Chapter 1
Summary:
Jack and Spot shotgun when they smoke together. Jack wishes they were kissing instead.
Chapter Text
Jack Kelly is in trouble.
Not with anyone in particular; not the cops, not a professor, not the dean, and not, God forbid, his mother ; but because, recently, he’d started noticing how good Spot Conlon’s lips looked.
He’d known Spot since their freshman year of college, and they’d been hanging out and smoking together like this almost that entire time, so it wasn’t like seeing Spot’s lips; or being this close to Spot’s lips; was anything new. It had just felt… different, lately.
They always looked a little chapped, and Spot had a habit of darting his tongue out when he was thinking or doing something like rolling a blunt; which didn’t help with the chapping or the thoughts Jack was having about them. There’s a small scar; maybe a half inch long, vertical, small, fat, on the right side of Spot’s upper lip; faint, but visible if Jack was close enough, like he is now. He’s pretty sure Spot’s said it was from a fight back in middle school.
There was something about the way Spot pressed his lips together when he was trying not to laugh, the way they shone slightly after Spot ran his tongue over them, that left Jack wondering how they’d feel between his teeth. And, of course, there was the way they parted when Jack and Spot were shotgunning; barely ghosting against Jack’s own, making Jack’s heart leap into his throat and his mind scream at him to lean in closer and just kiss him, just once, just to see what it’s like-
“Kelly.” Spot’s voice, accompanied by Spot nudging Jack with his knee, breaks Jack out of his thoughts. “You're spacing out, dipshit. You already stoned?”
Jack blinked a few times. “Sorry. I was, um. Thinking about something.”
Spot’s gaze flickers down for a heartbeat. His expression is unreadable. “Well, don’t hurt yourself.”
Jack snorts, and Spot smiles a little as he passes Jack his pipe.
They’re sitting outside the Fine Arts hall of their college, curled up under a big concrete overhang next to the courtyard outside the east entrance; rarely used, for whatever reason, which makes it a great hiding spot. The overhang was built to cover the part of the courtyard with benches; also concrete, great rectangles arranged in a hexagon; but it continued on for a couple yards past the courtyard itself, and you could squeeze under the support beams to sit in the shade against the wall. It was a widely used smoke spot on campus, as evidenced by the low-effort graffiti on the walls. People don’t leave garbage behind, though, which is nice.
They meet here most Wednesday afternoons, while Jack waits for his life drawing session to begin, and Spot waits for his philosophy lecture to start. They’d go get lunch, then walk here and hang out and talk or get high.
Jack fumbles a little trying to light up the pipe. He’s still distracted. Finally, he manages to take a hit, and attempts to compose his thoughts while he holds his smoke.
Spot is sitting close enough that their thighs are touching, and their shoulders bump together when they pass Spot’s pipe back and forth. Spot nudges Jack with his elbow, gently. “My turn, gimme.”
Jack passes him the pipe, and stares at Spot out of the corner of his eye while Spot inhales. Briefly, Spot meets his gaze, and for a second, Jack could swear Spot’s gaze flickers down to his lips… but only for a second, and then Spot is blowing out smoke and looking at the sky.
“Well, whatever you’re thinking about, you look pretty freaked out. Don’t, like… drop the pipe and light yourself on fire, or something.” They continue passing the pipe back and forth. “‘Cause I’m not gonna put you out.”
Jack feels his cheeks heat up a little, and he laughs in spite of himself. “It’s nothing. Just, um. Stupid shit.” Spot stretches his arms above his head, lets out a little sigh. His hoodie shifts up a little; Jack sees a flash of his skin. Oh no, Jack thinks.
Spot cocks his eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” he says, skeptically. “Your face is, like… really red.” He looks Jack in the eyes while he takes his pipe back, and for a second Jack is sure Spot can read his mind.
Shit. Jack’s cheeks feel like they’re burning, now, he can feel the blush spreading up to his ears. Before he can make his stupid, weed-addled brain conjure up a response, Spot is tugging on Jack’s shirt to pull him close. “Shotgun with me.”
Jack nods, dumbly, and braces his hand on Spot’s knee. Spot wraps his hand around the back of Jack’s neck and slots their lips together, and Jack’s brain completely shuts off. Spot giggles; giggles! ; a little as he exhales, and Jack is sure if Spot was any closer he’d be able to feel Jack’s heart beating out of his chest.
Too soon for Jack’s liking, Spot is pulling away and sitting back against the wall. Jack tries to slow his breathing, tilts his head back to stare at the concrete above them. It’s stained and ugly, probably from decades of students smoking exactly where they were sitting now. It’s marked, here and there, with low-effort graffiti, mostly little doodles and messages done in Sharpie. Jack scans them until he finds his favorite; “RACETRACK HIGGINS IS GAY! ” written in what Jack is almost certain is Racetrack’s own handwriting. He points at it. “Did Racer write that himself?”
Spot glances at where he’s pointing and snorts. “Yeah, he did, first time he brought Albert here to smoke with him. His way of flirting.”
Jack laughs. He’s feeling pleasantly buzzed, which is slowly calming his nerves.
“So,” Spot speaks up again after a minute, rolling his head over to look at Jack. “You thinking about a girl? Or a boy?”
Jack’s heart leaps back into his throat. He is, once again, sure Spot can read his mind. Maybe he should look into tinfoil hats. “No,” he lies, too fast, and Spot smirks at him. “Okay, I mean. Yeah. Yes. Is it that obvious?”
“Um…” Spot’s gaze flicks down once more, but not to Jack’s lips. “Yes.”
Oh.
Spot shifts a little, stretches his legs out. “Is it Katherine?”
Jack laughs, incredulous. “Kath’s a lesbian.”
“Oh!” Spot looks genuinely surprised. “I thought…” He scrunches his face up, looking confused. “I guess I thought she was bi. I just assumed, based on how you guys hang off each other all the time.”
“Nah.” Jack shakes his head. “I mean, we went out for like a week in eighth grade. After I kissed her she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and told me she was pretty sure she was gay. She likes to say I was so bad at kissing I turned her gay.”
Spot laughs, loud and genuine, and the sun makes him look golden and beautiful. “Oh my God,” he’s still giggling, and he wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “That’s so fucking funny, oh my God. ”
“I’m not, though,” Jack blurts out, suddenly feeling it was very important to assure Spot that he was just fine at kissing, thank you very much. Spot’s still laughing, and tilts his head at Jack, confused. “Bad at kissing, I mean.” Jack adds.
Spot grins. “Oh yeah? You calling Katherine a liar?”
“No, I mean- I guess I am? In this instance, yeah, I’m calling her a liar.” Jack holds his breath for a moment, trying to quell the laugh bubbling up in his chest, but fails when Spot looks at him and laughs again; and then they’re both in a laughing fit, shoulders bumping together, Spot slapping Jack in the chest and saying, “Shut the fuck up, somebody’s gonna hear us!” between peals of laughter.
After a few minutes, they calm down again. Jack leans back against the wall with a soft thud, and Spot picks his pipe up and inspects it. “There’s only, like, a hit left. Do you wanna shotgun again? Share it?” He asks, glancing over at Jack.
“Yeah, sure.” Jack sits back up and crosses his legs.
“‘Kay. You do it, since I did it last time.” Spot sits up on his knees, and shuffles over to sit in front of Jack.
While he lights up, Jack takes note of how Spot looks right now; his cheeks are pink and splotchy from laughing, and his eyes are wet and shining. It makes his eyes; light green, pretty like the sea; sparkle. Jack wants to swim in them.
He sets the pipe on the ground when he’s done, and balances his hand on Spot’s thigh as he leans forward. Spot meets him halfway, rests his hands on Jack’s chest. This time, they fuck up; their mouths are touching, not ghosting over each other like they’re supposed to be. Spot balls his hands into Jack’s sweatshirt, gently, and Jack’s brain gets fuzzy and quiet. Spot’s lips taste like candy. Something fruity. Skittles, maybe? Jolly Ranchers? Jack considers, for a flash, licking into Spot’s mouth to find out.
Spot pulls away after Jack finishes exhaling, but only far enough to rest their foreheads together. He blows their smoke out, slowly, and opens his eyes. Jack’s head is swimming. Spot blinks slowly.
“You know, you can kiss me if you want to.”
Jack opens and closes his mouth once, twice, while his brain chugs along and tries to process what Spot just said. “Wh… huh?”
“I said, you can kiss me.” Spot pulls back a little further, raising his eyebrows slightly. He looks cute; all serious, like he’s explaining something slowly to a child. “‘Cause unless I’m reading this wrong, which I don’t think I am, I think we both want to. So,” Spot moves his hands up to cup Jack’s jaw. “Kiss me.”
Spot barely has time to finish his sentence before Jack is surging forward and slotting their mouths together. For a few seconds, it’s slow and hesitant, and both of them are clearly nervous; and then they open their mouths, and Spot’s hands are in Jack’s hair, and Jack’s holding onto Spot’s waist, under his shirt, and Spot is climbing into Jack’s lap and none of Jack’s blood is going to his head anymore. Spot tugs at Jack’s hair a little, makes a soft, contented noise, and oh, that’s nice.
When they finally break apart, Spot takes a deep breath and lets out the prettiest, softest moan Jack has ever heard. He drops his head onto Jack’s shoulder, and presses a little kiss to his neck. “It ain’t gotta mean nothin’ if we don’t want it to.” He murmurs.
“Jolly Ranchers.” Jack says.
Spot pulls back to look at Jack, eyebrows furrowed. “… What?”
Jack’s cheeks burn. “You- uh. You taste like Jolly Ranchers. I was wondering.” He pauses. “What it was.” Spot tilts his head. “… Earlier.”
Spot is silent for a few moments, but, miraculously, he breaks into a grin and laughs at Jack. “You’re dumb.”
Jack’s heart swells. “Yes.”
Spot shuffles out of Jack’s lap; heartbreaking; and taps the ashes from his pipe onto the ground. “So,” he stoops to step out of the overhang, and Jack follows suit. “You wanna hang out tomorrow, too? Same time?”
“I have pottery.” Jack replies, straightening his shirt out. “But, uh. After class? I’ll text you?”
Spot nods. “Cool. After.”
They lapse into a somewhat awkward silence, then. Spot shoves his pipe and lighter into the pocket of his hoodie, and Jack scuffs his sneaker on the pavement. Neither boy moved until there was a shuffling from inside the hall behind them, and they could hear students starting to pour into the hall. Spot rolls his shoulders back and glances towards his lecture hall. “I should go. See you later, Kelly.”
“Yeah, I should get to class. See you later.” Jack shoots Spot finger guns; what? Why am I doing that? Lame. Stop it. ; but they’re worth it, because Spot smiles at Jack before turning and walking away.
Jack watches him go, and a gentle aching feeling blooms in his chest.
Notes:
This chapter has been edited for continuity & grammar.
Chapter 2
Summary:
Jack and Spot have been hooking up for a few weeks now. Jack is catching feelings.
Chapter Text
Over the next several weeks, it becomes routine for the two of them to make out when they smoke. They meet up; in one of their dorms, or at a party, or, one time, in Jack’s car; to “hang out,” but before long they’d end up tangled up together. Since the making out had started, they’d stopped going to the overhang to smoke when it was just them. For some reason.
The first few times after the first first time, they would start slowly; lingering a little longer on each other when they were shotgunning would become gentle kisses between hits, which would become less gentle as they started getting handsy. By the seventh or eighth time it happened, though, they’d start almost immediately. But it never happened when they weren’t smoking, and never went further than making out.
Jack was always the one who started it. He’d pull Spot into his lap, or push Spot onto his back, or slide his hands under Spot’s shirt to hold onto his hips.
Spot was always the one who ended it. He’d pull back, kiss Jack on the neck or the temple, then clean out his pipe and they’d chat for a while before one of them left. Usually, it was Spot who left first, or (not unkindly) kicked Jack out of his dorm room.
They were starting to linger afterwards, though. They’d make dumb excuses, like waiting to sober up a little, for the chance to spend a little bit longer together. They’d almost been caught by Racetrack once; he’d popped into he and Spot’s dorm room to grab a book or something, and Spot and Jack moved away from each other so fast Jack smacked his head on Spot’s bed frame. Racetrack had given them a weird look, but didn’t say anything besides “Leave some of the weed for me,” and they’d been back on each other as soon as they were sure he was gone, so clearly that hadn’t stopped them.
The parties, though. The parties were getting dangerous.
They’d only been to a few since they’d started hooking up; three or so; but they’d found an excuse to slip away and hook up at every single one of them. Actually, at the last one, they had almost gone further, but then Racetrack had lit the kitchen on fire. It had been late March, before Spring Break; at that point, they’d been hooking up for almost a month.
Fact: Weed makes you dumb.
Case in point: Spot has been making out with Jack at this party for way, way longer than he is going to be able to explain his absence. Sure, it feels great now, but what about when they go back downstairs and Albert asks where he’s been? What’s he gonna say, “Oh, sorry, it took me forty five minutes to piss?” What then, idiot?
