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For all their striking physical similarity, Jack’s personality was no more hewn out of his father’s than it was his mother’s. They always joked about what planet Jack must have come from.
The absence of his father’s lust for violence was most remarked. Before and after the overdose, Jack had gone from a complete disinterest in aggression to a precise harnessing of it. It rarely surfaced and never took hold.
What a shock Bitty had been.
With Bitty, Jack’s savagery was far more intimate; more focused and controlled.
When an eighteen year-old Bitty would roll up his sleeves and end up dredged in flour, Jack had amused himself thinking his arms looked like tender chicken cutlets. Perhaps a little demeaning, but more proof that the kid didn’t belong in Jack’s sport.
When a nineteen year-old Bitty puffed out breath after practice in the fug of the locker room, Jack thought of blushing cupid faces painted on old cathedral ceilings.
Somewhere around this time, Jack never could place where, Bitty became something to be drawn close and touched with intent.
Bitty at twenty had officially become acceptable for Jack’s subconscious to crave in the way he wanted. Jack felt it in his white incisors and all throughout the muscle of his tongue. That acrid denial of letting himself go completely, was a little like edging and felt very dirty. Not that Jack or Bitty minded.
That first pressing against Bitty’s silky mouth was Heaven itself. Holding him in place and having his lips at every angle he wanted. He had hoped Bitty would hear the gentle warning in the kisses: please understand that I will never be satisfied.
Everywhere on Bitty’s precious head was a very careful, protected zone. Hands had to be used for steadying when Jack’s sweet kisses shook slightly from the way he filled up with Bitty’s loveliness.
The flesh of Bitty’s forearms was drawn into the mouth, top and bottom jaws clamping and testing. Safe and seemingly silly enough to do around their friends, even when it got a little… slobbery.
One knuckle of Bitty’s small, weak pinkies placed between molars. Gnawing at it a little, dry.
The side of Bitty’s neck when they were being sweet or had little time.
The span of Bitty’s entire throat under Jack’s head bent at a severe angle was only for the dark of their bedroom in Providence.
The plump slices of excess at the insides of Bitty’s thighs, strung right alongside the muscle connecting to his hips. So perfect for suction and making Bitty jump all over the bed.
The peaks of fat on each cheek of his ass where they folded to meet. Those were the only places Jack was allowed to draw a little blood. He could get his hands around them and bring the choicest bits right between his gnashers.
Bitty seemed to be made of different stuff than Jack, somehow. Where Jack was solid junctures of thick muscle and tensile strength worn and rebuilt out of aggression and strain, Bitty was supple and flexible as an ocean reed. The only places he was set firm were his beautiful ankles. Jack knew that Bitty was built at his core like his ankles; coiled and set tight. Resilient and warm. None of the grays or blues Jack could see all over his own body.
“Were you like this before?” Bitty’s voice was octaves higher with drowsiness. “With anyone else?”
Jack licked a soothing stripe over the wrist in his hands. He held it up into a beam of sunlight glancing across the bed. The way Bitty’s skin made the sun itself seem dull made Jack huff slightly, happily.
“No.”
A happy sigh, a wriggle, and then fingers closing around Jack’s where they held tight.