Okay Zimbits + 35? I'm on mobile which is rare so my messaging is a mess
35. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
Usually when the sight of Bitty in nothing but a jersey greets Jack, it’s the beginning of a night for the highlight reel. The Falconers let Jack keep his jersey from his first NHL game, and between Bitty’s slight frame and sweater’s having been made big enough for Jack in his pads, the collar slips over bare shoulders and does something to the possessive part of Jack that rattles in his ribs like a tin cup against prison bars.
The fabric that drags against Bitty’s thigh isn’t blue, though–it’s black. And the number on his sleeve isn’t a one but an eighty-seven.
His boyfriend, Jack’s boyfriend, is wearing Sid Crosby’s jersey in bed.
“Take it off,” he growls without preamble. His bag slides to the floor and lands heavily, but neither of them flinch.
“Your uncle Mario sent it to me for my birthday,” Bitty grin. “It’s even signed!”
He pulls the shirt away from him to better show off the scrawl across the penguin on Bitty’s chest. Under the jersey, Jack gets a glimpse of black and gold, and if Mario sent his boyfriend autographed penguins underwear, too, he’s going to be disowning a few relatives and burning the gifts for good measure.
Or maybe he’ll sell them and donate the money to the Falcs and Friends LGBT outreach charity. He’ll do something, but the specifics will have to wait until Bitty isn’t representing the enemy.
“Take it off,” Jack grates out again. He toes off his shoes.
“Excuse me? This was a present, Jack,” Bitty does some lip-biting and lash-fluttering that would send Jack to his knees any other night.
“You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
Bits flushes and grins, staring with the most defiant arch of the brow that Jack’s ever seen on him.
“You can’t just–”
Jack pounces, and Bitty squeals. Bits arches his back, suddenly without complaint when Jack slides the jersey up to his armpits, letting his hands slide along the sides he reveals in the process. His forearm slips into the curve of Bitty’s back, and Jack lifts him tight against his own chest to get the thing over Bittle’s shoulder blades and off.
“Honey, be careful! I wanna keep that!”
Bitty really should have thought of that before wearing it in Jack’s bed.
“I hope you know,” Jack mumbles against Bitty’s sternum after lowering him back against the sheets. “I wouldn’t be doing this if there were penguins on these, too.”
He kisses down the center of Bittle’s chest, drawing out low moans and giggles. The cradle of Bits’s hand fits snug against the curve of Jack’s scalp, fingers tugging lazily at his hair. The boxers Bitty wears are plain and black, but Jack is hardly any less hasty in tugging them off.