It does feel pretty great, though. They’re on one of the balconies of Racetrack’s parents’ house; the one on the third floor, off the guest bedroom. The fresh air is nice, as is the reprieve from the din of the party inside, but the way Jack has Spot crowded up against the wall is nicer. He’s got his hands; big, warm; on Spot’s hips, and his knee is between Spot’s thighs. Spot’s got his hands in Jack’s hair. It’s softer than it looks, and Spot’s enjoying running his fingers through Jack’s curls. When Spot tugs on Jack’s hair, or bites Jack’s lip, Jack makes these delicious noises, and honestly, Spot might be more high on that than everything else he’s consumed tonight.
What is he gonna say when they get back downstairs? It would be easier to think about that if Spot’s brain wasn’t turning into putty right now. Jack’s hitched his knee up higher, and that is making it very hard to think straight. Spot rocks his hips down, lets out a little groan that makes Jack’s grip on him tighten. Shit. Jack’s hands are big. Then again, they might not make it back downstairs.
Am I about to sleep with him? Spot thinks. And then, when Jack moves over to kiss Spot’s neck, he thinks, oh, shit, I’m about to sleep with him.
“Kelly,” Spot starts, but-
eeeEEEERT eeeEEEErt eeeEEEERT
The fucking fire alarm goes off.
The fire is small, and put out without incident; Racetrack’s mom has kept a fire extinguisher in every kitchen she’s ever had since Racetrack was ten (The Omelette Incident), so by the time Jack and Spot untangle themselves and get downstairs, the toaster is already covered in powder, Charlie is helping Sarah balance on a chair to turn the fire alarm off, Albert is lecturing Racetrack (something about "American cheese, puta merda, do you wanna burn the fucking house down”), and Racetrack is doubled over in laughter (“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wanted grilled cheese!”).
Spot walks over and slaps Racetrack on the back of the head. “You’re gonna kill yourself one of these days, and your poor mother is gonna be so embarrassed at your funeral.”
Racetrack straightens up and grins at Spot, still giggling. “Ma always says Nonna’s gonna give me an earful when I get to heaven.”
“No fucking way are you going to heaven.” Spot tries and fails not to smile back.
Jack is inspecting the toaster. “Were you… trying to make grilled cheese?” He turns around, brows furrowed. “... In a toaster?”
Albert nods. “He was trying to make grilled cheese in a toaster, yeah. Using Kraft singles.”
Finch rounds the corner, hauling a vacuum. “Everyone fuck off so I can clean this up. No, Racetrack, you stay here and help me. Racetrack! Don’t touch the powder, oh my God .”
Jack and Spot end up in the backyard, sitting by the pool. Jack has taken his shoes off and rolled his jeans up to the knee so he can sit with his legs in the water. Spot is sitting on one of the lounge chairs, smoking a cigarette.
It’s late, and the pool lights make Jack glow blue. He’s staring at the water, which is good, because Spot is staring at him.
Jack is pretty; like, stupid pretty. All soft curls and a nice jaw and big brown eyes. Tall, but not too tall, which Spot likes. He’s the type of guy that people look at and assume he’s a good kisser, which is why it pisses Spot off that Jack is a good kisser.
Spot wonders what else Jack is good at.
Jack rolls his head over to look at Spot, and Spot looks away just in time to pretend he’s been staring at the sky this whole time. “Sucks we got interrupted.” Jack says. “I was having fun.”
“Hm?” Spot looks over like he’s just noticed Jack was there. “Oh, yeah. Sucks.”
Jack leans back on his elbows. “I mean. I have more weed. If you wanna, like. Go back upstairs.” He smiles, and Spot’s heart does a funny little flip in his chest.
It’s almost funny, how they’re still using weed as their excuse for what they’ve been doing. Both of them, Spot is sure, are fully aware they’re hooking up at this point, but neither of them seems to want to be the one to drop the act first. With Jack, it seems like it’s because he’s being respectful of Spot’s boundaries; which, to be honest, is not behavior Spot is particularly used to from guys he’s hooking up with. On Spot’s end, it’s just that he’s stubborn.
He opens his mouth to respond, but is, once again, interrupted by Racetrack, who comes running into the backyard and cannonballs into the pool, which brings everyone outside, and Jack and Spot lose track of each other for the night.
Neither of them try to push it further than just making out again until more than a month later.
Jack is sitting in his dorm sketching one afternoon. He’s trying to come up with a composition he likes for a stupid assignment in one of his classes using gouache, which he hates, so it’s going poorly. He’s sketching a skull; lazy, easy, contrived, he knows he can think of something better; when a knock on his door jolts him out of his pity party. Spot’s voice, muffled, on the other side of the door. “Kelly? You here?”
Jack jumps up to open the door so fast he scatters pencils everywhere. He kicks them under the bed before crossing the room. I’m totally chill, he thinks. Calm. Serene, even. I’m like a fucking monk right now. He grabs his necklace, rubs the token between his thumbs.
Spot raises two of his fingers in greeting when Jack opens the door. “Hey. Davey here?”
“Nah. He’s tutoring in the library for, like,” Jack glances at the alarm clock on Davey’s bedside table, “another hour.” He becomes very aware, suddenly, that he isn’t wearing a shirt. “Uh- shit, sorry, if I had known you were coming I would have put a shirt on. Hang on.” He stumbles back into his room, looking around for a shirt. He’d been in the pottery room that day, helping Davidson recycle greenware, which meant lots of dust and wrestling with unwieldy lumps of half-wet clay. He always came back covered in slip, and hadn’t bothered to throw on anything other than sweatpants after he’d showered.
Spot shrugged, nudged the door closed with his hip, and locked it. Huh. Jack feels something stir low in his belly.
Spot perches on the edge of Jack’s bed and pulls a dime bag out of his pocket. “You wanna smoke?”
“I’ll shove the towel under the door.”
Three minutes later, Spot is cross-legged on Jack’s bed, packing his pipe while Jack tugs an old t-shirt on.
“You want the first hit?” Spot asks when the pipe is ready, holding it out to Jack expectantly.
“Yeah, thanks.” Jack shuffles onto the bed across from Spot, kicking his legs out and leaning against the wall. Spot settles between his knees, watching silently as Jack raises the pipe to his lips.
They’re quiet until the bowl is about halfway gone. Spot leans over Jack and sets his pipe and the lighter down on Jack’s dresser. Jack is confused, but Spot speaks before Jack can question him.
“I’m bored.” He says nonchalantly, pulling his hoodie off over his head and tossing it to the side. “You wanna make out instead?”
It takes Jack a few moments to respond, because Spot is wearing a crop top and Jack can see his happy trail. Spot takes advantage of the pause to climb up and straddle Jack’s hips. “Earth to Kelly. You wanna kiss me or not? Cause I’ll move if you want me to, but-” Jack cuts him off by pulling him down by the back of his neck and kissing him slowly. Spot lets out a soft, content noise, and slides his hands up Jack’s chest.
Jack is pretty sure Spot has started using lip balm, because his lips have felt a lot softer lately.
They kiss lazily for a while, sliding their lips together and letting their hands wander. Spot rucks Jack’s shirt up a little and brushes his fingers along his belly, which makes Jack shiver. Spot sighs, and slides one hand up Jack’s chest, takes hold of his necklace. He pulls back a little and maneuvers it out of Jack’s shirt to examine it. “Saint Catherine?” He asks. “Artists?” Jack nods. Spot turns the token over in his fingers, delicately. “It’s pretty. I like it.” He tucks it back into Jack’s shirt, and gently pushes Jack’s head to the side so he can kiss Jack’s jaw. “Mine’s Brigid. Token’s not as pretty as yours, though.” He takes one of Jack’s hands and guides it to his chest. Jack can feel Spot’s medallion, but that is, of course, completely eclipsed by feeling Spot’s heartbeat; quick, hard; under his skin. Spot bites down on Jack’s neck, underneath his ear, and Jack gasps and bucks his hips up.
Spot moans into Jack’s ear.
Jack freezes. This is where they usually stopped; straddling the line between making out and hooking up . He puts his hands on Spot’s shoulders, and starts to say, “Spot, hey-” but Spot lets out a frustrated little huff, and rolls his hips down, and says, “Kelly, do that again. ”
Fuck. “You sure?” Jack’s heart feels like a bird trapped behind his ribs. He feels a little dizzy, actually.
Spot pulls back and takes Jack’s face in his hands, one on either side of his jaw, looks Jack right in the eyes. “Yes.” He rolls his hips down again. “Keep going.”
Jack swallows thickly, and nods. “Yeah, okay.”
Spot drops his hands to Jack’s shoulders. Jack kisses him, once, before moving over to kiss Spot’s neck. Spot’s neck is pretty, pale, and easy to bruise. Jack knows this because Spot has let Jack give him a hickey exactly once; two weeks ago, in the backseat of Jack’s car. Jack slips one of his hands into Spot’s hair, uses it to tug his head further to the side so he can suck a mark into his throat. Spot shudders, makes a drawn-out haaaah noise. Jack shifts his hips into a more comfortable position, which must feel very nice, because Spot gasps and scrabbles at Jack’s chest. “Oh- fuck, Kelly, bite me.” The bird in Jack’s chest flutters more frantically. He fixes his teeth onto Spot’s neck and bites down, hard. Spot’s hips stutter.
“Keep going, keep- mmm. ” Spot shifts in Jack’s lap, tugging at Jack’s shirt as he grinds their hips together harder. “Fuck- fuck, hang on.” Spot gasps, winding an arm around Jack’s neck. “You’re hard.”
Jack presses a gentle kiss over the bruise he’d left, and rolls his hips up to meet Spot’s. Spot laughs, breathlessly, presses his face into Jack’s temple. “Fuck, Kelly, you’re hard .”
“Course I am, this feels good. ” Jack grins against Spot’s skin. “Like,” Spot grinds his hips down slower, more deliberately, and Jack’s words catch in his throat. “Yeah- good. Really good.” He moans, hides his face in Spot’s shoulder and digs his fingers into his hips.
“You gonna cum in your pants or somethin’?” Spot murmurs into Jack’s hair.
“Oh- fuck. Yeah, shit, okay, if you keep that up I’m one hundred percent gonna ruin these boxers.”
Spot laughs at him, and slows his hips. “Well,” he pulls Jack’s head up and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. “you’re gonna have to deal with that yourself, because Davey’s gonna be back soon.” With that, he rolls off of Jack’s lap and grabs his pipe.
Jack scrubs his hand over his face and looks at the clock. It’s been fifty minutes. “Shit, you’re right.”
Spot sticks his stuff into the pocket of his jeans and grins. “This was fun.” He leans down and kisses Jack one more time before making for the door. “Talk to you later, Kelly.”
“I, uh… yeah.” Jack says dumbly, pushing himself up to sit against the wall. “Talk… to you later.” Spot raises his first two fingers and thumb without turning back as he slips out the door, and Jack drops his head against the wall with a soft thud. “Fucker.”
Davey comes home less than five minutes later. Jack barely manages to calm himself back down in time; when Davey walks in, he has the towel from the door in the laundry, the window open, and his sketchbook in his lap.
“Hey, Jackie.” Davey says cheerfully, shrugging his bookbag off his shoulder and dropping it at the foot of his bed. “Are you hungry yet? I was thinking of heading down to the sushi bar. I think Charlie and Kath are gonna go, too. You wanna come?”
Jack draws in a sharp breath at the choice of words in Davey’s last sentence, involuntarily. Davey gives him an odd look, and Jack laughs at himself. “Yeah, sure, Dave, sounds good. Lemme put real clothes on and we can go.”
“Cool. I’ll text them we’re ready.”
Jack eats way too much at the sushi bar. The tiny plates and endless options always get him. He ends up putting away, like, ten plates by himself. Katherine tells him he’s a menace, and he almost throws up on their walk back to campus, which makes Katherine and Davey laugh while Charlie sympathetically pats his back and says, “See, this is why you gotta listen to me when I tell you to stop.”
Katherine and Charlie peel off towards their dorm building with waves goodbye and a little more good-natured ribbing thrown between the four of them. As Jack and Davey continue towards their building, Davey hooks his thumbs in his pockets, looks at Jack out of the corner of his eye, and asks, “Sooo… how long have you been hooking up with Spot Conlon?”
Jack sputters and trips over his shoes, barely avoids losing his balance and eating shit. “How did- what? I’m innocent. I swear.” He blurts.
Davey shrugs, grinning. “Call it an educated guess. I saw him in the hall, and the marks on his neck are, like, not subtle. Oh, and he left his hoodie on your bed.” He grins, his voice raising in a teasing way. “So! How long have you guys been hooking up?”
“We’re not…” Jack starts to protest, but trails off, jamming his hands into his pockets and furrowing his eyebrows. “Well, we’re not not. We just… kinda, I dunno, make out when we get high together.” Lie. “Sometimes.” Another lie. “We’ve been doing it since February.”
Davey snorts and slaps Jack on the arm. “It’s April! You’re supposed to tell me these things! I thought I was your best friend, asshole!”
Jack chuckles. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”
“I tell you about the dudes I hook up with! It’s, like, the law or something.”
“Yeah, and you would know, Mr. Prelaw. Do they have classes on the bro code?” Jack mimics putting one hand on a Bible, like he sees in courtroom dramas. “I, Jack Kelly, solemnly swear to always tell my bro when I get some-”
Davey tosses his head back and laughs, and the conversation devolves into several minutes of improvised courtroom jargon.
