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alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody · 12 days ago

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kinktober #31

31. Monster Mash 💀 / Black Mail 💌

It’s Halloween and Bitty has officially been working at Zimmermann’s for two whole months. He’s forged an uneasy détente with Betsy, as he’s named the espresso machine, even though he still doesn’t really trust her. And maybe more importantly, he’s forged a truce with Jack, too, but that feels easier and easier with each passing shift.

Maybe a little too easy, Bitty worries when he makes Jack laugh or catches him looking in his direction. His blue eyes are deep enough to fall into, and Bitty’s not sure he could make himself climb out. He hasn’t made his queerness any secret, but Jack is impossible to read, and the last thing Bitty needs after finally getting on Jack’s good side is a big, dumb crush on a straight guy.

Not that he doesn’t already have a big, dumb crush, to be clear. He’d just like some clarity before he gets in even further over his head.

And his crush isn't the only thing that’s gotten bigger. Bitty’s been trying so dang hard not to notice the weight Jack has gained, not to let his gaze linger on the mound of Jack’s belly beneath his apron or the strain of his thick thighs against the seams of his pants or Lord, his butt. Jack’s butt is — the first word that comes to mind is shapely, which is mortifying because it’s exactly the kind of thing Bitty’s mama would say. But it’s true! Bitty has to look away every time Jack bends over behind the counter for his own sanity.

Today, Jack ducks out from the back of house brushing crumbs from his hands and shoots Bitty a sheepish smile. The cat ears Bitty brought two pairs of — just in case — are perched on his head, only a little darker than the hair falling into Jack’s eyes. Bitty’s own pair is orange tabby, but obviously Jack is the quintessential mysterious black cat. It took suspiciously little argument to convince him to put them on.

His Halloween playlist is a different story. He’s just waiting for Jack to notice that every fifth song is “The Monster Mash.”

“Quiet today,” says Jack, nodding at the rain streaming down the front windows. He spoons ground decaf into a pour-over filter and fills the gooseneck kettle from the hot water tap. Bitty shudders; it’s sad enough that Jack has some hangup about desserts, poor thing, but restricting himself from caffeine might be even sadder. “I think someone else is supposed to come in at noon, too.”

Bitty’s heart sinks a little. “Someone else?”

“Yeah, one of the closers. His name’s, uh, well, on the schedule he’s Byron, but he tells everyone to call him Shitty. I doubt we’ll need him, though.”

“Why?”

“The children’s hospital does a trunk or treat event, and so does the daycare down the street, and we tend to get a lot of traffic from those. At least when the weather’s better.” Then, catching Bitty’s furrowed eyebrows, “Oh, why is he called Shitty? I have no idea. He didn’t explain and I didn’t ask.”

Bitty sniffs. “Bless his heart.” He knows it’s unfair; Shitty, despite the odds, is probably a perfectly decent guy. But someone else is going to disrupt the careful dynamic Bitty and Jack have settled into; someone else will be funnier or more professional or better at steaming milk. Or worse, he’ll be obnoxious and Jack will make himself scarce to do shift manager things and Bitty will be stuck with some guy who voluntarily calls himself Shitty.

He watches Jack make his cup of decaf. The rain patters down the windows. It’s already past eleven-thirty, so his time alone with Jack is ticking.

“Do you have Halloween plans?” he tries, and Jack laugh-scoffs.

“No. I’m not much for parties.”

“What about scary movies?”

“Not really. What about you?”

“Nope, no plans! Just handing out candy; my neighborhood is mostly college students, but there are a few families with kids who get excited when someone actually answers the door for trick-or-treating.”

Jack smiles a little. “I bet you give out really good candy.”

Bitty’s chest warms like he just dumped twelve ounces of freshly brewed coffee on himself, sweet but sloppy. This feels like playing with fire. But still, he says, “You bet I do, mister. King-size bars or bust. I got called ‘fun size’ too much as a kid to ever inflict them on other people.”

Jack actually laughs this time, and Bitty goes on, energized, “Besides, what’s fun about something tiny? The bigger the better, if you ask me!”

He stops just as quickly, and for a moment he and Jack try not to look at each other. He’s almost certain he’s said too much, but he’s Bitty and he doesn’t know how to defuse a situation other than to keep fucking talking.

“And I do like scary movies,” he continues, trying to keep smiling, keep his tone light, even as he fears his expression is starting to look crazed. “When I have” — when I have a big, soft man to cuddle and hold me during the jump scares — “someone to watch with, you know.”

“I think I’m too jumpy,” says Jack, and Bitty stares at him for a moment before he realizes that it’s a very reasonable response to what he said. “I wouldn’t be much comfort.”

He turns and busies himself removing the filter and grounds from the ceramic pour-over cone, leaving Bitty to wonder if that was supposed to be pointed or if he’s way overthinking what Jack has interpreted as a normal conversation.

