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Three Points

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Jack's first instinct is to just ignore it. The knocking on his door won't stop, though, and it might even be getting louder. Jack sighs. "What do you want, Shitty?" he hollers. "I'm not coming down to the party, so don't ask."

The doorknob rattles, and Jack smirks. "Nice try, but it's locked."

Then a voice says, "Let me in," vowels long and high, and fuck. That's not Shitty.

Jack drops his book, scrambles for the door, and takes a moment to compose himself before he twists the lock. Bitty's squeezing through as soon as he can physically fit, and Jack starts, "Are you okay? Was anyone-" before Bitty shoves him back against the door, slamming it with their combined weight.

"Hi," Bitty giggles, and then his right hand is curling into Jack's hair and pulling him down until their lips are crushed together. It's wet and hot, hotter than usual; from this close, Jack can't tell where the pink of Bitty's cheeks ends and his mouth begins. It's bitter too, in a way that he's not used to Bitty tasting, and when he glances down, he can see Bitty's shoes and socks dangling haphazardly from his left hand. Jack eases his grip up to Bitty's wrist and gently tugs it back. "Bits," he says slowly, "you're drunk."

"Not really," Bitty says. "Anyway, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it does."

That gets him a roll of the eyes, and Bitty presses his lips into a line before he says, "Check your pocket," and sinks to his knees.

"Wait, what are you-"

"Check," Bitty says, and he leans in to nuzzle at the hem of Jack's shorts, "your pocket."

Jack frowns. "You can't always point to the card. That defeats the whole purpose."

Bitty laughs against jersey mesh and creeps his hands up to Jack's waistband. It's more than a little difficult to focus with Bitty biting at the inside of his thigh, but Jack forces himself to reach into his pocket, pull free the index card he knew would be there, and drag his eyes up to read. In looped, careful handwriting, it states, I, Eric Bittle, hereby consent to future sexual activities with Jack Zimmermann while I am intoxicated. He flips the card over, and there's a fading date and signature, worn almost to the point of illegibility, at the top. There's also a new signature, though, and the date next to it is current. Jack's eyes fix on the black ink, on the sure, heavy strokes, and go wide. "Bitty," Jack chokes out, "when did you even do this?"

"While you were napping earlier," Bitty says. "Now, do you want me to keep talking, or?"

Jack swallows, and Bitty slips sweat-hot fingers underneath Jack's shorts and boxer briefs with a smile.

"Did... did you get this notarized?"

Then there's elastic dragging down his thighs, goosebumps peppering the skin over his hipbones, Bitty's tongue sliding lightly up and up, and all the questions die on Jack's tongue. He curls his fists tight enough to make the knuckles creak.

Bitty doesn't waste any time; he's still fully clothed when he folds his hands demurely on his own knees and closes his lips over the tip of Jack's cock. It's only through channeling all of his strength training that Jack doesn't buck forward for more. They've done this enough by now that he knows the best thing to do is just let Bitty run the show, but that doesn't mean it's easy to keep himself from doing something, anything to speed things up, especially when Bitty laps his tongue out further and lets his whole mouth sink to follow. It's sloppier than usual, wet and loose in a way that Bitty typically isn't, but it's still good. Fuck, it might be even better, because there's no way Bitty's faking his enthusiasm, the scratch of his nails moving mindlessly against his jeans, the arrhythmic pulse of his tongue along and across and around Jack's cock, the thick sounds of lost suction that shake the corners of Bitty's mouth. Jack slaps one hand over his face (because he can't watch; this isn't going to last if he watches) and pushes his shoulders into the door at his back until it hurts.

That's the moment that Bitty stops.

"Hey, what's... what?" Jack groans, and when he looks down, Bitty's pouting up at him. It would be comical if Jack didn't know exactly why his mouth is so puffy.

"You could've just said you didn't want to," Bitty says.

"Bitty," Jack says slowly, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're tense and... not wanting." Exhaling loudly, Bitty sits back on his heels and tips his face down and away. "You could've said. I can just go back downstairs and all."