“So, does that mean you like him?” Davey asks, when they’ve quieted down again.
“I mean…” Jack trails off, running his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah. I don’t think he likes me, but yeah.”
“Oh, my Lord.” Davey rolls his eyes, swiping his card and pushing the door to their building open. “You’re dumb. You know that, Jackie? So dumb.”
“Hey, uncalled for.” Jack knocks their shoulders together as he punches the button for the ancient, horrible elevator. “I mean it. I don’t think he sees it like that.”
“Jack. This is Spot. He doesn’t even, like, make eye contact with people he doesn’t like. I’d say letting you stick your tongue down his throat is a pretty solid sign he likes you.” As the elevator door creaks open, he adds, “ And he left his hoodie behind. That’s a classic move. He’s got an excuse to come back.” Jack shoots Davey a look, and Davey grins and shrugs. “Just saying.”
Later that night, after they’ve cleaned up for bed, Jack and Davey sit cross legged on their floor, passing a controller between them as they switch off playing Super Monkey Ball.
“You know, the simplest solution to the issue is just to ask him about it.” Davey says, watching Jack roll Aiai off the stage for the fourth time in a row.
Jack sets the controller down, frowning over at Davey. “Don’t make me try to get Spot Conlon to talk about his feelings. I want to live.”
“It’s your emotions, too.” Davey reminds him pragmatically. He picks the controller up and effortlessly guides Aiai through the level. “ You can’t keep doing this to yourself, you know. It’s not fair to either of you.” He turns to look at Jack as the next level loads, his expression and tone softening. “Look. I’m not gonna force you to do anything about it, but I’ve seen you get in this situation before. More than once. You start seeing somebody, and you don’t talk to them when you start having feelings or want to make it official, and then you get hurt.” Jack opens his mouth to protest, but Davey puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “I’m just saying, Jackie, I don’t wanna watch you get your heart broken again. So I think, if you want your thing with Spot to actually turn into A Thing, you need to talk to him.” He squeezes Jack’s shoulder when he finishes talking, and drops his hand. “At least think about it, okay?”
Jack drums his fingers on his knee. “I’ll think about it.” He pauses, before lightly nudging Davey’s shoulder with his own. “Thanks for- y’know. Callin’ me out for bein’ a dumbass or whatever.”
“Anytime, dumbass.”
Davey works his way through a few more levels of Super Monkey Ball before quitting and popping the cartridge out. “Okay, we’re switching to MarioKart. I’m ready to kick your butt again.”
“Oh, you can fuckin’ try, Luigi main. Me and my girl Peach are gonna kick the shit out of you.” Jack says, waggling his eyebrows.
“Yeah, yeah, and if you do, I'll do the laundry this week. Stop being cocky and plug your controller in, butthole.”
That night, Jack loses harder at MarioKart than he’s ever lost at MarioKart in his life. During the first race, his mind drifts off to the possibility of Spot maybe? probably? liking him back, and how much trying to initiate that conversation was gonna suck, and as soon as his mind was on that it was impossible to focus on the game. After Davey had thoroughly wiped the floor with Jack, and Jack had accepted his punishment of being on laundry duty for the week, the boys spent the rest of their evening chatting and working on their respective schoolwork. Around midnight it was time for Davey to go to sleep, “‘Cause I have an 8 a.m., like a moron,” and Jack is left alone with his thoughts. He spends a long time staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach, vague images of Spot running through his mind, before he finally manages to drift off to sleep.
Notes:
This chapter has been edited for continuity & grammar.
Chapter 3
Summary:
Spot doesn't do the whole relationship thing. Spot is independent. Unattached. A lone wolf. And he's being so totally cool about this thing he's got going on with Jack. Nonchalant, even.
Totally nonchalant.
Notes:
April.
The porn in this chapter is not really porn, it's just here to establish Spot's unhealthy relationship with sex.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Spot doesn’t use people; really, he doesn’t. Or, at least, he doesn’t mean to. He just doesn’t do the whole relationship thing. He likes having someone to make out with or fuck when he feels like it, and on occasion he likes having someone to bring along to parties. What he doesn’t like are emotions, and expectations, and jealousy, and guys treating him like he’s somehow their property and they have any say on what he does or where he goes. Spot is independent. Unattached. A lone wolf.
Well, except for Albert, but that’s different. Albert is as much a part of Spot’s life as breathing. His only constant, his best friend, his other half. But that’s different.
Spot’s last regular hookup had ended badly. They’d fucked around for a few months, gone on a couple dates here and there, but somewhere along the way the guy; Drew; had gotten it into his head that they were dating (without talking to Spot about this assumption, which was the most annoying part about the entire thing) and got upset when he saw Spot making out some guy at a party. Punches were thrown, a very loud conversation was had on the front yard, and Spot hadn’t seen Drew since. Since Drew had been such a hassle, Spot got more careful after him; didn’t hook up with a guy too often or too many times, definitely didn’t take guys on dates more than once, and when they tried to push it Spot made it clear that he was just there for a good time, nothing else.
So… he really does not have an excuse for how often he’s been going to see Jack Kelly.
They’ve been friends for years, of course. They met in their freshman year of college when Spot and Albert’s third head, Racetrack Higgins, had made friends with Jack, and their social groups sort of merged. They started smoking weed together in Albert’s mom’s basement about a month in, and were solid friends by the beginning of their sophomore year. They were approaching the end of junior year, now; it felt like finals and summer break were just around the corner.
Spot had been attracted to Jack, in a very casual way, from day one. He had an easy confidence about him, like he was comfortable wherever he went and knew that everyone would like him. He had dimples and dark curly hair, and pretty dark eyes and twinkled when he really got talking about something. He had one of those infectious laughs, and Spot hadn’t known what “a smile that lights up a room” was until he saw Jack grin for the first time. And Jack could draw, and paint, and sculpt; really, it seemed like he could make any art medium he chose bend to his will. Spot couldn’t do stuff like that; couldn’t make stuff. Spot only knew how to break things. Jack made things out of nothing, and could make anyone laugh, and really listened when people talked, and bought his friends little gifts just because. Jack made Spot feel warm and fuzzy inside.
It was disgusting.
But he doesn’t have feelings for Jack, really he doesn’t. Jack is just hot, and a good kisser, and it’s fun to climb into Jack’s lap when they’re stoned and kiss him until they’re both breathless.
It is also, Spot has very recently discovered, fun to get Jack’s dick hard.
Spot knew what he was doing when he showed up that day. He had been planning to push it just a little bit further, just to sort of test the waters and see if, like, maybe, Jack would be interested in fucking his brains out sometime. No big deal.
But then Jack had his hands in Spot’s hair, and his mouth on Spot’s neck, and oh, Spot really wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of this stuff. Usually, he was the one taking charge; most guys Spot slept with didn’t bother with trying to get Spot off. And it was nice. Jack had big hands, and was good at holding Spot down in his lap while Spot rolled their hips together, and oops! Spot had let the game go for longer than he’d meant to, and he could feel Jack’s dick through his sweatpants, getting hard against his ass, and it felt nice, and if Spot didn’t stop right then he was gonna get both of them wet, and if that happened Spot didn’t know if he’d be able to resist asking Jack to fuck him right then and there. And, like, Davey was about to come back, so that would have been awkward.
So Spot had kind of lost track of time, and he’d panicked, and cut their makeout session off early. So early that he forgot his hoodie on Jack’s bed, which was annoying, but was also a good reason to go back later.
Right now, Spot was in his bed hours after the fact, and he could not stop thinking about Jack’s stupid dick. It felt like Jack had a nice dick. Spot wondered if he was cut or not. He bet he was, Jack seemed like the type. Mostly, Spot wondered what Jack’s dick felt like in his mouth, what the weight of it would feel like against his tongue. Whether Jack would rather cum in Spot’s mouth or on his face. He kind of hoped it was his face. Spot liked the look on guys’ faces when he let them give him a facial. He bet that expression would look good on Jack.
Well, shit, now Spot was starting to get himself worked up. He rolls onto his stomach and pulls his phone out. 1 A.M. May as well check Grindr and see who's up.
Spot had kind of stopped hooking up with other people as often since he'd started making out with Jack. He didn't even notice he'd done it until Albert teased him about it, and now Spot was kind of freaked out about the whole thing. Spot did not want a repeat of what happened with Drew. Spot realizes, with some discomfort, that he doesn’t think he could stomach hurting Jack like that.
Spot scrolls through the app, only half paying attention. Hopefully, Jack just wouldn't catch feelings, and then everything would be fine. They'd keep making out like they have been, maybe fuck a couple times, and then Jack would meet somebody cute to go out with, and Spot could end things nice and easy. He tried not to notice the twinge in his stomach at the thought of ending things, and tapped on a profile with a picture of a guy he recognized. He’d made out with him at a party a few months ago, he thought. What was his name? Adam? He scrolls down on the profile. Adam.
Almost as soon as Spot sent a hey (Adam must have seen Spot typing), Adam responded, and the conversation veered pretty quickly in a classic you up? direction. Thirty minutes later, Adam is in Spot's dorm room. Technically, it’s Racetrack's room too, but Race almost never sleeps there.
Ten minutes after Adam shows up, Spot is on his knees with Adam's dick in his mouth. Adam's dick is fine, Spot supposes, and the way Adam is tugging on Spot's hair is nice, but Spot's heart isn’t really in it because he can’t stop fucking thinking about Jack. Like, if Jack would make sounds like Adam was, or if he would talk to Spot. Tell him how good he was doing, how good he felt, how good he looked. If he'd make eye contact with Spot while he fucked his mouth. Spot hoped he would.
Adam must have noticed Spot spacing out, because he slaps him lightly on the cheek. “You good down there?” Spot pulls off him with a pop, the way he knows guys like, and looks at Adam through his eyelashes. “Mhmm. Can you fuck me now, though?” Spot reaches down and rubs his clit, biting his lip to really sell it. Adam's dick twitches as he hauls Spot up onto the bed, and Spot rolls his eyes a little. God, cis guys are easy. Spot might hate them, a little.
Spot hates Adam less when he’s fucking him. And it was good, it was fun, until Spot is cumming and saying Jack instead of Adam , and things get awkward, and Spot rushes Adam out of his dorm so he can sit in the dark with his head in his hands and curse his entire existence.
Jack. Fuck.
Spot really has it bad.
Notes:
This chapter has been edited for continuity & grammar.
Chapter 4
Summary:
“She was laughing even as we kissed and kissed again. There is no better taste than this: someone else’s laughter in your mouth.”
― Maggie Stiefvater
Notes:
Warning for very lighthearted jokes about suicide.
Also, the porn in this chapter is decidedly less tame than last chapter, but still pretty tame all things considered.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Spot hated nothing more than not being in control, especially when it came to his emotions. Controlling his anger was a different beast, but he prided himself on being able to control his other emotions. Usually, when he wanted to, he could just sort of turn them off. And then here comes Jack Kelly to fuck all of that up. Spot hated it. Jack would come sauntering into a room and Spot's heart felt like it turned into a million little hummingbirds, beating their wings against his ribcage and crowding their way up his throat. Jack would smile at him and Spot would feel like throwing up. Jack would touch him, even something innocent like a tap on his shoulder, and Spot's skin would burn. Spot couldn't even concentrate when Jack was talking anymore because Spot couldn't stop staring at his stupid fucking lips. And when they made out; Jesus. Spot wanted to fuck him so bad . The problem being that Jack made Spot feel stupid and mushy and Spot liked him, so he couldn't sleep with Jack once or twice and then ghost him, but the thought of having to actually talk about what they had going on and potentially taking it further made Spot want to pull his skin off. Therefore,
“He has to die. I have to kill him.” Spot said, slapping a stack of red Solo cups down on Racetrack's kitchen table. “That's the only solution.”
“You could kill yourself instead!” Racetrack piped up from the living room, where he was fiddling with the stereo. “Then you won't have to go to jail!”
“Or you could just fucking talk to him .” Albert rolled his eyes at Spot. He was across the kitchen, sitting on one of the barstools at the big granite island.
They were at Race’s parents’ house; a big, fancy brownstone in Park Slope. Race hadn’t lived there very long; until his mom married his stepdad a year and a half ago, he’d lived in the same Manhattan apartment his whole life.
It was late afternoon, and the sun filtered through the trees outside to cast everything in a funny orange-green glow. They were preparing for a party, as was tradition when Race’s parents left town, which was often. Race’s stepdad worked in “finance something or other,” and often took his wife along on business trips. That suited Racetrack just fine; he was equal parts happy his mom was finally being spoiled by a guy like she deserved, and pleased that he had access to such a lovely venue for typical college debauchery.
“I like Racer's idea better.” Spot turned on his heel and flopped down on one of the chairs they hadn't moved down to the basement yet. “Actually, Racer, will you just kill me yourself?”
“But of course.” Racetrack rounded the corner into the kitchen. “I'll drown you in the tub.”
“I could move.” Spot laid his head down on the table. “I could go Amish.”
“You could go Amish.” Racetrack nodded sagely.
