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*
Jack was going to die.
And he knew he shouldn’t think things like that because he had actually come very close to death, so the idea of comparing being horny as all get up to death was probably distasteful, the incident too close to be considered like this. Or, it would be, if he wasn’t so sure that his dick was going to kill him.
Jack’s freshman dorm was small, a white box he’d escaped another white box just to get too, and filled with a currently naked, snoring roommate.
Who was Definitely Not the reason Jack was so turned on.
Mustached and cuddly wasn’t Jack’s type. But the blonde upperclassman in his bio gen ed was. And he’d worn a stupidly tight shirt, his easy smile a reach for better days, for worse days, for days with another blond in another lifetime.
He should’ve jerked off in the shower. Or while Shitty (???) was in class. But Jack didn’t do this. Jack wasn’t physically attracted to many people, but it had been a long time since—
And just thinking about Kent was doing weird things to his libido. Yeah, what they had done felt good, but, here, now, in a white box after fucking up everything in his life, a snoring crescendo slowing killing his boner, thinking about it hurt. A lot. And the ache in Jack’s chest wasn’t going away.
Jack rolled over on his tiny bed, trying to ignore the way his toes could curl over the edge of his mattress, trying to ignore the way his chest was squeezing his lung so hard that the last thing Jack wanted to do was deal with his persistent boner.
He resigned himself to a sleepless night and made vague self-promises to make better use of his shower time in the morning.
**
The freshman had been in the haus for a grand total of six minutes, and Jack already wanted to bend him over the table.
That was a plan his already interested boner seemed ready to put to the test.
And really, Jack thought, unable to tear his gaze away from the tiny shorts—so tiny—that crested the perkiest ass he’d ever seen on a hockey player, it was a good plan.
Jack let the moment play out in his head, while the kid was bent over, ogling the inside of their refrigerator, unaware that he himself was being ogled.
Jack would wander in, sweaty from his run, and the boy would look over his shoulder at him, coy, tan skin and tiny shorts tantalizing and touchable. Jack would step closer, knowing this boy wanted Jack, wanted Jack to want him, settle his hands over the boy’s hips, and god, his hands would probably cover so much of his tiny boy, lithe and willing and--
This was probably going to send him straight to hell (ha), but he was sure there would be a way to play some sort of hockey there, so his brain skipped right to resignation, ignoring every other stage of thought. Except for, perhaps, the train of thought that was firmly settled on the height difference between him and—
“Oh, sorry.” The boy flinched and Jack knew he’d been staring. Or at least he hoped he hadn’t been leering. “I didn’t realize anybody was using the kitchen.” His voice was easy and southern, even with this nervousness, and Jack couldn’t help but wonder what other sounds he might make. This had strayed past slightly creepy and nosedived right into pervert territory.
Jack might’ve croaked out an answer, something he wanted to believe would’ve been delightfully charming and seductive, something that would’ve widened the pupils of this boy’s brown eyes, reddened the skin of his tan, freckled face. He might’ve said something that would’ve brought this boy closer to him, until Jack’s hands could trail along the edge of his shirt, thumb skirting along his—
He might’ve said something, he wanted to believe, had Shitty not been suddenly and unignorably Present.
“Bitty! Bits! Bitterino! I see the haus has charmed you with its alluring interior design and undeniably pleasant conversationalists.” Shitty winked—fucking winked, like Jack’s dick wasn’t slowly making its torturous way past interested and steamrolling toward kitchen sex mode—and slung his arm around Bitty’s shoulders.
Bitty flushed under the attention, delightfully southern and beautiful red, and Jack wanted to revisit his idea of bending him over the table.
Instead, he turned and left the kitchen, because Bitty was a freshman and Jack was the captain and Samwell hockey wasn’t the NHL but it was still hockey and no matter what his dick thought this was a Bad Idea.
He definitely didn’t think about the way Bitty looked in the kitchen, sunlit and blushing. And he definitely didn’t think about it later that night, when it was just him and his thoughts and the feeling that this time he really was going to die.
***
Bittle was baking again, and really, to do so while wearing one of what looked like Holster’s tank tops, strap dropped over the curve of his shoulder, was indecent.
Whatever he was making smelled divine, all cinnamon and roasted fruit. But Jack didn’t have time for ridiculous boys who baked desserts in his kitchen. Not when said boy was afraid of getting checked on a team that Jack was running. Not when he insisted on feeding this team like it was a Georgia bake sale in July and not a highly maintained mechanism of Hockey Greatness. Not when Jack’s dick had taken an avid interest in seeing him less clothed.
“Hey, Jack,” Bittle greeted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a flour-covered arm. It left a streak of white at his temple, and it was Doing Things to Jack. “If you came for a mini pie, they aren’t done yet.”
“You made mini pies last week.” He’d worn something less revealing then. Jack’s dick had still noticed.