“Well,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “if you want a king-size candy bar later, just give me a holler. I’ll save one for you.”

“Merci,” murmurs Jack, rinsing the ceramic cone. “So … you really like food, eh?”

Bitty pauses in the middle of drying a mug. “Of course! What’s not to like? Food is sacred. Food is love! I’m a Southern transplant, remember. Butter’s practically part of our religion.”

Jack’s quiet. His text message from weeks ago blooms at the back of Bitty’s eyes — I just have a hard time with food sometimes. I have a hard time letting myself enjoy things — and Bitty kicks himself, hard and then harder. What’s not to like? Probably a lot, for someone who struggles with food!

“I finally, um,” says Jack into the quiet, and then he stops short. Bitty braces for whatever’s coming.

“Is that ‘The Monster Mash’ again?”

—

Jack knows he’s gotten heavier. He’s sized up his pants and his uniform shirt and can’t deny how much more comfortably he can move with a little extra room. Does he love that he’s eating multiple hand pies almost every day? Well. He wouldn’t, if they’d been made by just about anyone else.

He’s been trying to go easier on himself. He runs every morning like clockwork, and he’s steadily improving his speed and endurance. He’s got a big frame and he’s always had a big appetite. What does it matter if he’s eating more and gaining weight? Sure, he doesn’t like the way his workout clothes cling and stick or the way he can feel sweat pool beneath his pecs and his belly when he stops at a crosswalk. He doesn’t love the curves of the silhouette he cuts in storefront windows. But his body feels good when he’s running, and maybe it is as simple as what George suggested: Run a more residential route where there are no windows to see yourself in. Focus on how the movement makes you feel, not how you look when you’re doing it.

He’d told her about how he’d frozen up as soon as he was hit with the one-two punch of a thin, cute new coworker and his omnipresent plates of baked goods. How his impulse to restrict had immediately locked horns with his trained recovery response of it’s okay to eat what you want. He’d been angry about the temptation — how dare Bittle disrupt his fragile success at eating like a regular person — and angrier at himself for giving in so easily. And the thing about restriction is that it’s a slippery slope. If I eat one hand pie, I’ll have a salad for lunch inevitably becomes well, I had dressing on the salad, so I’ll just have an apple for dinner. Well, I ate the apple too late, so I’ll skip breakfast tomorrow. I skipped breakfast, so I can have two hand pies, but I can’t have lunch after. It never fucking ends.

Except he’s working on thinking that maybe it can.

He sips his coffee. Drinking it black isn’t his preference, but he’s still working back up to putting any kind of milk or sweetener into it.

Why do you think you feel so nervous around Eric? George had asked.

Um, Jack had stalled. I want to impress him, I guess. I want him to like me and think that I’m as attractive as I think he is.

And why do you think his association with food has been so triggering for you?

Because — it felt like a trap. I wanted to be cool about it but I also didn’t feel like I could be attractive if I ate like that. Or — if I wanted to be able to eat like that, I had to restrict whatever else I ate, because otherwise it would be too much.

Do you still feel like that?

Jack thinks about the way Bitty beams when he sees Jack eating something he made. He thinks about how he keeps catching Bitty’s eyes on him, the same appreciative look he used to see on people when he was thinner. He thinks about Bitty.

No.

He clears his throat. Bitty is watching him, his brown eyes doelike and a little skittish. It looks strange on his normally open, cheerful face. “I, uh, finally talked to my therapist,” he says, with a little laugh at his own expense. “About the food stuff. It’s getting a little better.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bitty instantly. “I shouldn’t have —”

“No, no,” Jack overlaps. “I wish I could feel the way you do about food. I wish it felt that good for me. I wish it all felt as good as — your food.”

Bitty’s in danger of dropping the mug he’s been drying for the last five minutes. As he opens his mouth, the bell dings over the door and Shitty rolls in.

“Zimmermann! What is up, my man? Other dude I don’t know! What’s up, other dude I don’t know?”

Jack almost laughs at how befuddled Bitty looks. “Hey, Shitty. This is B — this is Eric. He’s been doing the mid shift for the past few months.”

“Bitty,” says Bitty. “You can call me Bitty.”

“Bitty!” Shitty crows, hopping over the counter instead of opening the little built-in gate. “Bitty and Shitty. Love a rhyme, my man. Love a rhyme.”

He strolls into the back of house, whistling. Bitty stares after him, looking slightly undone. The corners of Jack’s mouth tug down.

“He’s handsome, right?” he says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Bitty’s eyes swing back to Jack, blond brows furrowed. “What?”

“Shitty. I mean, he’s a pretty good-looking guy, right? Besides the name.” Because Jack knows what a lot of guys like. He’s been on the apps. Sure, he deleted them all a few minutes later, because the whole thing was so uncomfortable and mortifying, but he’s seen the kind of guys on there: tight bodies with six-packs, defined pecs, thick mustaches, chiseled jaws covered in stubble. Jack has stubble and soft pecs that are definitely visible through his shirt, and that’s about it.