Albert let out an exasperated sigh. “Spot,” he crossed the room and grabbed a chair, spinning it around so he could sit in it backwards, which Spot found equal parts lame and endearing. “We're not in high school anymore. This is dumb. I think you have a few options here. You can talk to him-” Spot interrupted him with a groan. Albert continued a little louder. “You can talk to him, you can break it off now, or you can keep doing what you're doing and make yourself miserable until one of you decides to end it anyway.” Racetrack walked over and draped himself over Albert's back, resting his chin on top of his head and letting his arms dangle over his chest. Albert reached up and took one of his hands. “I don't think that last option will end well, so you're gonna have to pick one of the other two if you don't wanna ruin your friendship with him forever.”
Spot lifted his head up and crossed his arms under his chin so he could glare at Albert. “Shut up. Just because you're dating Racer doesn't mean you're the relationship expert.”
“That's actually exactly what that means.” Racetrack grinned. “When you hit the two year mark they actually mail you a PHd in giving relationship advice.”
Albert nodded. “It's true. Not that I need one to give you advice, anyway, dickhead.”
“Bitch.”
“Asshole.”
“Pirralha.”
“Burro de merda.”
“Vai pró caralho.” Albert kicked Spot in the shin under the table. “Seriously. Don't make me call Mãe.”
Spot threw his head back and groaned. “Don't do that, man. Don't tell Ma on me like we're twelve. That's so lame.”
Albert shrugged. “Then stop acting twelve.”
Race nodded, causing Albert's head to bob a little along with him. “It's getting kind of painful to watch, Spottie. You’ve been mopey for, like, a month.”
“I have not been mopey.” Spot protested.
Albert shook his head. “You’ve been mopey. I promise.”
“We’re not gonna, like, force you to talk to Jack. But you should at least, like. Think about what you want. Okay?” Racetrack said.
Spot rolled his head back to the side and stared at the orange peel texture on the wall. “Is he gonna be here tonight?”
“I dunno. We were gonna make you ask him.” Albert smiled.
“Oh, I fucking hate you so much.” Spot was a liar, of course. Spot and Albert knew each other so well that they were practically one being. “Attached at the hip” is how adults put it when they were growing up. Albert was like Spot's left kidney; he could hypothetically live without him, but it would suck. However, at the moment, Spot had the urge to dig Albert out of his abdomen and toss him on the ground.
“Fine. I'll ask him to come.” Spot pushed himself up from the table. “But you guys are finishing setting up without me.”
“Fine by us.” Race got up, too, and caught Spot in a hug before he could leave the kitchen. He gave him a big, dramatic kiss on the head, and noogied Spot before sidestepping Spot's attempt to stomp his foot and letting him go.
If Albert and Spot were one creature, Racetrack Higgins was their third head. They'd only met him the summer before freshman year of college, when Racetrack had run into Albert on campus (literally, with his skateboard. They started dating a week later) and the three of them had been inseparable since. Racetrack fit into their dynamic so easily it was like he'd always been there.
“Yeah, yeah, okay. I hate you both.” Spot said, flipping them off as he headed towards the front door.
“We love you too!” Albert called behind him.
“Get snacks before you come back!” Racetrack added, before Spot slammed the door.
Spot called Jack while he was on his way back to campus from the train station. Jack picked up on the first ring, which made Spot snort. “Hey, Kelly. What are you doing right now?”
Jack sounded slightly out-of-breath, like he’d been running or something. Or something. Ha. “Um…” Jack paused, for too long. “Homework. Why?”
“Racer’s throwing a party tonight since his ma and stepdad are out of town. You wanna come?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Spot could hear Jack shuffling around, like he was getting dressed. “When? How big? Uh- how many people?”
“Like… seven or so. And I don’t know how many people, Race knows, like… everybody on Earth.”
Jack laughed. “Yeah, he does. Are Davey and Sarah and Kath and Charlie already invited?”
“No idea. Probably? Ask them to come anyway.” Spot scuffed his shoe along a crack in the sidewalk. “Um… do you wanna come to the store with me? He told me to go get snacks.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll get dressed.”
“Come let me in, I’m outside your building.”
“You’re…” Spot saw the curtain move in Jack’s window, and Jack’s face peered out a moment later. He waved at Spot, and Spot waved back. “I’ll be right down.”
Spot hung up without saying anything, as was his custom.
It turned out that Racetrack had already invited everyone else. Davey, Sarah, and Charlie were all getting ready at Katherine’s father’s house, “definitely not” because they were gonna steal a few bottles from his alcoholic extensive liquor collection. They were definitely not close enough to the campus to tag along to the store, but Charlie politely asked that they remember to pick up cookies. Charlie liked to bring cookies to parties, because, according to him, “Cookies are the second-best thing that you can give a drunk person to make them happy. First is puppies.”
So Spot and Jack ended up heading to the subway station alone.
Jack was wearing a dark green pullover- one of those stupid ones that just said “STATE COLLEGE”- and a particularly tight pair of blue jeans that Spot was very fond of. He was also wearing a small silver chain around his neck, and he’d put something in his hair that made his curls smell like a salon. And, Spot noticed when he got closer to Jack, the fucker was wearing cologne. Something… woody, maybe? Vanilla-y? Spot didn’t know colognes, but it smelled nice and made Spot want to punch Jack in the stomach.
“God, you dress stupid. You’re such a normie.” Spot teased as he hopped the turnstile.
Jack laughed and followed suit, leaping over the turnstile with one hand braced on it. “Okay, well, you dress like you never left your emo phase,” And okay, that was true. Spot was wearing a vintage Joy Division shirt and black jeans, “so who actually dresses stupid here?”
“You.” Spot reiterated, glancing down the platform to see if he could see the train. “You wear all white sneakers.”
“Hey, keeping them all white is hard. It’s very cool in certain circles.” Jack grinned. “And you wear scary boots.”
“They’re not scary, they’re just old.” Spot’s boots were steel-toed and ancient. He’d gotten them when he was probably twelve or thirteen from a military surplus store in Manhattan. They were already broken in when he bought them, and they were worse now. Spot wasn’t very good at the whole boot maintenance thing. He figured they had another two to five years before they were fully pulling apart at the seams, though.
“You can hear them coming from, like, a mile away. They’re heavy as fuck.”
Hearing them coming from a mile away was the point, but Spot wouldn’t tell Jack that. His boots made him feel solid, grounded. Plus, they could do some serious damage if they needed to.
Spot slapped Jack in the chest with the back of his hand. “You’re just a pussy.”
Jack caught Spot’s hand against his chest and squeezed it before letting it go. “Nah. You’re just a dick.” He said, smiling. Spot felt his cheeks heat up.
They kept bullshitting at each other until the train came, at which point they got into a heated conversation; almost an argument, except they were both enjoying themselves; about whose taste in music was stupider. Jack liked stuff like chillwave and bedroom pop; Spot liked punk and 80’s metal and goth bands. They could both agree on indie rock and new wave, though. And female rappers; Spot liked Rico Nasty and Jack liked Doja Cat, which Spot told him was very bisexual of him. They also both liked The Smiths, which Jack joked was mandatory for Latinos. Spot wasn’t sure he understood why, but he liked the way Jack grinned when he said it, like it was an inside joke.
Rain clouds had started to gather in the sky by the time they made it to the store.
“You’re holding the basket.” Spot announced, grabbing one from the rack beside the door and holding it out to Jack.
Jack took it without protest. “What all are we getting?”
“Eh, typical shit. Chips, soda. Uh, cookies for Charlie, right?” Spot made a beeline for the snack aisle. “Jolly Ranchers for me. If Race is making me buy snacks I’m making him buy me candy.”
“Is he gonna Cash App you or something?” Jack asked, pondering the selection of chips.
“No, I took his credit card.” Spot grabbed two bags of Jolly Ranchers and threw them into the basket.
Jack laughed. “I’m getting myself Takis, then.”
They took their time wandering the snack aisles. In the end, they filled up two baskets (both of which Spot made Jack carry around) with whatever they thought might be good; chips, candy, a couple pints of ice cream. Before they left, they also meandered through the toy aisles (“I cannot believe they’re selling Furbies again. Who even buys these?” “Racetrack Higgins does. He has six.”) and the electronics aisle (where they considered whether Bluetooth or wired headphones were better; Spot thought wired, obviously, and Jack agreed) and passed through the pharmacy to pick up Tylenol on their way out. They passed the condom aisle as they were headed to the checkout and Spot wondered, vaguely, if Jack had condoms on hand in his room.
By the time they had checked out and loaded everything into bags it was raining. When they stepped onto the street, Jack set down the bags he was carrying and tugged his pullover off. He was wearing a tight white shirt underneath. A tight thin white shirt. Spot hated him. “Here.” Jack said, holding his pullover out to Spot. “You’re skinny. You’re gonna get a cold.”
And now Spot really hated Jack, because he didn’t think he could keep lying to himself and pretending he didn’t really, really like him anymore.
Jack decided Spot was very, very cute when he blushed, and that he looked good in Jack’s sweatshirt. He had to roll the sleeves up a little, and it hung down to his thighs. A quick, unprompted image of fucking Spot while he was wearing that pullover flashed through Jack’s brain and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek. He was down so, so bad. It had been almost impossible to keep his mind off of Spot lately. Ever since Spot had left his hoodie behind in Jack’s dorm. That had been, what, three weeks ago? He came back to get it two days later. Jack remembered, because it had been warm that day, and Spot had been wearing thin shorts, and Jack had been able to feel how hot Spot was when he was grinding against Jack’s dick. Jack was pretty sure Spot hadn’t been wearing underwear, either. He’d jerked off like three times after Spot had gone home and it hadn’t helped.
Jack desperately wanted to sleep with Spot. Spot seemed genuinely nervous about it, though, so Jack wasn’t pushing it. Every time they finished making out Spot had a look in his eyes that kind of reminded Jack of a deer in headlights, and Spot always left or kicked Jack out quickly (but not unkindly) afterwards.
Jack was relatively certain Spot had a decently high body count; he had at least seen Spot making out with his fair share of random college dudes at parties, but Spot wasn’t really a kiss-and-tell person, so Jack didn’t actually know how many people Spot had slept with. For all Jack knew, it was none, but he didn’t think that was very likely. Jack’s other guess was that it was a dysphoria thing. Whatever it was, Jack was more than happy to let Spot work through it in his own time. He was having fun; he could deal with blue balls for a while.
What did bother Jack; or make him sad, more specifically; was how badly he wanted Spot to go out with him. That one he was sure about; in all the time he’d known Spot (two years? two and a half?), Spot had never once mentioned a boyfriend, and Jack definitely remembered Spot mentioning he didn’t really “do” relationships. Jack had known what he was getting himself into from the first time he’d made out with Spot. He had really been sure he was gonna be fine with it never turning into anything more. He wasn’t prepared for how much he missed Spot when he wasn’t around. When Spot left it felt like there was a hole in the room. And when they were hanging out like this, chatting and fucking around and making dumb jokes and shoving each other, Jack was so happy his heart felt like it was going to burst. He would’ve been happy with just, like, taking Spot to a movie or something. Or having Spot stay over after they hooked up. Jack had a silly fantasy he liked to nurse of Spot sleeping with his head on Jack’s chest. That kind of stuff, simple stuff.
Spot shook the rain out of his hair when they stepped into the subway station. He looked beautiful, even standing there with wet hair and a sweater that was way too big for him and the ugly fluorescent lights beating down on him.
Jack wanted to kiss him, but he didn’t dare.
They got back with plenty of time before they had to get back on the train to Park Slope, so Jack and Spot had time to pregame before getting back on the subway. Or, at least, that was their excuse, because all they’d really done is split two airplane bottles of vodka and smoke the tiniest baby bowl of weed of all time before they were making out again. Spot supposed that the veneer of “we only do this when we’re high” was wearing pretty thin. Something like “there is so much sexual tension happening right now and if I don’t get to touch your skin immediately I’m going to kill us both” was more appropriate. He’d meant to talk to Jack when they got back to his dorm, he really had, but Jack was wearing those jeans, and Spot was weak.
They’d discarded most of their clothes when they got back, and they were now hanging on the collapsible clothesline in Jack and Davey’s closet to dry. Jack had put on a new undershirt and some sweatpants, and lent Spot an oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts from middle school (the only pants of Jack’s small enough for Spot to wear). Spot was secretly sad for the loss of Jack’s pullover; he’d liked being able to smell Jack’s cologne on him.
Jack crowded up against him like this was good, too, though. Jack had Spot pinned to the bed; one of Jack’s hands was on the mattress, supporting him, while he worked his way up and down the skin over Spot’s ribs with the other. Jack’s knee was between Spot’s thighs, and every now and then he’d press up against Spot and make him gasp.
Spot couldn’t quite put his finger on what, but something about this time felt different than the other times they’d hooked up. Like something between them had shifted. Spot felt safe. Brave.
Spot tugged Jack by his hair so he could look at him. “Kelly. What time is it?”
Jack flipped his phone over on his bedside table. “Uhh… like five.”
“Okay, so we’ve got like an hour.” Spot pushed himself up on his elbows. “Are you drunk?”
“Huh? No.”
“Good. Are you high?”
Jack wrinkled his nose in confusion. Cute. Spot wanted to reach out and pinch it. “Uh… no?”
“Also good.” Spot nudged Jack with his shoulder so he could sit up further. He could do the talking thing. He could be brave. “Jack, I wanna make you cum.”