Bittle’s face did something complicated, but he nodded and plastered on a smile that looked too fake on his face.
“I wanted to try my Moomaw’s maple apple recipe since Holster ate all the lemon ones already.”
Jack’s dick was going to get him killed, because here he was, being rude to Bittle, and it still insisted that the situation would end differently. Like every interaction between Jack and Bittle wasn’t going to end with angry words or things he didn’t mean.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be making anything. The sugar isn’t good for the team.”
This was one of those interactions.
Bittle shrunk, shoulders hunched up to his ears, and Jack felt the feeling in his stomach sour.
Jack wanted to snap at him.
Jack wanted to trail his fingers up the skin of Bittle’s arms, toned and tan and there for Jack to touch.
He did neither. Instead, he turned and left the haus. Another lap around campus would probably kill his boner. Or, another lap around campus would at least hopefully make his dick feel less inclined toward killing him.
****
The very best thing about hockey gear, Jack decided, was the way it hid his body. Specifically, the lower half of his body, on this particular early morning, with Bittle’s similarly hockey gear-clad body pinned between him and the boards at Faber.
He took a moment to also appreciate that hockey gear kept him from dying on the ice, but he figured that could apply to this moment as well, when Bittle, flushed and sweaty, turned his triumphant gaze toward Jack.
“I didn’t even flinch!” Bittle laughed, and the column of his throat that appeared when he leaned his head back was tantalizing. Jack thanked his hockey gear again.
He also skated backward, putting space between them, because hockey gear could only do so much.
Bittle pushed off the boards, skating exuberant circles around him, all sunshine in this frozen place. He laughed again, musical and delighted, and he turned his smile back to Jack, the most open Jack had ever seen him. And it hit Jack like a punch to the lungs that this wasn’t just physical. This wasn’t just Jack looking at Bittle’s ass and wondering.
No, this was Jack staring at Bittle’s smile and knowing.
Fuck.
This was so much easier to manage when he thought all he wanted was to run his teeth over the edge of Bittle’s jaw. But now his brain—his stupid, overanalyzing, fiercly driven brain—was picturing sunlit mornings with just the two of them, Jack’s hand brushing Bittle’s, evenings with pie and conversation, chirps about eating more protein, a soft collision of what should’ve only been a dangerous bang in the far corners of Jack’s mind.
Bittle, utterly unaware of what he was doing to Jack—always so unaware, no one wore shorts like that on purpose, no one except Bittle and his stupid devious ass—skated a lap around the rink, before literally crashing into Jack.
And Jack had a moment to pull himself out of his head and reclaim the morning, leaving his thoughts and realizations behind on the ice.
He also had a moment to thank his hockey gear again.
*****
Jack was too horny to function when Bitty appeared on his screen, but he’d already decided to ignore it, despite the fact that it would probably kill him.
Too many nights sharing hotel rooms with Tater, too many phone calls cut short, too many long hours, long days, long weeks away from Bitty, who Jack had realized was Everything, and wasn’t handling the revelation well.
Too bad his libido had no interest in listening to him wax poetic about his boyfriend, and the skin of Bitty’s collarbone wasn’t helping either.
“—and this boy has been a menace since the start of the semester,” Bitty said with an eye-roll, and Jack realized that he needs to listen and be a supportive boyfriend in ways that didn’t include holding Bittle up against a door. “So then Professor Harding says—"
There was an aggressive knock on Bitty’s door, and Jack could just barely hear Chowder’s nervous voice through his headphones, followed by the indecipherable squabbling of Dex and Nursey.
Bitty sighed, and Jack wanted to pull him closer, cursing the miles that were keeping them apart.
“Sorry, Jack, I’d better see what they want, or I’ll never hear the end of it. Don’t you move, sugar, I’ll be right back.”
Bitty stood, and Jack caught a glimpse of the tiny shorts he was wearing, and hook, line, sinker, Jack’s dick was raring to go.
He wanted to blame the shorts association, because both Jack, Bitty, and Jack’s dick knew that those shorts meant one of two things. And one of those things was sex.
(The other was unbearable humidity, but that one was much less sexy, even if it did to delightfully hilarious things to Bitty’s hair)
But then Bitty was gone, Jack’s screen showing the rumpled top layer of Bitty’s blankets and Senor Bun, who was Definitely Judging him.
Jack slumped back against his pillows and closed his eyes, willing his boner away, because this wasn’t why he’d called. He refused to be the boyfriend that made every interaction, every skype call, every visit about sex.
But Bitty was sleep-rumpled and shorts-clad, and Jack was only human.
Jack let himself play out the fantasy he’d had when he first saw Bitty in the haus kitchen, one he had so many times over the past few years, only this time instead of a lithe freshman, Bitty was a young man, still tan, still smaller than Jack, but bigger in ways that Jack could’ve ever imagined.
This time, when fantasy Jack wandered in from his fantasy jog—still six miles, because fantasy Jack had standards—fantasy Bitty would be in front of the sink, washing dishes in his tiny—still so tiny—shorts.