And that's... that's so ludicrous that Jack's chuckling before he can think better of it, and when Bitty looks up at him, equal parts confused and hurt, Jack drops to the ground and takes Bitty's face in both hands. "I'm wanting," he says quietly. "I'm tense, okay, but I'm not... I want."

Bitty grins like he just won an all expenses paid trip to a dairy expo. "Yeah?"

The only answer to that is to kiss him.

They spend a few seconds like that, lip to lip, chaste and warm, and then Bitty's mouth goes slack at the same time his hands close tight on Jack's shoulders. He tips back, dragging Jack forward and down until his knees are snug between and beneath Bitty's spread thighs, and Jack had been enjoying himself before - a blowjob's never a bad thing, especially when it's from Bitty - but he can't say he's displeased with this turn of events. He wriggles his head in close, gets his hands up Bitty's shirt and his mouth under Bitty's chin and sucks at the soft skin there. He can feel Bitty squirming beneath him, his fingers alternately feather-light and bruising against Jack's scalp, and Jack rolls his hips down, bare skin against denim, just to hear Bitty gasp.

"Jack," he sighs.

"Easy," Jack breathes into the air behind his ear. "Let me, eh?"

Bitty claps his legs tight around Jack and throws them to the side, rolling until Jack's flat on his back with Bitty braced on all fours over him. He leans down close enough to nip Jack's nose and giggles, "Nope." He crashes their mouths together again, a point of balance just as firm as the palms snugged high on Jack's still clothed chest. It takes Jack more than one attempt to actually get a hold of Bitty's waist, longer still to find the button on his jeans, the tab on his fly, but finally he's able to hook his thumbs in elastic and peel away sweat-damp fabric to reveal soft, pink skin. Bitty groans around Jack's tongue, swivels his hips down hard, and Jack smirks. "I can't get you naked if you keep moving."

"Don't care," Bitty says, but when Jack stretches far enough to smear his thumb through precome, Bitty goes still save for a mindless tremble. It's enough to let Jack get everything moving the way he wants; Bitty's jeans and briefs are tangled around his ankles and his shirt's bunched up under his armpits by the time he starts squirming in earnest again. He flails enough to kick his legs free, and then he's settling over Jack again, but this time it's skin against skin, hot and almost sticky, and Jack pushes Bitty's shirt up further with a groan. "If you don't get this off in the next thirty seconds," Jack pants, "I'm ripping it off."

"Don't you dare," Bitty gasps.

Jack quirks an eyebrow, grips either side of Bitty's collar, and tugs just enough to make the thread squeak.

"Off, you... you oaf!" Bitty smacks his hands away, wrinkling his nose up and glaring down at Jack, but he's slipping the buttons free fast and fluid, so Jack's counting this as a win. He'll never get sick watching this, watching inch after inch of stomach flutter into view. Bitty isn't lean and sharp like Jack; he's still toned, but it's in a solid way, thick and firm and yielding only under Jack's strong hands. Settling his grip just above the muted curve of Bitty's hips, Jack squeezes. "Better."

Bitty coughs out a laugh. "Glad you're satisfied."

"Almost satisfied," Jack says. "I still have my shirt and socks on."

"Good," Bitty says, and he leans to press them together, forehead to forehead, chest to chest with only cotton worn thin between them. "I like you like this. It's cute."

Jack doesn't say, "You're cute," because that would be pathetically cheesy, but it's a near thing. Instead, he tips his chin up enough to catch another kiss and lets his hands wander over the curve of Bitty's ass. He's solid there too, but in a supple, cushy way, and Jack kneads into the muscle hard. It earns him a moan and a dramatic arch of the back, pushing Bitty harder into his grip. Jack swallows the sound, lets his hands pull, spread, and he delves his fingers in.

They slip.