Well. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. He’d meant to say “I like hooking up with you, and I want to keep hooking up with you, but I don’t want to date you.” Well, no, because that was a lie. “I want to date you, but I’m a shit person and don’t know how to date people.” A little harsh. “I want you to fuck me. I also want to date you, but I’m scared.” Gross, but honest.
Spot decided he’d need more alcohol for the second part of the conversation, so for now he’d settle for the first part.
Jack was sitting back on his knees and hadn’t responded yet. He was staring at Spot with a peculiar expression on his face, like Spot was some sort of endangered animal he’d just rediscovered. He’d also gone very, very red, which Spot liked. Either he hadn’t seen Jack blush hard enough for it to happen or he’d just never noticed before, but the tips of Jack’s ears were red this time. Cute.
Spot crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “Kelly. You’re staring at me.”
Jack blinked a few times. “You wanna…”
“Make you cum. Get you off. Is that okay?”
Instead of responding, Jack surged forward and kissed Spot again. Spot laughed against Jack’s mouth and gently pushed against his chest. “Jack, hang on, Jesus Christ.”
Jack pulled back a little. One of his hands came down to fiddle with the hem of the shirt Spot was in. “Sorry. Excited.”
“I know, I can feel.” Spot teased. Jack blushed harder. Spot put his hand on Jack’s cheek. “I don’t wanna… Like, I don’t want your dick in me right now. Well- I mean, I do, but not right now. Okay?”
Jack nodded, and turned to kiss Spot’s palm. “What do you want, Spottie?”
Spot bit his lip. “I think I just, like,” he squished Jack’s cheek a little. “Really wanna suck your dick.”
Jack’s pupils dilated, making his already dark brown eyes look almost black. “Fuck. Yeah, okay, I’m down for that. Do you, um,” Jack sat up and opened the second drawer in his bedside table and shuffled around in it until he pulled out a condom, holding it up with his eyebrows raised.
Spot shook his head. “Nah. I’m clean, you’re clean- you are clean, right?” Jack nodded, and Spot continued. “Yeah, so I don’t care. I don’t like giving blowjobs with condoms anyway. Here, stand up.”
Jack set the condom back down and stood up. Spot shuffled past him and stood, too. He hesitated for a moment, and then shuffled out of Jack’s pajama pants, tossing them in the vague direction of the closet. “Okay,” Spot turned to face back and rocked back on his heels. “The shirt. Lose it.”
Jack pulled his shirt off over his head, and Spot’s hands were on him almost immediately. He’d seen Jack shirtless before, of course; beach trips and pool parties and stuff; but seeing him shirtless and getting to touch him was different. Jack had a decent amount of hair on his chest. Spot ran his fingers through it, from where it started near his collarbone to where it turned into a happy trail on his stomach. “God. You’re such a cliche type of hot.” Spot dropped to his knees and hooked his fingers into the waistband of Jack’s sweatpants. “I bet your dick’s pretty too, asshole.”
Jack laughed, but the sound was a little shaky.
Jack was pretty sure he was about to vibrate out of his skin. Spot wanted to sleep with him. Spot had said he wanted Jack to fuck him. Spot’s mouth was, like, inches away from Jack’s dick. Jack was probably gonna die or something.
Spot tugged Jack’s sweatpants down just a little, just enough to expose his hips, and then he latched his mouth to the hollow in the dip of Jack’s pelvis and fucking bit him. “Jesus- fuck! ” Jack’s hands flew to Spot’s hair, and Jack could tell by the look Spot flashed him with his eyes that Spot was laughing at him. Jack’s dick twitched and got harder. Traitor.
Spot opened his mouth and ran his tongue over where he’d just bitten Jack, moaning softly. Jack made an embarrassing sound in his throat. He’d had people blow him before- he had actually gotten quite a few blowjobs, now that he thought about it- and Spot’s mouth wasn’t even on his dick yet, but this already felt more intense. The way Spot was watching him made Jack feel like he was under a microscope. And he was giving him hickeys. People hadn’t done that before, not to Jack’s hips. Usually by the time whoever Jack was sleeping with got to this point they sort of just went for the main course, so to speak. Spot was taking his time, moving like he was trying to trace a map of Jack’s skin with his tongue. Spot kept sucking and biting at Jack’s skin until he’d left a constellation of dark bruises, Jack was fully hard, and Jack’s legs were shaking a little. Spot slid one of his hands up to Jack’s hip and squeezed it.
“You’re okay.” Spot mumbled against his skin, pressing a kiss to one of the bruises. He started pulling Jack’s pants down the rest of the way, but paused. “Jack, do you need to sit down?” Jack nodded dumbly, and more fell than sat down on the edge of his mattress. Spot shifted forward to sit between Jack’s thighs. “You’re cute.” He squeezed Jack’s hip again, before finally, finally pulling his pants the rest of the way off. Jack’s dick bobbed when it was freed from his sweatpants, which Jack found a little embarrassing. Spot dragged his nails up Jack’s inner thighs, making him shiver. And there was that look again, like he was a butterfly that Spot was pinning to a board to study. “I was right.” He murmured, wrapping a hand around the base of Jack’s dick. “You have a pretty dick.”
And then Spot’s mouth was around the head of Jack’s dick, and Jack’s brain short circuited or turned off or something. He had to twist one of his hands into his sheets and dig his fingernails into his palm to keep himself grounded, because if he came too fast right now he would have to throw himself out the window. Spot kept his eyes on Jack as he slowly, too slowly, sank down further, so Jack had to tilt his head back and look at the ceiling. Spot exhaled through his nose like he was laughing, and rubbed a circle in Jack’s inner thigh with his thumb. How was Spot being so calm right now? Jack felt like he’d swallowed approximately ten thousand butterflies. Or like the bird in his chest was back, flitting wildly between beating its wings against his ribs and trying to escape through his throat.
Spot’s throat, on the other hand- “Holy shit, Spot, fuck- ” fluttered around Jack’s dick when he’d taken him all the way in. Spot hollowed his cheeks as he pulled back, and his eyes were watery when Jack made eye contact again.
“Jack,” Spot had one hand braced against the base of Jack’s dick, had it sitting in the space between his thumb and forefinger so his hand didn’t get in the way. With the other one, he reached out and brought Jack’s hand back into his hair. “Pull my hair. Please.” Jack curled his fingers into a fist and gave an experimental tug, and Spot’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “ Mmhmm. Like that, yeah.” He squeezed the base of Jack’s dick gently, and ran his tongue over his slit. “You have such a nice dick, Jack. So pretty.” Jack shuddered and moaned low in his throat. Spot dragged his lips from the base of Jack’s shaft back to the tip. “I wanna sit on it. Want you to hurt me with it. Want you to fuck my mouth.”
“Jesus Christ, Spot.” Jack slid his other hand into Spot’s hair. “Can- can I?”
Spot blinked slowly (like a cat, Jack thought somewhere in the back of his mind) and nodded. “Fuck my mouth, baby.” He slid his mouth back onto Jack’s dick, let his mouth fall all the way open.
Jack was fucked.
Oh, I'm definitely gonna die.
He was going to be gentle, go slow, but then Spot was hollowing his cheeks around him and Jack felt his dick hit the back of Spot’s throat and Spot moaned and dug his nails into Jack’s thigh and Jack kind of lost his mind, pulled Spot’s hair harder and started fucking his face in earnest. Spot was still making eye contact with Jack, little tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Jack’s head was buzzing. Somebody was talking. Was that him talking? It must be. “So good, baby, you look so good. Such a good boy, so pretty-” Jack groaned and Spot whimpered and slid a hand between his thighs. “Fuck, baby, you touching yourself? You’re so good, sweetheart, you’re doing so good. You’re gonna make me cum.” Jack felt lightheaded, felt like he could have breathed all the air in the world and it still wouldn’t be enough. His skin felt hot. Shivers ran up his spine, to his scalp, and back down again. “God, Spottie, wanna fuck you so bad. Wanna make you cum on my dick, on my tongue-” Spot swirled his around Jack’s shaft. “Fuck, oh my god, I’m gonna cum.” Jack tried to pull Spot’s head back but Spot shook his head and took Jack further into his mouth. “Oh, fuck, baby-” Jack’s vision whited out, and he was distinctly aware of the sensation that he was floating above his body for a few seconds.
When he came to, the first thing he was aware of was how heavily Spot was breathing. Spot looked wrecked; his eyes were big and wet, his lips were swollen and shiny with spit and cum, his hair was all kinds of fucked up, and he was- Jesus fucking Christ- he was still touching himself. “Baby. Spot, baby, come here, let me help.” Jack reached out to haul Spot up into his lap, and Spot let him. Jack moved Spot so that Spot was straddling Jack’s thigh, and grabbed his hips to guide him to start grinding against him. “Come on, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
Spot held onto Jack’s shoulders for dear life, rolling his hips down in inconsistent little circles. “Not enough, it’s-” He panted. His voice was deep and scratchy, fucked-out. “Jack, your hand, I need- ah!” Jack slid his hand in between Spot’s hips and his thigh, pressing his fingers up just enough to add a little more pressure.
“You sound so good.” Spot whimpered and buried his face in Jack’s neck. “You’re so wet, baby, you’d feel so good on my dick right now.” Jack kissed along Spot’s neck, and pressed his nose to where Spot’s neck met his shoulder, felt his pulse fluttering under his skin.
Spot rolled his hips down faster. “Jack, your fingers, I wan’- want your fingers. Please.” His breath shuddered.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I got you.” Jack shoved Spot’s shorts to the side, slid two fingers into him, curled them so he could try to- “ Ow. ” Evidently it worked, because Spot cried out and clawed at Jack’s skin. Spot fucked himself on Jack’s fingers, letting out broken little moans against Jack’s shoulder. Jack kissed where he could feel Spot’s pulse and then bit down, hard, tasting Spot’s sweat. Spot cried out a string of expletives, landing on chanting fuck, fuck, fuck as he rode his orgasm out. His whole body was shaking so hard Jack was kind of worried he was gonna collapse or pass out or something. Mostly Jack was just staring at Spot in awe, slack-jawed.
When Spot was finally done, he went boneless against Jack, threw his arms around his shoulders, pressed a lazy open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. “Holy shit, dude.” He laughed breathlessly. “No coming back from that, huh?”
“No, absolutely not.” Jack snorted and wiped his hand on his sheets. “Jesus Christ, Spottie.”
“Jesus Christ yourself.” Spot kissed him on the corner of his mouth, on his jaw, on his lips. “I think I might, maybe, need to use your shower.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Jack kissed Spot’s temple, and then froze. “Oh my god. Oh my god, we’re so stupid.”
Spot leaned back to look at Jack, tilted his head. “Huh?”
“Ice cream. We bought ice cream.” Jack leaned past Spot to look at where they’d left their bags. “… It melted. It’s all over the floor.”
Spot turned around in Jack’s lap to look. They’d left the bags in the front hall. The one holding the ice cream had, evidently, been left on its side, and had spilled its contents all over the floor in a slowly-expanding melted mess.
Spot turned back around to look at Jack. They started laughing at the same time. Jack took Spot’s face in his hands and kissed him, and kissed him again, and both of them kept laughing.
Cleaning up could wait.
Notes:
Oops! This chapter is late. I wrote way more for this chapter than I meant to. Just, you know, casually doubling the word count of the entire fic in one chapter. nbd. I also wrote another chapter, but it's not set until much later in the fic and it just sort of sprang out of my brain fully formed. (Insert "they come to me in my dreams like a prophet receiving visions from an angry god" GIF). I'm not good at stockpiling my writing; usually I write and publish a chapter in the same day, but I'm trying to at least outline chapters for this fic. Hopefully, this results in longer chapters (even this one feels really short to me) and a more consistent upload schedule. I'm going to tentatively say I'm aiming to update once or twice a week. When I decide how many chapters there will be I'll update that information, too.
Also, there's a lot of stuff in this chapter that probably doesn't make total sense unless you live in my brain and know my very specific headcanons and backstories for this AU. Which you don't, and I like to show not tell. I don't like it when characters sit around and blab a bunch of exposition at each other; they live in the story and already know all that stuff. Nobody sits around in real life going "Joe, my brother who's two years younger than me, do you remember that time our mother died of cancer when I was seven and you were five?" I might maybe do some flashback chapters/scenes where characters reflect on stuff to make the backstory stuff a little clearer, but if you're dying of curiosity about stuff like when and how Jack and Spot started smoking together, why Spot and Albert both call Albert's mom "mom," or anything else going on in this fic, you can ask me on Tumblr @blush-meyers.
Chapter 5
Summary:
Spot was still in Jack’s bed, wearing Jack’s clothes, waiting for Jack to get out of the shower, and it… wasn’t weird.
In which the boys talk about their feelings.
Kind of.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It took almost an hour before the ice cream disaster was cleaned up and they’d even begun to clean themselves up. The ice cream took an entire roll of paper towels and two Swiffer sheets to fix. Spot showered first, took a little time to snoop around Jack and Davey’s bathroom (his cologne was vanilla, and looked stupid expensive), debated for too long on whether or not it would be weird to use Jack’s shampoo and conditioner (he’d deduced which ones were Jack’s and which were Davey’s based on the fact that one set read “JACK - DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH” in big Sharpie letters). Their clothes hadn’t been dry yet, so he’d put Jack’s shirt (and a pair of boxers) back on afterwards and Jack had moved a fan in front of their clothes while Spot was in the shower.
