitty’s capability and willingness to try things out. “They’re old, Jack. I wore most of these when I was a teenager, and that was a long time ago. I’ve done a lot of squats since then.”
“It’d probably be a tight fit,” Jack says, and he can hear the way his voice is strained, can hear the way he’s holding himself back, but he’s pretty sure that’s what sets Bitty off.
“Oh, definitely,” Bitty replies, turning back to the box as if he hadn’t been about to walk away, hadn’t been about to leave Jack alone with this cardboard USPS box of memories. “I’d probably stretch something out. Might leave a few marks.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, and that’s about all he can come up with now, which is a shame because he’s really been working on his bedroom talk. And talk in general.
Bitty trails a hand over the material, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms strong. Jack doesn’t spend nearly enough time worshipping Bitty’s arms. His hands too, even if Jack is certain they would look better with a band wrapped around his left-hand ring finger.
He’s got to focus right now, though. They’re going to Madison next month for the fourth, Jack will have plenty of time then. Right now, it’s just the two of them and a box full of possibilities.
Well, two boxes.
“We won’t know for sure unless I try them on, though.” Bitty plucks a few from the box and drapes them over his arm. He turns on his heel toward their bedroom and Jack follows.
Bitty shuts the door to their bathroom, and Jack just stands there, not sure what to do with himself. Bitty’s on the other side of the door, stripping out of his t-shirt, tugging material over his skin. If it’s tight at all—and Jack Knows it will be—it’ll leave red marks on Bitty’s skin, lines to prove something was there.
And Jack can’t just stand there while he does.
The box—the brunch sex box, not the USPS box, though now Jack is starting to think he’ll have another weird association, this time between sex and boxes—is still sitting on their bedside table, and Jack wastes no time diving toward it. He pulls out the first note he sees and unfolds it so fast he nearly tears it.
It doesn’t disappoint him.
Something old and something new. Try out a blast from the past with a new twist
Jack thinks about checking their apartment for cameras or listening devices, then decides he’s just Very Predictable to his friends. He double checks the handwriting and makes a mental note to send Lardo something in the mail. Do artists like bouquets made out of brushes?
“I’d think you got distracted,” Bitty says from behind him. “But you look too pleased to not be holding something that goes right along with this.”
Jack turns around and his brain short circuits.
It’s like the ribbon, but More.
Bitty’s wearing a leotard, which is an Absolute Game Changer. It’s dark blue, something Jack is smug about, and the fabric shines when Bitty moves. Jack can imagine how it looked under the lights, skimming across the ice and shimmering. It probably had pants originally (Jack doubts teenage figure skating tournaments are that scandalous), but Bitty foregoes the pants, standing there in just the tight leotard.
It’s got fancy cuts along the sleeves, revealing arms and skin and things that Jack has seen and shouldn’t look so appealing covered up, but they do. The V of his hips is insane, the fabric arching over them and making his thighs look Delicious. The collar dips down, pulled tight across Bitty’s chest, yanked a little further down than it probably was originally meant to, but that just means there’s more skin for Jack to look at.
Bitty’s skin is a little red, the leotard dipping down in places where the elastic can only stretch so far, and Jack kind of wants to stick his hands underneath it and cry.
Bitty walks closer and plucks the note from this fingers—or maybe Jack drops it, he can’t really feel any part of himself but his dick right now—while Jack’s distractedly ogling him, and huffs a little laugh when he reads it.
“Wow, are we being spied on? Did Shitty text my mother about this?”
“Bud,” Jack says, voice Strained, because he can’t deal with talking about Shitty or Bitty’s mom right now, not when Bitty’s standing there in a form-fitting fabric leotard and Literally Nothing Else.
He’s never wanted to touch anything so badly in his life.
Bitty waves a hand at him, still looking down at the note. “You can touch all you want, Jack, I’m going to keep reading.”
Jack would love to say he doesn’t Immediately wrap his hands around Bitty’s waist and bury his face in his neck, but that would be a lie.
Bitty laughs, dropping the note when Jack jostles him. He winds his hands through Jack’s hair, and his laugh hitches a bit, turning into something lower, something breathier, when Jack kisses where Bitty’s shoulder meets fabric.
It’s cool under his hands, not quite silk, but smooth. He doesn’t know enough about material to say whether it’s nylon or satin or whatever, but he knows it’s soft and grips Bitty’s body like a second skin. Jack can see ripples of muscle, edges of ribcage, pieces of Bitty that twist and pull within the confines of this suit, and Jack Wants.
Bitty directs his head up and kisses him, slick-mouthed and filthy, and suddenly Jack’s the one being swept along, lost in the sensation of Bitty’s tongue against his.
“Move quickly, Jack,” Bitty mumbles into the kiss. “This thing is tighter than I thought it would be.”
Jack keeps his hands moving, the material smooth under his palms, the curves and edges of Bitty a familiar map beneath his fingers. He can’t seem to stop touching, fingers dipping into the places where the elastic curves tightly into Bitty’s skin—his shoulders, his thighs, his ass. It’s a masterpiece, an exercise in fit and space and Jack Aches.