Frowning, Jack swipes over the skin again; it's easy, wet, and Bitty buries his face in the side of Jack's neck and shakes. Jack presses deeper experimentally just one finger. It slides in up to the second knuckle like it was magnetized.

Jack knocks his cheek against the top of Bitty's head. "Really?"

"I wanted to be ready," Bitty says, "for anything."

There's no way he did this before the party; Jack watched him pick out his outfit and flicked at his hair every chance he got just to see Bitty huff and blush and try to undo the damage. Any earlier, and he wouldn't still be so open.

And Jack can picture it. He can picture Bitty doing his kegsters (because he had three points in their game last night - THREE). He can picture him sneaking away to the bathroom, the one right next to Jack's room, toeing off his shoes and staring himself down in the mirror, willing himself to relax. He can picture him shimmying his jeans down, popping open the bottle of lube stashed in the back of the medicine cabinet, bracing himself on the chipped counter, stretching his arm back to skate slick fingers over himself-

"Jesus," Jack breathes, and he drags Bitty down until the heat in his chest is indistinguishable from the tangle of their mouths. "You're so hot," he groans.

Bitty swallows the praise and sits back just shy of where Jack really wants him. "Considering the source," Bitty laughs, "I'm very flattered."

Jack laughs along. "Would you get on the bed already?"

"Why?" Bitty bites down on a smile. "I'm plenty comfortable right," and he swivels his hips low, far enough that Jack's cock snugs up against him, "here."


"I told you to check your pocket."

Jack flails for the shorts bunched around his ankles blindly, narrowly stops himself from whooping in triumph when he snags them, and when he checks the pocket (not the one with the consent card, the other pocket), he feels physical evidence that Bitty wasn't lying.

"Ready?" Jack says, holding up the condom packet, and Bitty snatches it away and tears it open in one move.

It's easy to lose track of time after that; Bitty rolls the condom down onto Jack with sure, soft hands, plants his palms on Jack's shoulders, eases himself down with slow circles of his hips. Jack closes his hands over Bitty's and tries not to come. He shuts his eyes, but it's not enough, because he can still hear the high-pitched mewls that punch out of Bitty's throat with every movement, can still feel the flex and shake of their entwined fingers, can still smell the precome dripping off of Bitty's cock and the sweet sweep of his breath, so close. Bitty presses himself all the way down and Jack finds his mouth like a homing beacon.

Downstairs, the party's still going on, and the bass beat of the cranked-to-the-point-of-buzzing music thrums up through the floorboards and into Jack's spine, but he does his best to ignore it. Instead, he focuses on not bucking up into Bitty every time he lifts himself. He's sitting up straight and moving slow, dragging like molasses. Jack worries that maybe something's wrong; he looks up, though, and finds Bitty watching him, face blooming pink and teeth caught in his lower lip, fighting back laughter.

"It's like that, eh?" Jack smirks, and then he grabs on to Bitty's waist and drives him down hard. That gets him a squeaky yelp, high and throttled, so Jack does it again. And again. And again, and Bitty slaps his chest and starts moving in earnest.

It has to be the ice dancing. There's no way hockey taught Bitty to roll his hips so smooth and rhythmic, to arch his back until he looks like a bow drawn taut and Jack itches to pluck the string. Jack's rolling up into it without meaning to - he wouldn't have even noticed if his thighs weren't starting to burn. He lets one hand skate up past the mottled pink on Bitty's chest and curl along the side of his face instead. Bitty leans into his palm.

The music downstairs changes, and Bitty freezes.

"Bits," Jack says, because he's heard this song before and he knows how Bitty reacts to it. "Bits, no."

It's too late, though - Bitty's already squirming to the beat, humming and drumming his fingers over Jack's nipples, and when the bass starts thumping, Bitty bounces along with it. Jack almost comes right then and there, with Bitty tight around him, grinding and thrusting just this side of too fast and the slightest bit unsteady. Instead, he sucks in a deep breath, sits up enough to wrap one arm around Bitty's shoulders and tuck the other behind his head, and then rolls to one side until Bitty tips over and they both go toppling down.