Now, Spot was laying on his stomach on Jack’s bed, listening to Jack shower. It was still raining outside, softer than before. Drops of rain pattered against Jack’s window, and Spot watched them race each other to turn into rivulets.
Spot was still in Jack’s bed, wearing Jack’s clothes, waiting for Jack to get out of the shower, and it… wasn’t weird.
Spot never hung around this long after hooking up with a guy. Ever. Spot was kind of a hit-it-and-quit-it type of person; he never let guys hang around after, never spent the night, never even cuddled afterwards. He always thought it would feel like more of a big deal when he decided; if he decided; to stay, so the fact that it felt so normal was… kind of scary, if he was being honest.
Spot was, he realized, actually feeling really anxious about it. His chest felt tight, and his heartbeat was starting to pick up.
He rolled onto his back and abruptly remembered part of a poem he’d read once; “You feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, and you’re tired.” He couldn’t remember the rest of the poem, or who wrote it. Richard something, maybe? He didn’t think he was remembering it exactly right.
Spot ran a hand through his hair. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. What the fuck am I doing? I can’t do this. Jack’s way too nice for this. I can’t- I’m not- oh, shit!
Spot jumped up to his feet and started pacing the room, back and forth, between Jack and Davey’s beds. He felt like throwing up.
He shouldn’t still be here. They shouldn’t have been doing this, any of this, in the first place. Jack was too sweet for this kind of thing. Jack was the kind of guy who, like, took the people he dated on picnics and bought them flowers. Spot was the kind of guy you hooked up with in the bathroom of a dark, seedy bar. What the fuck was he doing? What did he think was going to happen?
Spot briefly entertained the idea of texting Albert about it; “SOS, sucked Jack’s dick, panicking”; but he knew how Albert would respond. He’d say something stupid and helpful, like, “Good, now ask him to take you to get coffee!” or worse, launch into one of his stupid too-long talks about how Spot didn’t value himself, and how he deserved to be loved, and to love himself, and- ugh. Spot hated those talks. They made him want to pull his skin off, abandon it entirely and go live as a deep-sea fish or something.
Spot dropped back onto Jack’s bed. Jack’s comforter was soft. Down, maybe.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe Spot didn’t fuck up entirely. It wasn’t like he hadn’t enjoyed himself; he had half a mind to skip out on Racetrack’s party entirely and keep Jack in bed with him all night. It had been fun. It had been good. Spot was certain if they did it again, did more, it would continue to be fun and good. He didn’t have to go out with Jack to keep sleeping with him, right? Spot was-
I’m not good enough for him.
Spot was going to ignore that thought. He took a deep breath. Well, he tried. His chest felt tight, too small, the way it felt when he tried to breathe when he was submerged up to his neck in water. Jack didn’t have to be his boyfriend. All the annoying thoughts about Jack over the last few months, all the frustration after they made out, all the butterflies in his stomach, all the times he’d caught himself just staring at Jack when he was around, all the excuses he’d made to go see Jack and kiss him until they were both red-faced and panting, that had just been sexual tension. And yeah, Spot had expected more of that tension to go away now that they’d actually had sex; it kind of felt like none of it had gone away, but that had to be, like… residual. It would probably go away on its own, or maybe go away after they had sex again. They could have sex again; Spot knew Jack liked him. He could just talk to Jack, explain that he didn’t want to be in a relationship with him but he really did not want to stop hooking up with him, and Jack would understand, and that would be that. Jack was nice; it wouldn’t end badly like last time. If it did, it would probably be Spot’s fault anyway. He didn’t really think Jack was capable of being mean on purpose.
Spot heard the shower turn off. He got up, crossed the room, squeezed the leg of his jeans; still wet. Well, shit. No excuse to leave until his clothes were dry.
Stupid rain.
Jack stepped out of the bathroom a few moments later, hair still wet, sweatpants slung low around his hips, and Spot decided he actually liked the rain very much, thank you.
Jack was losing his mind. He was, to put it simply, unwell. He was pretty sure that most people didn’t get their dick sucked by a guy and then have to jerk off again forty five minutes later because said guy had used their shampoo in the shower and when Spot came out of the bathroom in Jack’s clothes smelling like Jack something in Jack’s belly had gone molten and…
What had he been thinking about?
Spot’s mouth, right. Jesus Christ, Spot’s mouth. Jack tightened his fist around his dick. If he didn’t get to have sex with Spot again he was definitely going to die. Either from sheer longing or he’d, like, throw himself out his window. Spot was so hot it made Jack want to kill himself. Spot was small, and compact, and skinny; the type of guy Jack could sling over his shoulder if he felt like it.
Could throw onto the bed. Jack dropped his forehead onto the wall of his shower, let out a low groan.
Spot had the prettiest eyes Jack had ever seen. Grey blue, like storm clouds on the coast. Spot had a spray of light freckles across his whole face; Jack had seen some on Spot’s body, too, on his arms and legs and collarbones and thighs. Spot’s thighs. Jesus.
Spot’s mouth. Spot’s tongue. Jack was gonna cum again.
Afterwards, Jack washed his face and his mind settled down. He decided his stupid horny brain had been right earlier, if a little dramatic; he was definitely not going to be able to be able to keep his cool about hooking up with Spot anymore. If the tension had been broken entirely (it definitely wasn’t, on Jack’s side, because he still felt just as insane as he had before Spot sucked his dick, if not more ) and Spot didn’t wanna do it again, fine. Jack was a big kid, he’d get over it, they’d obviously still be friends. Jack didn’t feel like they’d done irreversible damage to their friendship or anything; everything had felt (kind of mind-bogglingly) normal afterwards. They’d cleaned up the ice cream on the floor, checked their clothes, Jack had lent Spot some underwear to put on after he showered. Jack sat on the bed while Spot showered, got tired of his mind running wild and his dick trying to wake back up, moved a fan to dry their clothes faster, responded to a few texts from Sarah (“We’re almost ready. Google Maps says we’ll be there at, like, 7:15. You and Spot doing okay?” Jack had hesitated and retyped his response like four times before settling on “ya, see u there. tell charlie we got his cookies”). When Spot came out his hair was wet and he smelled like Jack’s shampoo and, well, Jack had had to jerk off in the shower.
Jack wanted Spot to be his boyfriend. He was sure of that now. He just wasn’t sure Spot wanted to be his boyfriend. Jack hoped Spot wanted to keep hooking up, at least. Jack thought he could live with that, for now; having Spot in some capacity was a thousand times better than not having him at all. Maybe if Jack worded it right Spot would even let Jack take him on a date.
Jack turned off the water and laughed at himself, quietly. God. He was so screwed.
Jack sat on his bed and crossed his legs. “Spot,” He said, gently. “Can we talk?” Ugh, god, he was being gentle. Spot hated that tone. That was the tone people used when they wanted to have a talk. It was the tone Spot’s ma used when she gave Spot and Albert bad news; “Sit down, meus filhos, I have something to say to you.”
Spot’s hand inched towards his shirt. “Don’t even worry about it, Kelly, I can go, I’ll see you-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! No,” Jack’s arms shot out in front of him, eyes wide. He looked… genuinely shocked Spot had taken his words the wrong way. “I don’t want you to go. That’s not it at all.”
Huh. Maybe Spot could stand to take a little more time before jumping to the worst possible conclusion.
Spot slowly approached Jack’s bed. He perched on the very edge. Jack spoke like he was trying to approach a baby deer. “I just wanna talk about what happened.”
Ugh. Jack’s stupid, big doe eyes. Stupid stupid stupid. Spot was completely disarmed.
He scooted the rest of the way onto the bed and tucked his legs under him, to the side. “Calm down, Kelly, I’m not gonna bite you or anything.”
Jack smiled. “I mean, I’m not opposed to you biting me.”
Spot snorted. “Good to know.”
“I just wanna, um… like…” Jack fiddled with the drawstring of his sweatpants. “… Are you okay? Like, do you regret…”
“No.” Spot responded, too quickly. “I’m good. I had fun. I… liked it.” Spot squirmed. Jack was trying to make eye contact with him. Stupid doe eyes. Spot stared at the raindrops dripping down the window. The rain was letting up a little more, enough that they would be able to walk through it without getting totally drenched.
“Good. I’m glad you liked it.” Jack broke eye contact, looked to the side. Spot glanced back over at him. His cheeks were starting to turn red, and he looked like he was deciding whether or not to say something.
Spot decided he’d say it for him. “Kelly,” Spot scooted forward, close enough that their knees were bumping together. “Jack.” Jack looked at him again. “Do you wanna do it again?”
Jack’s cheeks got redder, and he nodded. “Yeah. Do you?”
“Yeah.” Spot managed to make eye contact for a few seconds before his cheeks started to heat up. “Do you wanna, um.” Jack’s hair had a few droplets of water from his shower in it. It was distracting. “Do you wanna do more next time, like…?”
“Yes.” Jack reached out and put his hand on Spot’s knee. Spot’s heart jumped in his chest. Jack started to pull his hand back, like he was worried he’d crossed a boundary, and without his permission Spot’s hand flew out and pressed down on Jack’s, keeping his hand where it was.
Jack stretches his fingers out, laces their fingers together, and Spot feels like he’s going to die. Another fragment of that poem flashes through his brain- something like, “he reaches out and touches you, and you can feel your heart taking root in your chest.”
Spot lets their hands stay like that for one, two seconds, and Jack squeezes Spot’s fingers a little, three, four, and by five they make eye contact again and it’s too much and Spot has to let go.
“Jack,” Spot’s voice comes out rough, and he coughs a little, tries again. “Jack.” Another beat and whatever passed between them when their hands touched starts to subside, and Spot feels like he can breathe again. “I don’t wanna be your boyfriend.” Jack looks hurt, but just for half a second, and then he covers it up. Spot winces internally. Too harsh. “I mean… I like hooking up with you, and I wanna keep doing it, I just… I don’t… do… that.” He finishes lamely.
Jack smiles at him. “I get it, dude, it’s cool. You don’t have to be. I kinda had a feeling the whole boyfriend deal wasn’t your thing.” Jack stretches his legs out and Spot resettles so he’s sitting between Jack’s legs.
“You sure you’re cool with that? Being, like…” Spot trails off.
“Fuckbuddies.” Jack finishes for him. “Yeah, I’m cool with it. More than cool with it.”
Spot lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and the tension in the room finally eases entirely. “Okay. Okay, cool.”
“Fuckbuddies is such an ugly word, though.” Jack leans back on his arms. “It’s very, like…”
“Straight boy who doesn’t want to commit?” Spot offers, and when Jack laughs he feels like he’s won something.
“Yeah.” Jack agrees. “But, like, what else is there? Not-boyfriend-but-not-friend?”
“Notboyfriend sounds like something out of, like… one of those YA fantasy novels. A Court of Roses and Notboyfriends.” Jack honest-to-god giggles at that. Spot could eat him alive. “My good friend The Hole.” He suggests next. That makes Jack laugh, really laugh, head-tilted-back-gasping-for-air laugh. Spot feels dizzy. “Jack?”
Jack looks at him with tears in the corners of his eyes, smiling, still giggling. “Yeah, Spottie?”
I think if we don’t get out of here and head to Racer’s soon we’re never gonna leave this room.
I think I want to fuck you until we both pass out.
If you don’t stop laughing like that I’m gonna kill us both, because I can’t deal with feeling emotions like that.
But Spot doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he climbs into Jack’s lap and says, “Kiss me.”
Jack does.
Notes:
Short and sweet! Don't expect things to stay this sweet for long, though. Hehe. We'll probably get a few more chapters of fluff and porn before Spot freaks out and runs away to Iceland or something, though. I wanted to write a longer chapter, but this felt like where this chapter was supposed to end so I ended up splitting it in half.
Also, I can't stop editing the old chapters. I keep finding minor continuity and grammatical errors and I cannot physically stop myself from fixing them. The fic is Correct and Makes Sense up to this point now, though! I think.
orz
Chapter 6
Notes:
God forgive me for this chapter being so short. To me, it feels like a total nothingburger, but my beta readers liked it! (TY Maddie & X <3)
I'm trying to break myself out of the whole "if this chapter isn't long enough/up to my impossibly high standards, I can't possibly post it!" mindset, because then I do the thing where I, y'know, don't update for *checks watch* four months.
So! Please enjoy some minor milestones in the boys' relationship.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They don't go to Racetrack's party. Instead, they stay in Jack's dorm, hide under his blankets, and kiss, and kiss, and kiss.
Around eight, their phones start buzzing. Jack flips his phone over on his bedside table. “Oh, shit. It’s Davey, he, like, thinks I’m dead,” he mumbles something under his breath as he rejects David’s call and sends him a text, rapid-fire. Spot checks his; several messages from Race, all along the lines of “bro where tf are u”; and just one from Albert, an infuriatingly knowing “have fun ;)” that Spot briefly considers blocking him over. He ignores Racetrack, sends Albert a middle finger emoji, and turns his phone off.