He slides his fingers under where the leotard arches over Bitty’s hip, and it’s even tighter with Bitty tenting the front of it.
“I am physically incapable of moving any faster than this,” Jack says, breaking their frantic kisses to look down at where his fingers are disappearing beneath the fabric. It’s Ridiculously Erotic, and he’s not even touching Bitty’s dick.
“That’s a lie, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty says, taking several purposeful steps forward so that Jack has to move with him. “I’ve seen you on the ice. I've run with you in the park. We’ve even had very athletic, very fast sex. This is a low setting, and you need to step it up before this thing cuts off all the blood flow to my thighs.”
“I think it’s redirecting all that blood elsewhere.” Jack palms at Bitty with the hand not tucked up beside his hip and gets shoved backwards on their bed for his trouble.
Bitty crawls up onto him, and it’s like every superhero latex fantasy Jack didn’t know he should be having. Jack heart is racing in his chest, his hands not sure what to do that isn’t Touch Bitty Reverently. Bitty straddles Jack, the leotard cutting a deep curve down his chest. It’s Stupid Hot and Jack is a Mess.
Jack puts his hand back on Bitty’s cock, where it’s formed an obscene bulge in the fabric, a tiny dark patch starting to form along the tip. He kind of wants to tug the leg hole up until Bitty springs free through it, but he’s not totally sure how that will move the fabric in other places.
Instead, he brushes his palms down Bitty’s sides until they’re settled on his hips and looks up at him, probably making it very clear that Bitty has his Undying Devotion At All Times.
“You can’t look at me like that when we’re about to have kinky leotard sex,” Bitty says, his blush extending past the collar.
“Like what?” Jack teases, fingering along the edges of the leotard before sliding his hands inside on both sides.
“Like, hm,” Bitty’s eyelids flutter when Jack pushes his hands back further, palming Bitty’s ass. “Like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Don’t respond to that, I know I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“I’m glad you know,” Jack says, sitting up and pulling Bitty into another round of wet kisses, the hands on his ass keeping him close.
“Okay but seriously, we have to keep this moving or I’ll burst out of this thing, and not in the fun way.”
“Would you be averse to making this a little dirty?” Jack asks, twisting them so Bitty’s the one on his back.
“It’s already very dirty, Jack.” Bitty pants and leans into the way Jack kisses down his neck. “By all means, make it dirtier.”
“I meant the leotard.” Jack laughs and tugs on the collar elastic with his teeth. It snaps back and Bitty gasps, arching up against him, the two of them pressed close and not even naked.
Bitty tugs at Jack’s shirt as if just now realizing it’s still there and rolls his eyes. “So long as you don’t call my mother for leotard cleaning tips, you can do whatever you want.”
Jack pauses. “Whatever?”
Bitty blinks and his blush stains his whole face. “I might regret it, but yes. You can do whatever you want.”
So Jack does.
Pausing only to tug his shirt off over his head, Jack slides down Bitty’s body until his face is beside his still leotard-covered dick. He presses his mouth to it, tonguing at the fabric and marveling at the way it’s still soft and pleasant under his tongue.
Bitty sucks in a breath and his fingers tangle in Jack’s hair.
“Oh,” Bitty says, and it’s just one word, but Bitty exhales it like this is a gift he didn’t think he’d ever receive. And Jack can’t believe that, because this, them, their life that they’ve built, is everything Jack was afraid to want and more. It’s the kind of thing Jack was certain only existed in the songs Bitty listened to, the books his father read, the deepest places of his mind where Jack can admit the things he truly wants.
But it’s Real, and it’s Them, and Jack finds himself wanting to tell Bitty every day, every morning when he wakes up beside him, that this is Everything. He is Everything.
Sometimes words aren’t everything, though, and even when they are Jack isn’t always the best at using them. So he tries to show Bitty how much he loves him with little things. Fresh apples. Good butter. Picnics along the river.
The messiest through-a-leotard blowjob he can give.
Bitty shudders underneath him, and Jack can feel his thighs shaking. Jack’s hands are still tucked under the material, cradling Bitty’s ass, tilting him up toward Jack.
The front of the leotard is just a big wet patch now, as Jack drags his tongue over the tent at Bitty’s crotch, mouths at the edge of where the fabric is straining. It’s slick and warm and Jack wants, wants, Wants.
“Jack, c’mon.” Bitty tries to roll his hips, grind against Jack’s face, but Jack’s got both hands on his ass and Bitty’s isn’t going anywhere except where Jack wants him.
Their interests are aligned, however, because Jack wants him pressed close to his face, cock strained and trapped against his tongue. Jack drags his lips up the tented fabric, sucking on the end and then sliding his tongue down.
“Jack,” Bitty repeats, and this time it isn’t a plea, it’s a benediction.
Bitty’s orgasm creeps up on them, and Jack can see it building in the way Bitty arches his back, the way his abdomen clenches, the way he exhales a shaky litany of, “Oh, Jack, oh!”
