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It would have been awkward were it not Spot. Anyone else would have given him a look, denied his request, but Spot shoots him a cheery smile and a Saturday, then. We’ll see a movie first, which is some kind of heaven-sent miracle because Jack was stuttering and blushing and didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Everything came out in a question. I think I like boys? But I’m not sure how to… you know? Can you help me? Will you teach me? I know it’s a lot to ask? But Spot knew exactly what he was saying and offered to pick him up from his apartment and take him to the cinema.
Race helps Jack get dressed Saturday evening; he only knows that Jack has a date, not who with. When Spot knocks on the door, Racetrack gives him a once-over and a nod before pulling him back and undoing the top buttons of his shirt.
Jack knows that Race is probably going to watch Lord of the Rings and fall asleep on his couch. Race knows that Jack is more nervous for this date than he’s been for any other (Jack can’t be trusted to dress himself, so Race comes over a lot. He needs the help.)
Spot gives him a hug on his doorstep. The drive to the movie theater is silent, except for Spot’s quiet explanation that they’re ‘only going to do non-penetrative this week’ (The implication that this will become a weekly meeting makes Jack blush.)
He doesn’t even know what movie they see. There are maybe three other people in the cinema, but they’re all sitting in front of them. A few minutes in, Spot pushes the armrest up and moves closer to Jack. When he turns to him, Spot says, “How are we supposed to do this if you jump ev’ry time I touch ya?”
He has a point, so Jack lets him move closer and get a bit handsy. “We’re in a movie theater.” He whispers as Spot straddles him. He’s not sure how he manages it because the seats are fold-down seats, but he does.
“What a classic make-out place.” Spot says, pressing close.
Jack finds his breath hitching in his throat when Spot rocks his hips in a long, slow, repetitive motion, back and forth across Jack. He reaches around and presses a hand flat to the small of Spot’s back, trying to pull him closer. When he starts trying to bring Spot’s mouth to his own, Spot sits back with an impish grin and gets back in his own seat, though one hand is still playing an invisible piano on Jack’s thigh.
“What,” he breathes, “was that?”
“Just checking.” Spot says noncommittally, as if he doesn’t really care, but the way he still leans into Jack tells a different story.
“Oh, fuck it,” Jack mutters before grabbing Spot’s hand and pulling him out of the cinema.
The drive to Spot’s apartment is tense, but Spot speeds and skips red lights and is pulling Jack into the bedroom before he can even realize what’s happening. Spot pushes him back onto the bed (it’s turned down, which Jack finds objectively adorable) and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt (It’s the first time Jack’s ever seen him fumble for anything). He tugs his undershirt over his head and then Spot is staring at him, eyes drinking in his body and the tattoo at his hip, and Jack’s glad that it’s dim enough that Spot can’t see him blush.
“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous.” Spot breathes, and then straddles him again to kiss a slow path across his collarbones. Jack exhales shakily and twists his fingers in Spot’s hair. Spot lingers over his skin, brushing his teeth against Jack with just enough pressure to make him groan, before leaning and focusing on his tattoo.
“I can’t see all of it.” He looks up at Jack, eyes wide and anxious. “Can I-“
Jack answers by unbuckling his own belt. Spot undoes his jeans and tugs them down just enough to reveal a pale slice of his hipbone and more importantly, the rest of his tattoo. Spot reads the words (Libertas perfundet omnia luce) and presses his lips, finally, to Jack’s, and his lips are warm and soft and alive. “What does it say?”
“Freedom floods all things with light.” He answers, eyes sliding shut. Spot moves back down to his hip again and kisses his skin, an open-mouthed kiss that sets his blood on fire.
“Spot- I need- I want-“ He can’t find the words, but that’s okay, because Spot knows.
“Hold on a minute, sugar.” He whispers, sucking hard enough on his neck that he’s sure to wake up with a mark claiming him as Spot’s territory.
It’s probably the sugar that does it, because Jack decides he’s had enough of this and flips Spot onto his back. Spot lets him take his shirt off and explore everything he wants- the hard, wiry muscle of Spot is different from the curves he’s used to.
It’s not long, however, before Spot rolls him back over and pulls him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and kneels in between his legs. Jack feels lost already, with Spot’s hands on his hips and looking up at him through his lashes, his lips red and swollen and offering small smiles up to Jack.
He nods at him, his fingers already reaching to push through Spot’s hair as Spot removes his clothes with shaking hands. “At least try to pay attention.” He says, but his voice is low and rough.
And lord, Spot knows what he’s doing.
Jack comes with a small tilt of his hips and a shaky exhale that makes Spot’s mind blank. Soon Jack is pulling and pushing, switching their positions (A possessive my turn sneaks past his lips and Spot smiles) and he knew that Jack could do some amazing things with his tongue, he’s seen him tying cherry strings into knots and sucking on lollipops with a determination that made his mind go places where they probably should not have, but now Jack’s on his knees naked in front of him and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t pictured it before. In reality, though, it’s so much better, because he’s using his hands too, and Spot never thought about that, and he’s got callouses and that’s just amazing, and the places where Spot pushes his fingernails into his shoulders flush red and his face is open, shameless, changing to pride as Spot babbles and moans.
He finishes and drags Jack up and over him, lying back on the now-messy bedsheets and fuckfuckfuck Jack is unexpectedly good at this and he didn’t need the help at all, he knows to kiss Spot and let him taste himself and to grind his hips down into Spot’s and to tug on his hair and to breathe onto his skin and nip at his collarbones.
Soon, Spot’s scrambling for the nightstand because Jack is gasping something about fingers and please and looking up at Spot with wide eyes and Spot can feel his heartbeat down to the tips of his toes.
After, they lie tangled together under the covers. Spot cards his hands through Jack’s hair as he drifts closer and closer to sleep from where he’s tucked into Spot’s side. Jack presses a sleepy kiss to the front of Spot’s shoulder and nestles a tiny bit closer, shifting one leg up to rest across Spot’s body.
“G’nigh’.” He mumbles.
“Sleep tight.” Spot whispers. Jack drifts off into a deep sleep, his body pliant and exhausted and melting into Spot with a kind of tired determination.
Spot listens to the traffic outside and the ceiling fan and the sound of Jack’s breathing for a while longer before letting himself fall asleep.
_
He wakes up in a cold, empty bed. Last night could have almost been a dream, except he’s a little sore and he can hear the shower running at the other end of his apartment.
He stretches, rolls out of bed, and steps into the steamy bathroom. Jack jumps as he pushes the shower curtain back, but sighs as Spot wraps his arms around them so they’re pressed back-to-front. He sees the marks on Jack’s neck and smiles into his shower-slick skin, then starts shampooing Jack’s hair.
He thinks he’d like to do this every morning.