“Hey,” Jack says, returning his phone to its place on his bedside table. “Do you wanna make a pillow fort?”
Thirty minutes later, they’ve ripped apart Jack and Davey’s dorm and rearranged it into a respectable blanket fort. Both Jack and Davey’s desk chairs have been recruited for the cause, and are serving as support beams; Jack’s bedsheet is their roof, and several blankets are bunched up on the floor around and underneath them. Jack calls the arrangement of blankets on the floor a genie bed, which is not a term Spot has ever heard.
They’ve brought the essentials inside; Jack’s laptop, Jack’s pipe, their bag of pilfered snacks. Jack has Spotify open and is putting on some chillwave playlist. As soon as he’s done, Spot tugs on his arm until Jack lays down, and Spot curls himself into his side. He lays his head on Jack’s chest, and spends a while listening to his heartbeat. Jack cards his fingers through Spot’s hair, and kisses him on the head. His heartbeat is slow and steady; Spot’s is decidedly not. When it all gets to be too much, Spot tugs Jack up again, crawls into his lap, and kisses him until their breathing is hard and uneven.
Spot lets Jack put his hands under his shirt. It’s scary, at first; it’s always scary at first; but Jack’s hands are big, and warm, and Spot feels safe underneath them. Jack touches Spot like he’s something to be revered; gently, slowly, like he’s trying to make a mental map of Spot’s skin. He rests his hand above Spot’s heart, and Spot imagines the organ leaping up to meet him. Unbidden, a thought crosses Spot’s mind; he would be gentle with it. Spot drags his mouth across Jack’s neck, bites down where his neck meets his shoulder. Jack gasps, and his hand twitches. He would be gentle with it, Spot thinks again, and feels dizzy.
“Jack.”
“Spot.” Jack’s hands are roaming across Spot’s ribs, and it feels so good Spot wants to cry.
“Jack-” Jack ghosts his fingers down Spot’s back, and Spot draws in a breath so sharply it’s almost a hiss. “Ohmygod.” Spot’s head falls back. The room is spinning a little, a gentle sway back and forth.
Jack nudges Spot’s neck with his nose. “You okay, baby?”
Baby. A jolt goes through Spot’s body. He rocks his hips forward, just once, and Jack laughs at him. Spot manages to choke out something resembling, “Yeah.” Spot feels insane. He’s ridiculously horny, considering how little they’re actually doing. And he still feels dizzy, floaty in a pleasant way; almost like he’s high, but it’s just Jack.
“Baby boy.” Jack murmurs.
Spot’s heart hammers wildly in his chest. His skin buzzes. Before he can stop himself, before he can even be embarrassed, he hears himself say, “Say that again. Please.”
Jack groans, low in his throat. “Baby boy.” Jack slips his hands out from under Spot’s shirt, and Spot writhes, cannot imagine a world where it’s okay that Jack isn’t touching him anymore, but then Jack is wrapping his hands around Spot’s thighs and sliding him onto his back, and oh, he can’t be mad at that.
Later, when Spot is cumming around Jack’s fingers and Jack’s face is buried between his thighs, Spot has to bite down on his palm to keep quiet.
Notes:
Chapters from this point on will probably be a little shorter, but hopefully that means I'm updating more often. This fic has been hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles for four years, so it's become somewhat of a beast in my mind.
Also; happy 1000 hits! 🥳
Chapter 7
Summary:
Basically entirely porn. Oops!
Next chapter we get big emotional confessions, I promise. But yeah, this is basically ~4000 words of Just Banging.
Also, housekeeping; I'm currently going back and editing all the chapters for continuity & grammar (so they all make sense together, my timeline is correct, and everything's in the proper tense) and adding a few extra scenes here and there so everything flows better. At the time of posting this chapter, chapters 1-3 have been rewritten. Hopefully for the last time. Again, insane person, sorry.
Notes:
June.
They're in love with each other, your honor, they just don't know it yet.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Spot wakes up sweaty and uncomfortable. It takes him a moment for his brain to catch up with his body and remember where he is; on the floor, in a pile of blankets, tangled up with Jack. Jack is asleep. Very asleep, actually; he’s snoring a little. Spot reaches out and pinches his nose, gently.
It takes him a little while to untangle himself without waking Jack, but he manages to wriggle out of the blanket fort. He makes a beeline for the window and opens it a few inches; Jack and Davey’s dorm building is old, and gets too hot in the summer, and the ancient brick walls trap all the heat, so the night stays almost as hot as the day. The fresh air is more than welcome.
It’s still dark out, no sign of dawn yet. He glances over at the clock on Davey’s bedside table; 4:03 A.M. The party at Racetrack’s should be winding down. Most of their friends are probably just crashing there; Davey must be, or he’d definitely be back by now.
Spot doubles back to the blanket fort to grab his cigarettes, and opens the window further so he can awkwardly jam himself into the windowsill. He's not gonna get smoke on Jack and Davey's floor, he's not a monster. It takes him a few tries to light his cigarette; he can tell his lighter is getting low, he’ll need to buy a new one soon. He takes deep, slow drags, letting the smoke ground him. They’re cheap, shitty cigarettes, the same brand he used to steal off his dad. Spot glances down at the package, tucks his lighter back inside. Sometimes he thinks about quitting. His dad had been a smoker as long as Spot could remember; Spot started stealing his cigarettes when he was about twelve, and he’d been smoking ever since. He’d like to think he doesn’t smoke as much as his dad, but counting weed, that probably wasn’t true. He’d also like to think that his smoking wasn’t, at least partially, a way for him to self-harm; a very, very slow suicide attempt; but that definitely wasn’t true.
He smokes in silence, for a while. The world has that gauzy, middle-of-the-night feeling, where everything is asleep and Spot feels small and vulnerable. The edges of himself; not his body, but the parts his body contains, his soul or being or whatever; feel fuzzy.
He ashes his cigarette out the window at the same time a noise from outside catches his attention.
Outside, across the courtyard that borders Jack's dorm building, a couple is standing under a streetlight. The warm, cloying summer air carries bits of their conversation to him; barking laughter and stray syllables. In the dark, and at such a distance, he can't possibly tell who they are; they're just two vague shapes, one in a hoodie and one in a dark brown coat. The shorter one has their arms around the taller one's neck, and the taller one is laughing. The laugh is familiar, but Spot can't immediately place it. It's cut off, anyway, when the taller one leans down to kiss their companion.
Spot feels a pang of… something. Not jealousy, exactly, and not sadness, either, but something in between. Couples don't bother Spot; why would they, that’s silly; but alone with his thoughts, well… something about those two, happy and laughing, not caring who sees, makes him feel…
He looks at the blanket fort out of the corner of his eye. Jack is still snoring, softly.
Spot, very briefly, considers throwing himself out the window.
Instead, he finishes his cigarette, closes the window, and crawls back into the blanket fort.
He wakes up again a few hours later, when Jack’s alarm starts going off. He groans and rolls over to slap Jack on the arm. “Kelly. Make it shut up.”
Jack mumbles something and hides his face in his pillow. Spot props himself up on his elbow and slaps him again. “It’s a Saturday. I hate you.”
Jack fumbles around blindly for his phone and swipes the alarm away.
“Thank you.” Spot rolls back over and checks his own phone; 7:00 A.M. “Seven in the morning. Fuck off, man.”
“Didn’t turn it off from school.” Jack mumbles, barely coherent. He rolls over, too, and throws his arm around Spot’s waist, tugs Spot close.
Spot is suddenly very awake.
Jack is hard.
Spot opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself. Hm. Davey still isn’t home; he probably won’t be until at least the afternoon, if he slept over at Race’s. Which gives Spot and Jack plenty more time alone.
Does he dare?
Jack shuffles a little closer and lets out a contented little sigh.
Spot decides he does, in fact, dare.
He reaches up and squeezes Jack’s hand. “Kelly. Wake up.”
“Nooo.” Jack whines.
Spot rolls his eyes, and pushes his ass back a little. “No, wake up. ”
Jack makes a confused little “mm?” noise, and Spot can feel it in Jack’s whole body when he realizes what’s going on. “Oh, shit.”
Spot huffs out a little laugh. “Yeah.”
“I can like, um.” Jack clears his throat. “I can, like. Go to the bathroom.”
“No. I wanna help. If you want help, I mean.” Spot laces his and Jack’s fingers together.
“ Oh. ” Jack’s breath hitches. His voice is still syrupy with sleep. “What about, um. Is Davey home, or-”
“No, not yet. It’s only seven, he’s probably still asleep at Race’s.” Spot moves Jack’s hand down to his hip, then lets go so he can tug his shirt up a little. Well, Jack’s shirt; an old, threadbare t-shirt with Jack’s high school mascot on it. He wears Jack’s clothes a lot when he sleeps over. He’s wearing his own underwear, though; his favorites, threadbare boyshorts with Cthulhu on the back and “CALL OF CUNTHULU” printed on the front.
Jack’s fingers twitch. “Okay, then yeah, I want help.”
Spot smirks. “Good.” He rolls his hips back, then, which gets him a soft groan from Jack, who grabs Spot’s hip tighter and rocks his hips forward. Spot likes when Jack touches his skin; he likes when Jack touches him in general, but something about having his hands on his bare skin, specifically, is nice, makes him feel warm inside.
Jack hides his face in Spot’s hair and lets out a shaky breath. “Fuck.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to ask me nicer than that.”
Jack laughs. Spot’s heart beats faster. He loves making Jack laugh. “Shut up.” Jack says, fondly.
“No.” Spot says. “Make me.”
He realizes he’s made a mistake as soon as he’s said it.
Jack has Spot pinned on his back in a second. He rucks Spot’s shirt up around his stomach and pushes Spot’s legs apart, pins him down with his hips. “You’re such a brat.” He braces one hand on the floor by Spot’s head. “I bet I can get you to shut up. Actually, no,” he grabs onto Spot’s waist with his other hand, and rolls his hips down hard. “I know I can get you to shut up.”
Spot throws his head back and scrabbles at the blanket below him. His brain goes stupid and fuzzy. Jack ruts into him again, and Spot moans low in his throat.
Jack leans down and kisses Spot on the cheek. “There. Was that so hard?”
Spot twists his hands into the blankets. “ Mmmm. ” He responds, articulately. He rolls his hips up, weakly, trying to match Jack’s pace.
Jack groans and curses under his breath, presses his face into Spot’s neck. “Fuck, Spottie.”
Spot lets go of the blankets and brings his hands up to Jack’s sides, slides them up to his chest. Jack isn’t wearing a shirt, which is good because it means Spot gets to touch him. He is, however, wearing boxers and sweatpants, which are entirely too many layers of clothing to be between them right now. Spot takes a deep, shuddering breath, tries to make his brain work again. “Jack, I wanna- let me-” He pushes on Jack’s chest, gently, and Jack moves back.
“Yeah?” Jack squeezes Spot’s hip, rubs little circles into his skin with his thumb.
Spot feels like he’s going to melt. “Roll- roll over. Onto your back.” Jack does, and Spot follows him and straddles his hips. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“Mmhm.” Jack nods. His pupils are huge. They make his eyes look almost black. Spot’s heart throbs in his chest. He takes Jack’s face in his hands and kisses him. Jack hums, and slips his hands under Spot’s shirt to hold onto his waist. Spot gets lost in kissing him for a while, then. He had had a plan, but it’s hard to keep his brain working when Jack is kissing him like this and he can feel Jack’s dick underneath him. He rocks his hips down, and Jack’s breath hitches. It feels good, but not as good as it would feel if there were fewer layers between them.
Right , right, layers, that’s what Spot had been doing. He pulls back again and curls his fingers into the waistband of Jack’s sweatpants. “You’re wearing too many clothes. Lemme pull these down, I wanna look at your dick.”
Jack laughs, breathlessly, and nods. He drops his arms to the floor. “Go ahead, Spottie, whatever you want.”
Spot tugs Jack’s sweatpants down around his thighs. No time to take them all the way off. He scoots back in Jack’s lap so he can properly appreciate the view; Jack is very hard. He’s straining in his boxers, and he’s got a little wet spot from precum at the tip. Spot reaches down and palms him through his boxers. Jack’s hips buck up, just a little, and he swears.
Spot contemplates his options. He could give Jack a handjob; this is an awkward angle for that, though. He could suck Jack’s dick; always fun, and easy to clean up. Or.
Or.
Spot has an idea. A good idea, he hopes.
Spot slides his hand up slowly and takes ahold of the waistband of Jack’s boxers. “Still okay?” Jack nods again, too fast. Spot smirks. Eager.
Spot pulls Jack’s boxers down, and his cock springs out. Jack moans softly. “God,” Spot spits in his palm and wraps his hand around the base of it. “You have such a pretty dick.” He really does have a nice dick; brown, thick, and cut, with a pretty rosy head. Spot pumps his hand up slowly. Jack’s watching him, eyes half-lidded. His cock twitches, and a bead of precum rolls down the side.
God, Spot wants to eat him alive.
“Gonna make you cum your brains out, Jackie.” Spot shifts forward a little and spits on Jack’s dick, swipes his thumb over the precum so he can spread it around. “I need you to be wet for this, be patient.”