“Um,” says Bitty. “I mean, I don’t want to be impolite, but —” He glances behind him, then lowers his voice. “He’s not … really my type? I don’t like men with too many muscles.”

Before Jack can properly process that, Shitty’s voice comes at top volume from the back of house. “Bitty! Are you the pie fairy?”

“That’s me!” Bitty calls back. “Wherever I go, pies appear.”

“Sick! Jack, dude, have you tried these? They’re fuckin’ ’swawesome.”

“Yeah,” says Jack, but his eyes are on Bitty’s. “They’re amazing.”

Bitty blinks. He looks behind him uncertainly as Shitty ambles back out, apron tied loosely around his waist.

“Zimmermann, my man,” he says, clocking in with a flourish, “you are rocking those ears.”

Jack reaches up and startles: he’d forgotten the cat ears. “Oh. Thanks. Bittle — it was Bittle’s idea.”

“Bitty, you must be a miracle worker,” says Shitty. “If you told me when I started here that I would one day see the great Jack Zimmermann being voluntarily fun and whimsical, I would have asked for some of whatever you were smoking because it must have been good.”

Jack flushes. Bitty’s eyes grow wider.

“I’m, um,” he says, taking a slow step back. “I’m going to take my break, if that’s okay.”

“Absolutely,” says Shitty, tossing a Sharpie up in the air and catching it behind his back. Jack watches Bitty go, and even though he’s been working with Shitty practically since Zimmermann’s opened, even though Shitty is the only coworker Jack has ever hung out with outside of work, he feels like the room gets a little darker once Bitty is gone.

Shitty keeps chatting, drifting from one end of the counter to the other as he continues to toss the Sharpie up and do increasingly complicated maneuvers to catch it. Jack doesn’t process any of it.

“Hey, man,” says Shitty, waving a hand in Jack’s face. “Earth to Z-man. You good?”

“What? Yeah. Just — zoning out. What did you say?”

“Just asked if it’s been busy today.”

“Oh. No, it’s been quiet. Hey, uh, I’ll be right back, okay?”

Shitty raises an eyebrow. “Sure.” Then, a moment later: “Yo, is this ‘The Monster Mash?’ Hell yes, dude.”

It takes everything Jack’s got not to chase Bitty down in the back of house. Instead, he measures his steps and stops a few yards from where Bitty’s pretzeled into a corner, his phone awkwardly plugged into the outlet under the little row of cubbies for employee belongings. Because the back of house doubles as the bulk storage area, he’s sitting on a box of paper cups, his weight barely making a dent in the cardboard.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Bitty’s head snaps up. “Oh! Hi. Has it been fifteen minutes?”

“No.” He scours the storage boxes for something that might hold his weight, but decides not to chance it. “Uh, I just wanted to — it felt like we were sort of … in the middle of something. Before Shitty came in.”

Bitty watches him carefully. “What kind of something?”

“I don’t know,” says Jack, a little helplessly. God, he wishes Bitty would stand up. He feels huge and hulking looming over him, like the giant in a fairy tale. “I’m kind of new at this. But I guess … I hope it’s something?”

It’s a long moment before Bitty says, “Me too.”

Then, without moving from his cramped position on the box, he adds, “So you’re not into Shitty?”

Jack kicks out a laugh. “No. Definitely not. But, um …”

“Yes?” says Bitty, unfolding his small frame and taking a step toward Jack.

“But I am into you,” says Jack softly, and when Bitty takes another step closer, they both lean in.

Bitty’s mouth is warm and soft, and he tastes like sugar and coffee. He has to stand on his toes to reach Jack’s lips, and when his hands land on the bulges at Jack’s sides, Jack barely thinks of flinching.

“That’s good news,” Bitty whispers into his mouth, several seconds into the kiss. “Because I’m pretty into you, too, mister. If you haven’t noticed.”

“I told you,” murmurs Jack. “I’m new at this.”

“Doing fine to me, sweetheart,” says Bitty, and even though Jack knows this is what people call falling, it’s been a long time since he’s felt so steady.

He forgets Shitty’s out front manning the counter. He forgets that they’re in the storeroom of his father’s flagship coffee shop. He forgets to feel bad about himself. He forgets everything except for Bitty in front of him.

They kiss. They kiss. And then they just stand, Bitty’s head tucked beneath Jack’s chin, the honey scent of his shampoo wafting up. Bitty’s arms snug around Jack, somehow still a perfect fit.

“The Monster Mash” starts up again from the stereo.

“You hear that, Mr. Zimmermann?” says Bitty, batting his eyes as Jack laughs. “They’re playing our song.”

#DONE!!!#this was so so fun thank you fatguarddog!!#feedist kinktober 2024 #feedist kinktober #my fic #my writing #check please #chubby jack #jack x bitty #zimbits #cp coffee shop au

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