Bitty is alone in his room, and the Haus is empty, and he imagines Jack.
Jack, in the gym, damp with sweat. Jack, in the shower after practice. Jack in the locker rooms. Jack in his own room, the door closed, while a party rages downstairs, the music and the sounds of yelling and whooping outside the room drowning out the moans and gasps within. Jack, here, on this bed.
Lips on lips, then tongue. Smiling into a kiss, gasping, swallowing the sound.
Bitty is hard in his shorts already.
He imagines Jack’s hands, strong and broad, stroking up the sides of his body, making their way under the hem of his shirt, at first gently teasing and then grasping. Holding him in place. Manhandling him a little, getting him to the bed.
He imagines Jack, between his legs, looking up at him, pale eyes through dark lashes, and -- no, it’s all wrong.
Jack, leaning back on his elbows, eyes screwed shut, heavy breathing. Bitty on the floor by the bed, on his knees. Bitty’s hands on Jack’s thighs, gripping his hipbones, tracing sweet circles on his skin.
He wants Jack’s mouth on his mouth, and all over him. He wants Jack to want to do these things to him, to touch him and kiss him and suck him off.
But more than that, Bitty wants Jack’s dick to himself, to lavish attention on, to take for himself and to fucking worship.
Here on the bed, alone, Bitty’s hands wander across his chest, grazing and pinching at a nipple -- the palm, then the nails. One hand moves down, grabs his dick. He’s alone. No finesse needed.
Down on the floor for Jack, then. If he could do this for real he'd take his time, kissing him, undressing him, making him ready. No need for that in this instance. Jack is harder than rock, already gasping and desperate, blushing, naked.
Bitty, swirling his tongue around the head of Jack’s dick, lapping at the clear fluid starting to bead there, tasting it, savouring it. He’s not some blushing innocent; he knows how this works, and what to do, or at least he can tell himself that for the moment. He takes Jack further back, swallows around him, tastes bitterness in his throat. Jack is big, and thick -- of course he is -- and Bitty’s lips are tight around him at first, then as he takes him down further he is wet and sloppy, greedy, desperate. Maybe if he got to do this in real life he’d gag. Not now, though.
It would be easier if he'd never seen Jack up close, never seen him half-dressed after practice or breathless and sweating or damp from the shower. If he were someone far away and unreal. Bitty has seen, though, and committed to memory every angle, every line, every muscle under perfect skin he could catch a glimpse of, and stored them all away for later, for now, when he can dwell on them and gaze on them and imagine his hands on them.
He lets go of Jack’s dick for a moment, pulling away, letting his hands trace where his mouth has been, and crawls up for a deep kiss. Jack must be tasting himself on Bitty’s mouth, and there’s a sound in his throat, a stifled whimper. (Bitty knows Jack well enough by now that he thinks he'd be quiet in moments like this; he wouldn't want to give anything away, and that's a challenge, then, to get a reaction from him.) Bitty sees Jack’s face, and it looks wrecked -- heavy-lidded and open-mouthed and blushing. He steals one more kiss, smiles with it still on his lips, and moves back down Jack’s body.
Alone on his bed, he bites his lip, then spits on his hand.
Jack’s hand is in his hair now, petting, guiding a little. A thumb is on his cheekbone, then pulling his bottom lip down. A bruise, a graze, a tender spot of skin, caressed. Bitty is helpless. He remembers to breathe -- and he takes a deep breath in real life too, barely noticing he's done it -- and then in this dream of his he swirls his tongue and swallows around the head of Jack’s cock and sucks harder, letting Jack thrust up into his throat.
(He likes the idea that he might be able to make Jack let go enough for that.)
He fucks harder into his own hand, faster now.
Jack, pulling back, coming hard over Bitty’s face.
He can't make it last --
Jack’s come on his lips --
Jack kissing it away --
-- and he’s coming hard, really coming, gasping, eyes shut, his back arching again. He bites his bottom lip, and if he still had the composure to imagine anything it would be Jack’s teeth there, not his own.
His mind goes blank for a moment.
After a time he lets his eyes come open. He’s fallen back, no longer arched and tense, but boneless and tired and a little sore. There’s come cooling in his hand, and on his belly, sticky and wet. He feels, for a fleeting moment, intensely alone.
He knows it’s hopeless, really. Jack touches him all the time, of course, but so does everyone else on the team; his skin is a patchwork of bruises. He’d love to know which ones were Jack’s work. He wishes they would stand out as Jack’s alone, not blend in with the mundane ones. He would press his fingers to them, savour them, pretend for a moment they came from Jack’s mouth, or hands; that they were left with purpose, with want, with desire.