Jack makes a small, strangled noise, and rolls his head back. Spot watches the way his chest heaves, the way he’s starting to blush up his neck. He is very, very tempted to hop on Jack’s dick right now. He wants to; the way his pussy is aching proves to him he really wants to; but it feels like the wrong time for it, somehow. The thought of letting Jack dick him down is still intimidating. It feels too intimate, and part of him thinks as soon as he does it he’s not going to be able to keep pretending whatever they have going on is casual. Although, even without that, it is getting rapidly less casual.
Jack’s dick is shiny with spit and precum, and Spot decides he’s wet enough. Spot lets go of Jack’s dick. “Okay, here, I’m gonna…”
Jack whines and picks his head up. “No, don’t stop.”
Spot rolls his eyes. “I’m not stopping, ” he moves forward again, straddles Jack’s hips, and the sound Jack makes when Spot grinds down on him is delicious. “I’m just moving .”
“Fuck. Jesus Christ.” Jack’s hands fly up and grab Spot’s hips. He bucks his hips, twice, involuntarily.
It’s the closest they’ve ever gotten to having full-on sex. All that’s separating them is Spot’s underwear, which are soaked, because Spot is stupid wet. Spot can feel Jack’s dick against his clit. It feels so good his head is swimming.
Spot gathers his shirt up into a messy knot and ties it at his side, so he can see Jack’s dick where it’s poking out between his thighs. Fuck. He looks so good.
He braces his hands on Jack’s chest and rolls their hips together again. Jack breathes out, long and shaky. “Fu-uu-uuuck.”
Spot feels like he’s on fire. “You… good? You okay?” He gasps.
“Yeah. Yeah, more than okay.” Jack tightens his grip on Spot’s hips, digs his nails in a little. “This feels so good, baby, I’m great.”
Baby. Spot shudders and feels himself get wetter. “Jack,” Jack looks up at him through his eyelashes. Spot loves Jack’s eyes so, so much. Big pretty doe eyes. “Jack.” He whines, the way he knows Jack likes. “More. Harder. Wanna watch you cum.”
“Fuck. Fuck, baby, yeah, okay.” Jack starts fucking up against him in earnest, then, rolling his hips at a hard, rough pace. Their breathing is hard and uneven, both of them. Jack’s cheeks and neck are flushed a pretty red, and he’s starting to sweat. He looks beautiful, Spot thinks, and then, I want him to fuck my face later. Spot leans back and rests his hands behind him, on Jack’s thighs, starts rutting against Jack to match his pace. The view must be nice, because Jack gasps and his hips stutter. Spot doesn’t think Jack is gonna be able to last much longer.
“You gonna cum for me?” Spot’s voice comes out breathy.
Jack whines and drops his head onto the blankets. “Y-yes, yeah.” His yeah gets drawn out into soft ah, ah, ah noises.
Spot feels the head of Jack’s dick nudging his clit. They’re making each other messy, and it’s too much and not enough all at once. Spot’s so wet his underwear are starting to get uncomfortable. On a whim, he reaches down and tugs them harshly to the side; Jack cries out when their flesh touches.
“ Dios mío, madre de Dios, oh my God. ” Jack sobs.
Spot feels powerful, drunk on it. He reaches down and spreads his lips, so Jack’s cock is sliding against the wettest part of him. Jack digs his nails into Spot’s hips so hard it hurts. Jack moans low in his throat, long, drawn out. Spot’s mouth waters. Jack looks wrecked. His hair is damp from sweat, his eyes are big and dark and glossy, his mouth is halfway open and he’s- “ Fuck, Jack, look at you ,” Spot groans. Jack is drooling. “Come on, baby, cum for me, you can do it, I wanna watch you cum.” Spot wraps his hand around Jack’s neck, gently, squeezes the sides, and that’s all it takes before Jack is crying out, sobbing a litany of praises in Spanish, shooting cum all over his stomach. He’s bucking his hips wildly, and his cock catches on the rim of Spot’s hole, just for a second. Spot could cry , it feels so good. He keeps rocking his hips, gently, letting Jack ride his orgasm out. When Jack starts to calm down, lets go of Spot’s hips and drops his hands to the floor, Spot lets go of his neck and moves his hand to Jack’s cheek. “Good boy, so good.” He murmurs.
What feels like a long time later, Jack finally takes a deep breath, scrubs his hands over his face and leaves them there. “Jesus fucking Christ, Spottie, good God. You trying to kill me?”
Spot grins. “Yes.”
Jack looks up at him through his fingers. “Well, it’s working.” He reaches up and takes ahold of Spot’s face, tugs him down. “Kiss me.”
Spot does, lazy and sweet and nice.
“Did you cum?” Jack asks when they take a breath. Spot shakes his head. “Didn’t think so. Okay,” Jack uses his hips to roll them over and gently deposits Spot on his back. “You’re cumming. Only fair.”
Spot laughs, and his chest feels bubbly and light. “Okay, boss, whatever you say.” Jack leans in and kisses him again, and everything is right in the world.
Jack wonders if the way his skin tingles every time Spot touches him will ever go away.
He likes Spot so much it’s overwhelming; when Spot is close like this, when Jack is touching him and tasting him and hearing him, Jack’s heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest. Right now, the thought of getting up; of pulling away from Spot and getting up to go somewhere where they wouldn’t be tangled together in a heap of limbs and tongues and hands; seemed like it would take a Herculean effort. Like trying to dig his own kidneys out or something. Jack had dropped acid at a party once, in high school, and it had taken him an hour to move across the house and into the kitchen; it felt like he’d had to teach himself how to walk again with every step. Moving any farther away from Spot than he was right now seemed like it would feel like that, like he’d have to coax every muscle in his body to move individually.
Spot trails his fingers down Jack’s chest, and Jack feels his skin break out in goosebumps.
“Okay, okay,” Jack pulls back, kisses the corner of Spot’s mouth. Spot is smiling at him. “Gonna make you cum. But first, I’m taking our pants off, because they’re gross.” Spot nods, giggling. He’s in such a good mood. Jack loves it when Spot’s this happy.
Jack shucks off his pants and boxers, pausing briefly to wipe the cum off his stomach, and tosses them… somewhere. In the general direction of the laundry bin, he’s pretty sure. He takes Spot’s off, too, and Spot scrunches his nose up. “Cold.”
“Jesus, baby, look at you. You’re so wet. ” Jack laughs breathlessly and swipes his thumb over Spot’s clit, pink and hard and twitching. Spot makes a strangled noise, bucks his hips up to meet Jack’s hand. “I mean, I could feel, but… God.”
Spot’s eyes are glassy and dark. “Jaaack,” he sighs, drawn-out.
Jack settles in between Spot’s thighs and pushes his legs apart. “Yeah, baby?” He sinks two fingers into Spot, slowly, and Spot arches his back. Jack wraps his free hand around Spot’s hip, uses it to hold him down while he starts fucking him with his fingers. Spot’s flushed pink, all the way from his cheeks to his neck. “You look so pretty, Spottie.” Spot’s eyes widen, and he draws in a sharp breath. Jack grins. “ Oh, you like that one, don’t you? Pretty boy.”
Spot nods, dumbly. He’s still trying to move his hips, rutting up in broken little thrusts, but Jack is holding him down too firmly for him to really move. “More.” Spot huffs, tangling his hands into the blankets above his head.
“Ask me nicely.”
Spot groans, throws his arm over his eyes. “P… please. More, please.”
“Good job, baby, there you go.” Jack slides a third finger in and curls them up, presses his thumb into that place below Spot’s belly and grinds his fingers into Spot’s g-spot.
Spot cries out, curses. His legs spasm once, twice. “Ohh, fuck, Jack, do that again, don’t stop.”
Spot talks so much during sex. Jack loves it. Jack loves him. “I’ve got you, sweetheart, you’re okay.”
“Jack, I-I want,” Spot’s chest is heaving, and Jack can feel the walls of his pussy clenching around him. Shit, Spot is very close to cumming, already. “I want- ohmygod. ” Jack starts fucking his fingers into him harder, again, and Spot seems to lose his train of thought.
“What, baby? Talk to me, pretty boy, come on.” Jack moves his thumb so he can rub Spot’s clit, and that makes Spot’s legs shake. Beautiful.
“Mmmm.” Spot says, very coherently. “ Fuck. ”
“Use your words.” Jack moves his hand away briefly, and moves Spot’s arm away from his eyes. “Arms up, be good.”
Spot’s eyes are only half-open, and there are tears gathering at the corners. “Yeah, good, I’m being good.”
Jack’s heart is going to explode into a million pieces. He wants to, like, pull Spot into his ribcage, or something. “What do you want, baby? Tell me.”
Spot opens his mouth to respond, but reconsiders and closes it again. A flicker of doubt crosses Spot’s face, and when he speaks, Jack can tell Spot isn’t telling him the whole truth.
Interesting.
“Want you to make me cum.” Spot says, instead, looking up at Jack like he hung the moon. “ Please. ”
Jack resolves to figure out what Spot was really going to say later.
It only takes a few more thrusts of his fingers before Spot goes rigid, bites down on his hand to muffle a sob, clenches hard around Jack’s fingers. It never gets less fun, watching Spot cum. He never gets less beautiful.
Jack keeps fucking him just as hard while Spot goes limp, drawing broken little whines out of him, until Spot weakly slaps Jack’s hand away and mumbles that it’s too much.
“Good job, sweetheart.” Jack wipes his fingers on the blanket, and Spot makes a face at him. “What? I’ll do laundry.”
Spot rolls his eyes, and stretches his arms out until Jack lays down and holds him against his chest.
Apparently, they fall back asleep, because when Jack wakes up the sun is shining in his eyes and his phone is ringing. Spot is still asleep, sprawled across Jack’s chest. Jack fumbles around for his phone, misses the call before he can find it. It was Davey, who is already texting him instead.
Hey, Jackie! I’m not gonna be home until this afternoon.
Typing bubble. Jack checks the time. It’s eleven.
Do you and Spot wanna go to the carnival tonight? Finch and Albert found one online and won’t shut up about going.
The casual assumption; you and Spot ; that Jack not only knows where Spot is right then, but is with him, makes Jack feel funny, something between embarrassed and happy. He texts back.
yeah, ill ask him. hes asleep
Okay. Let us know by three, that’s when they wanna go. Finch is gonna borrow his dad’s work van, so that should fit most of us that are going.
It’s me, Charlie, Kath, Sarah, Finch, Albert, and Racetrack. Kath and Sarah said they might leave early because they have their book club in the morning tomorrow.
Spot stirs in his sleep, wriggles impossibly closer to Jack. Jack wraps an arm around his waist and kisses him on the head.
👍 ill keep you updated
Okay! Talk to you later.
Jack sets an alarm for noon, tosses his phone away again, and goes back to sleep.
They snooze the alarm a couple times, but finally they get up and shower and eat. They get dressed in more of Jack’s pajamas, and Jack does their laundry.
"Come to the carnival with me tonight."
Spot chokes on his smoke. He coughs for a moment, ashes his cigarette.
Jack catches his mistake. "I mean- with us. Me and Davey and everyone." He walks over to where Spot is curled up in the windowsill.
Spot glances out of Jack at the corner of his eye and takes another drag of his cigarette. Jack can never tell what Spot is thinking when he gets like this; all quiet and prickly, like a cat who's not sure if they like you yet.
Jack wonders what saint you're supposed to invoke to get a cute boy to let you take him out. Probably St. Jude, for lost causes. Maybe St. Anthony; a good old "Tony, Tony, come around" has never failed him before. He repeats the rhyme in his head.
Spot shuffles where he's sitting. He was wedged into the windowsill. He'd popped the screen out of the window so he could smoke and not, quote, "ruin all Davey's gay little sweaters." The screen had been poorly fitted, anyway; the building was old, from a time before people decided they wanted air but not bugs to get in in the summer.
Finally, Spot stubs his cigarette out and turns back to Jack. "Okay. When?"
Jack's heart soars. He’ll have to go to Mass with his mother this week, in thanks to St. Jude and St. Anthony. "Davey says we're leaving around three, so we've got time to make the drive up there before the sun goes down."
Spot nods and crosses the room to grab his hoodie. "Who's driving?"
"I am. Well, and Finch is gonna borrow their dad's van. Davey says the van’s gonna fit everyone, so my car will probably just be us.”
The corner of Spot’s mouth quirks up, but his poker face only slips for a second. "Alright." He doubles back across the room and stretches up on his tiptoes to give Jack a kiss before heading to the door. “I’m gonna go home and get ready. Assignment I gotta turn in today.”
Boo, Jack says internally. Out loud, he says, “Okay. I’ll fold your clothes when they’re done and bring them to you when I pick you up.”
“No,” Spot says, pausing partway through the door. He turns and meets Jack’s gaze, expression totally neutral. “Leave ‘em here, for next time I sleep over.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence for a few moments, just watching each other. Finally, Jack says, “Okay.”
Spot nods. “See you tonight, Jack.”
“See you tonight.”
Spot is all the way in the elevator before Jack realizes he’s left him to clean up the blanket fort on his own.
Notes:
It physically pained me to put the word "cock" in this chapter, but alas, it had to be done, because I don't like using "dick" every other sentence, but I refuse to go down the path that leads to "throbbing love shaft."
Thank you again to Maddie for beta reading! <3
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