Chapter Text
Kip was four hours into his shift at the Kingfisher, wiping down the counter and enjoying a lull in activity. It wasn’t particularly busy in the bar, it was Wednesday night and one of those ugly, wet days towards the end of February where the sidewalks covered in grey sludge and the thought of stepping outside was unappealing.
After a few minutes of cleaning, a customer approached, leaned against the bar and waved him down, smiling brightly at Kip.
“Can I get a vodka cran, double, and a G and T, with a slice of lime?”
“Any preference on the vodka or gin? He said, grabbing two glasses and setting them down behind the bar.
“Any is fine, as long as it doesn’t taste like shit.”
Kip snorted, and went about making the drinks. They weren’t complicated; all he had to do was add ice and mix the liquids, going heavy on the pour, because this was a gay bar, after all.
“Do you also want lime in the cran?”
“Sure, why not,” the man replied.
Kip hooked a lime slice on the rim of both glasses, and placed them on the bar.
“Cash, card, or do you want to open a tab?"
“Card.”
As the man stood back and reached into his back pocket for his wallet, Kip’s gaze was drawn down to at the gap between his cropped shirt and the baggy cargo pants that sat low on the man’s hips, held up only with the tight cinch of a belt. Peaking out the top of the pants, and hugging along the line of his adonis belt were the strings of a chartreuse thong. He felt all the air in his lungs evaporate, and his mouth go dry.
The man was pretty, but not someone he would have pursued even without Scott in the picture. Yet, the sight of the underwear traveling across and up the tanned skin of his hips beamed so violently into Kip’s brain he felt like he had run straight into a wall and cartoon stars were circling his head like a wonky halo. He felt heat rise in his cheeks, this was too fucking obscene to be wearing to what was ostensibly a sports bar, right?
The man noticed Kip look away from his hips and stare intently at the register and grinned a wide, shameless smile as he handed over his card, “My boyfriend picked them out for me.”
Kip laughed awkwardly, sliding the card into the machine, “I think I’m going to steal that idea from him.”
When his shift finally ended and he clocked out for the night, he trudged to the subway to take the 1 back home, working through ways he could suggest to Scott to wear something like that as he stared at his shoes and the floor of the train rattling along the tracks.
He arrived to find the penthouse quiet beyond the soft hum of the fridge and the distant sounds of Manhattan traffic. Scott was two days deep into an nine day roadtrip on the west coast, and probably passed out in his hotel room. He was alone for the night.
As he brushed his teeth, he began to look through the image results on his phone for “men’s g-strings” considering colors, sizes, cuts, picturing what they would look like on Scott. The men on these websites were overly spray-tanned, hairless, and muscular in the way that suggested regular steroid usage. He thought of Scott’s musculature that made him look more like a racehorse than a body builder, each muscle formed and trained for the purpose of pushing across the ice and taking the impact of boards. Skin that paled during the course of the season in the artificial light of indoor rinks, covered in ever present bruising. He thought of the happy trail that stretched from his abdomen down to his cock. Of Scott’s hairy thighs, and the neatly trimmed hair covering his groin.
Kip wasn’t a gay hermit. He owned multiple thongs, had worn them countless times, had seen plenty of others wearing them. But he hadn’t seen Scott in one, digging into his defined hips with the fabric barely stretching across his cock, leaving his ass bare. Scott wore a jock to play, sure, but it was built for athletics and protection, with a cup attached and thick straps worn over compression pants. It wasn’t like the flimsy g-string the man had been flaunting at the Kingfisher. The jock Scott wore was also an arguably gross piece of equipment, literally only being washed once a season because science.
Scott wouldn’t even have to show it off like the guy from the bar, he could just show Kip. He was out and proud, but he would probably prefer to keep this just between them. He hoped, selfishly that Scott would want to show him this sort of thing.
His cock twitched in his underwear, pressing uncomfortably to the zipper of his pants. He needed to focus and place the order, so he could get in the shower, rinse off his shift and jerk off thinking of his boyfriend, and go to bed. He would have to drag himself out of bed in the morning for seminar, because for some ungodly reason he had been convinced by his advisor (and Scott’s never-ending enthusiasm for his academic career) to apply and pursue a PhD after his master’s.
He finally picked out three pairs and opened the shopping cart tab, finalizing the order. The underwear would arrive in 5 days, if the delivery tracking was accurate. He could get normal about this before then. He could figure out the most natural way to gift them to Scott without sounding like a deranged person who had spent the rest of the week thinking about how Scott could just shove the fabric out of the way and plow him into the mattress. Or, how Kip could push the tiny bit of fabric covering his hole to the side, bend him over, and put his mouth on him before fucking him. How he could pull them off of Scott with his teeth, leaving little bite marks at the jut of his hip bones in the process. He could be normal.