Bitty's wriggling and laughing beneath him, knees digging into Jack's ribs, and Jack can't stop himself from nosing along that smile, tucking kisses into those dimples. "Oh my goodness, hurry up!" Bitty gasps, out of breath and absolutely flush with glee. "Do it!"

Jack pulls out long enough to make sense of their tangled limbs and hook his elbows under Bitty's legs, then he drives back in. He's close enough that his technique is shot; he's moving on pure instinct, thrusting in hard and without any conscious technique, but Bitty's pulling on his hair and dragging him down to whine against his mouth, so he doesn't let himself stress over it. He feels more than hears when Bitty's words start shaking, breaking. "Go on," Jack groans. "Go, Bitty. Come for me."

Then the back of his neck is cold where Bitty's hand used to be, and there are knuckles rasping over his stomach, and Bitty says his name again and comes wet against his shirt. Jack sucks the sound off his lips and joins him.

If he was ever asked what his favorite part of sex is, Jack's answer would be, "The last part." Actually, he has been asked that, and his answer was, "I'm not answering that," but the point stands. The easy answer is the standard answer: every guy likes to come.

Bitty strokes the hair behind Jack's ears, smiling so hard that his teeth keep bumping Jack's cheek, and Jack holds on tight.

Yes, the last part's his favorite. Definitely the last part.

Suddenly, there's banging on his door and Shitty shouts, "Jack! You in there?"

Jack cranes his head up, away from the warm glow of Bitty, to glare at his door. "Do. Not. Come. In."

"Nah, man, I'm not gonna try to talk you out of solitary or anything." The doorknob turns, and Jack is trying to remember whether he relocked the door or not when it creaks open and Shitty's voice gets louder. "I just have a-"

That's all Shitty gets out before Jack reaches up to slam the door one-handed. It might leave him resting a bit too heavily on Bitty ("Jack, ow," Bitty hisses pointedly), but sacrifices must be made. He leaves his palm pressed solid against the door as he says, "I said, 'Don't come in.'"

"You have company," Bitty whispers.

"I have company," Jack says.

"Oh, shit! Sorry!" There's a shuffling outside, shadows bobbing in the space beneath the door. "I'm gonna put one of my socks on the knob for you, okay?"

Bitty lets out a quiet "awww".

"That's not necessary," Jack groans, and Bitty pokes him in the side.

"I insist, dude."

"Just... you have something?"

"Right, a question. Have you seen Bitty?"

Beneath him, Bitty giggles, and Jack realizes with a jolt that he hasn't even managed to pull out yet. He draws back subtly. Judging by the way Bitty smirks up at him and tightens, it wasn't subtle enough.

"Jack?" Shitty asks.

"Yeah, no, I, um." Jack grabs Bitty's face between both hands and kisses him, firm and steady, until he stills enough to let Jack think. "No," Jack manages. "Just, no. I haven't. No."

"Well, fuck," Shitty sighs. "Kid escaped before his last kegster."

Bitty's face turns stormy; Jack barely manages to cover his mouth before he can argue. "He can owe you one," Jack says.

"Guess so. Sorry to bother you, man. Have a good night and everything!"

Jack waits until he hears Shitty's footsteps taper off down the stairs before he lets Bitty loose.

"I swear on my praline recipe, I did all three kegsters," Bitty rumbles.

"I believe you," Jack says, and he sweeps Bitty's bangs aside to kiss his forehead, "but he's going to keep looking for you. You should probably go let him know you're not dead."

Jack knows Bitty's going to pout, he's encountered it before, he's prepared, but when it happens, he still can't stop himself from wanting to bundle Bitty up in blankets and cuddle him until he's smiling again. "I guess I should," Bitty sighs.

"Go quick," Jack says, "and I promise I'll be waiting in bed for you when you get back."

That earns him a smile. "And I promise," Bitty says, "that I'll remember to lock the door."