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Bitty has always loved the feel of hair between his fingers. The way he can elicit a groan with the slightest clench of his fingers; the way he can silently command attention with a tug.
Now isn't any different, black locks curled around his knuckles, head held still as he pushes his dick past slick lips.
Eyes squeezed shut, Bitty doesn't think about how he's going to regret this in fifteen minutes. He doesn't think about whose skull he's pinching as his fingers clamp tighter on thin strands - as a moan vibrates against his dick.
*
This is a mistake.
Bitty knows it in the way Kent stutters when he asks, “Cream and sugar?” before disappearing into the kitchen. Bitty knows it in the way he can feel the cool hardwood floor beneath his slightly sweaty socks.
He shouldn't be here. It's been at the forefront of his mind since he got on the plane in Providence - since he took a cab to the T-Mobile Arena and loitered by the player entrance with several other fans desperate for a look.
But here he was - standing in Kent Parsons living room, feeling like a ghost just passing through.
*
“Fuck, sweetheart, you feel so good,” Bitty mutters, back of his head cracking against the wall.
There's a garbled noise and Bitty glances down - gets a flash of blue then green - before turning his eyes back to the ceiling.
“Don't talk.”
*
“Sorry - I don't have any cream - is milk okay?”
Bitty turns away from the bookshelf he's inspecting towards Kent.
He can read the nerves coming off Kent in waves.
“Why are you so nervous?”
Kent stares, eyes light grey, and shrugs.
“I'm assuming the worst if you're here and not Zimms.”
Bitty turns back to the bookshelf and shrugs himself. He doesn't answer - can't quite find the words to verbalize why he's there.
He just has to know.
*
His thighs are shaky but he's so close. All he can think about is soft hands pushed up under his shirt, thumbs pressing hard enough to leave bruises, and the building sensation of too much but not enough.
“Please, please,” he murmurs with no real direction, just that burning need of more.
Bitty pushes in as far as he can go, nose pressing into the bottom of his stomach. He might pull out a chunk of hair for how hard he's pulling but he can't care anymore, not as he finally comes, torn from his body.
The buzz in his brain clears and he looks down to find a wet spot in the front of Kent's pants.
“Get what you want?” Kent rasps out.
Bitty doesn't have an answer. Not a good one, anyways. He still feels as empty as the day Jack left.