And fantasy Jack.
Well, fantasy Jack would crowd against him, press his lips to the side of Bitty’s neck, chest pressed against his back, giant hands settled on his hips, the bulge of his dick brushing against the curve of Bitty’s—
“Jack? Sweetpea?”
Jack groaned, too familiar with how horny he knew it made him sound.
But skype sex was no substitute for the real thing, and Jack’s dick knew it. Just like Jack knew that it was more important to listen to Bitty’s story than to request a skype quickie, because as great as the sex was, Just Being with Bitty was better.
So Jack opened his eyes and gave Bitty a reassuring smile.
“I’m here, Bud. Tell me what your professor said.”
His dick could take the backseat and it probably wouldn’t kill him.
+
Bitty was standing at the sink, washing dishes, when Jack came home from his run.
Bitty could feel him standing in the kitchen, sweaty and obviously staring, and he let himself feel sexy for a moment (he was wearing The Shorts, after all), before scrubbing a little harder in the corner of his casserole dish. Because shorts or not, his mama didn’t raise him to let food crust in his dishes.
Jack’s hands settled on his hips, and after this long of Jack’s casual touches, Bitty didn’t even blink at the sudden contact. He leaned back into the touch, expecting the sweaty smell of Jack’s shirt, the solidness of his chest. What he didn’t expect, was the solid feeling of Jack’s hard dick pressing into his lower back.
Bitty stopped scrubbing.
Jack buried his face in Bitty’s hair and let out an embarrassed sound, but his hands stayed put.
“Bud,” Jack whined, and Bitty knew that sound.
“Have a good run, sweetpea?” he asked, because he loved Jack, but he was still a little shit and this situation warranted some chirping, even if it made Bitty weak at the knees.
Jack groaned and ducked down, pressing his lips to the spot just behind Bitty’s ear, and yeah, okay, he was done scrubbing the dish.
Water splashed him when he dropped the dish in the sink, but he ignored it in favor of turning around and plastering his front to Jack’s chest. He bit at Jack’s collarbone, because Jack knew his spots, but Bitty knew his just as well, and Jack keened, his breath hot and heady against Bitty’s neck.
Jack was further along than he was, but that didn’t mean Bitty wasn’t doing everything in his power to catch up. From the way Jack slotted his leg between Bitty’s, giving him something to grind on, Bitty figured Jack was on board with that plan too.
He let his hands roam, just touching, desperate for skin and the feeling of nothing but Jack. Jack’s hands made a rather distracting trek down his body before landing squarely on his ass, slipping down the back of his shorts and tugging him even closer, until their bodies felt as though they were melded together. The air was hot, Bitty’s skin was hot, Jack was hot, and Bitty had the fleeting thought that if he turned around to look out the window, there was a chance they’d be fogged up from how hot this was.
“Euh,” Jack grunted, and Bitty was intimately familiar with all the sexy noises Jack could make, but this one was…decidedly not sexy?
Bitty pulled away from where he was sucking a rather impressive mark on Jack’s neck, to see Jack staring wide-eyed out the window behind them.
And Bitty knew. Bitty knew their stupidly nosy neighbor, Sharon, with her inferior jam recipes and bible verse doormat was probably spying on them under the guise of watering her stupid plants. God, Bitty could practically feel his southern gentleman’s roots curling up and away, with nothing but an icy ‘bless her heart’ left in its place.
Damning the consequences, because if he wanted to make out in his kitchen with his super-hot NHL star boyfriend, he sure as hell was going to, Bitty dropped his hands to Jack’s ass as well. Then he had to laugh, because he was standing in front of the kitchen window, both he and his boyfriend gripping each other’s asses while their nosy neighbor watered her gardenias.
He could feel Jack shaking under his hands, and this wasn’t really a sexy shaking either, because Jack threw his head back and laughed, long and loud. And the sunshine hit his skin and his blue eyes actually fucking twinkled and he looked so, so happy to just be standing in his kitchen—their kitchen, Lord—laughing and groping and being in love.
He was beautiful.
Lord, Bitty was the luckiest boy in the world.
“I love you,” Jack said, and he was a man of few words, Bitty knew that, but that didn’t make these words any less important. Even if it was in the heat of an abandoned moment.
“I love you too, sweetpea,” Bitty said, then gasped when Jack started up his grinding against him again, and really, did Bitty really think the moment had been abandoned?
Jack nipped at his ear and tugged his hips away from the counter, leaving the sink and the window and nosy Sharon behind.
And when Jack made Bitty come twice, the sweet closeness of him more intoxicating than anything Bitty had ever experienced in his life, Bitty thought he’d maybe died and gone to gay heaven. The way Jack sighed against him made Bitty think that he probably agreed with him, and really, as far as causes of death went, horniness wasn’t such a bad way to go.