Bitty’s fingers tighten in Jack’s hair and he gasps, thighs momentarily tightening against Jack’s shoulders. And, wow, yeah, Jack’s considered his own death several times, but to die between Bitty’s thighs sounds like a True Honor.
He doesn’t die, though, and the front of Bitty’s leotard gets even more slick, the damp patch bigger than before. Bitty’s breathing is ragged, his chest pink, his fingers tracing shaky circles in Jack’s hair.
“You okay up there, bud?” Jack asks, nosing along his softening cock, smiling at the way Bitty shivers beneath him, shying away in oversensitivity.
“I’m,” Bitty exhales and his body is practically liquid at this point. “I sure am dirty.”
“We already knew that,” Jack replies, sliding his hands out of the back of the leotard and pressing a kiss to Bitty’s thigh.
His own cock is practically drilling a hole through the mattress, but he can’t bring himself to make things frantic yet, not with the way Bitty’s body is still curved around him, coming down.
Bitty shifts his hips and makes a face when he moves, no doubt feeling sticky and restricted in the now spoiled leotard.
“You can take it off, bud,” Jack says, pressing his own hips against the mattress, just enough to gain some friction.
“But you haven’t come yet,” Bitty says, and grimaces.
“There’s more than enough to still get me there, Bits,” Jack says, thinking about the way the fabric is digging into his skin. It’ll leave marks, Jack is sure of it, and that idea sends any rational thought hurtling recklessly from the room.
Jack didn’t even pay very much attention to Bitty’s arms, the cuts in the fabric along his muscled forearms and bemoans his loss. He’ll live, but vows to line Bitty’s arms with kisses the next time he’s kneading bread.
“I don’t think this was the intention when my mother mailed these to me,” Bitty says, tugging the fabric off and sighing. His skin is line with red indentations, marks Jack wants to trace with his tongue.
“Can I still do whatever I want?” Jack asks, eyeing the lines hungrily, dick still hard in his pants.
Bitty stretches his arms over his head, and the red lines roll with him, a beautiful addition to an already gorgeous canvas.
“I suppose,” Bitty teases, reaching for Jack.
Jack immediately sets upon the lines at Bitty’s collar, the crisscrossing marks along his arms. His fingers settle in the divots on Bitty’s hips and he makes a pleased sound when Bitty wraps his legs around Jack’s waist.
Jack still has his pants on, an uncomfortable double layer of underwear and cotton, but the stark image of them against Bitty’s bare legs is tantalizing.
Bitty appears to disagree, though, and tugs at Jack’s waistband.
“One of us already came in his clothes, there’s no reason for both of us to do it.”
Jack laughs and lets Bitty pull at his clothes, hands dipping between them to unbutton Jack’s pants. His skin is still flushed, but less so, and it makes the lines stand out even more against his skin.
Jack rolls his hips and Bitty pulls and his pants get as far as cresting over his ass when they both decide that’s good enough. Between them, sliding in the slick dip of Bitty’s hip, Jack’s cock is almost as red as the lines on Bitty’s skin. His cockhead actually traces along the divot at Bitty’s hip, and Jack groans.
He rests his forehead on Bitty’s shoulder and can’t look away from the sight between them, can’t take his eyes off the way Bitty’s skin is pink and red and tan. From the way it’s sticky and slick all at once.
“You like that?” Bitty mumbles against his temple. “The way I’m all marked up? They aren’t quite your marks, Jack, but they’re close enough.”
“Christ, Bits,” Jack gasps, fingers sliding along Bitty’s thighs, hitching them up higher, trying to pull him further around Jack. He won’t make it long enough to fuck him. It’s a miracle he even made it out of his pants. Just rutting against Bitty is Too Much, leaving a trail against his stomach, his thighs, a mark that’s his beside a mark that isn’t.
He thinks about marks and lines and little rings and loses himself against Bitty’s skin.
His orgasm is swift and brutal, unforgiving as it washes over Jack. He can’t breathe through it, can’t do anything but press his lips to the line on Bitty’s collarbone and Love.
Bitty pets his hair and scratches at his scalp until the air comes back, until the room is something bigger than the two of them pressed together. Bitty’s red lines are a roadmap home, directions that lead only to where Jack already is, to where he’s meant to be.
“How many more of those fit?” Jack asks, the minute he’s able to speak again.
Jack can’t see him, but he can feel Bitty shake his head.
“I hate to break it to you, hon, but this was the only one I could get on.”
“Bummer.” Jack breathes in against Bitty’s neck runs his fingers over the lines on his hips again before moving to his arms. He traces the dips there over muscle and tries to convince himself that it’s possible for them to never leave this bed Ever Again.
“Yeah,” Bitty agrees, fingers tracing soft circles in Jack’s hair. “They’re pretty easy to find online, though. They come in all sorts of sizes. I bet there are some that would fit you.”
Jack stills, but only for a moment, then reaches out an arm toward their bedside table, blindly looking for his phone.
“Do you think they do bedside delivery?”
Bitty laughs and kisses Jack’s head and Jack feels like he’s Home.