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stephanometraSo Jon Walker never, ever gets fucked. What's up with that?
Here, I'll fix it.
Title: QED, or Whatever
Pairing: Ryan/Jon
Rating: Pretty solidly NC17
Summary: In which there is shameless bottom!Jon porn. Yeah.
Warnings: Jon Walker, naked. You've been warned, Erica.
Notes: Came out of nowhere (puns are no one's friends, I know) and then sat on my laptop for a week being stupid about the ending, but it's all good now. *\o/* Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
t_usual_suspect, anoneknewmoose, and jewels667 for the read-throughs. 2400 words.
***
Jon loves Ryan.
It's not like that's some massive, profound revelation, or anything. Jon loves his band; Ryan is in his band; therefore, Jon loves Ryan. Pete, who took logic in college so that he wouldn't have to bother with calculus, probably knows some fancy term for the logical principle involved, but it's just that simple, as far as Jon is concerned. Jon loves Brendon and Spencer, too, the way that he loves music: the feel of Spencer's kick pulsing in his veins, the cadence of the words tripping off Brendon's tongue, all laid on top of the sharp texture of strings under the hard-won calluses on his fingers. Music is who he is, and he loves it unreservedly, so of course he loves the guys who are that part of his life. QED, or whatever.
Ryan, though. Ryan is—it's not all the time; it's not even most of the time. But sometimes, what he feels for Ryan is...something else entirely.
They're on stage after the encore, listening to the crowd screaming in ecstasy, and Ryan smiles at Jon from across the stage, delighted and earnest and full of love for who they are that night, for this weird, beautiful thing they're doing.
And all Jon can see is the sweat glistening at Ryan's temples, the cording of the muscles in his forearms under the whiteinkwhite of his skin, and he just wants, so strongly and so suddenly that he's dizzy with it, shaking as he shrugs out of his bass and hands it off to the tech, follows Eric off stage.
Ryan waits for him.
"Good show," he says in his usual tone, sounding just this side of bored to tears, but his face is still lit with that achingly open smile. He catches Jon's wrist in a way that would be companionable with anyone else, but which the raw desire under Jon's skin recognizes as a promise, as a story of what's to come, and Jon is already so hard that he's ready to start begging.
Thank Christ it's Jon's turn for first shower, because that means that he doesn't have to wait to get his hands on Ryan, that they don't have to sit in the dressing room avoiding eye contact with Eric and listening to Brendon and Shane giggling together while Spencer spends fifteen fucking minutes washing his hair. No, they can go straight into the tiny, impersonal cubicle of an ensuite bathroom, and Jon's got Ryan's tongue in his mouth almost before the door is closed.
"Want," Ryan says, plaintive, pushing Jon into the counter, dipping his head to taste the sweat at the hollow of Jon's throat.
Yeah, good show, Jon thinks crazily, feeling the hot press of Ryan's cock against his hip.
Because this is the way it is, sometimes: the sight of Ryan smiling on stage might turn Jon into a needy mess, but Ryan gets off on the music itself. Jon can see it, can see the ecstatic way Ryan loses himself in playing, in listening, in the way the pulse and thrum and roar of it feel on his skin, and fuck, just thinking about it is almost hotter than the half-smile Ryan gives him as Ryan drops to his knees.
Almost.
Jon can tell how worked up Ryan is by the way he doesn't waste time; he just tears open Jon's jeans, breath hot through the sweat-damp fabric of Jon's boxers, and groans in pleasure like Jon isn't still gross from being on stage. Like Jon's about to have Ryan's dick in his mouth, and not the other way around.
Jesus. It's so, so close to too much when Ryan takes him in, still humming happily. Jon closes his eyes, lets his head loll on his shoulders, because he's pretty sure he'll come if he watches, and neither of them wants this to be over just yet. He feels Ryan's hands pushing his pants down his thighs, the chill air in the bathroom feeling blessed on Jon's overheated skin, such a contrast to the heat of Ryan's mouth that Jon's breath hitches, the muscles in his groin flexing hard even as he fights to keep his hips still.
"Fuck," he chokes out as Ryan backs off, sucking hard and wet on the head of Jon's cock.
Ryan makes a soothing noise, dragging his fingers across the crease of Jon's thigh to press hard at the sweet spot behind his balls, and pulls off Jon's cock with an obscene little slurp. He mouths gently at the jut of Jon's hip, gives Jon a coy look. "Behind you," he says.
Jon blinks stupidly for a second and then twists, looking over his shoulder with half-lidded eyes.
There's a bottle of Wet sitting on the counter.
He looks accusingly at Ryan, who is tapping his fingers impatiently against Jon's thigh. "Fuck, you—you planned this," Jon says, passing the lube down into Ryan's waiting hand, moaning when Ryan rewards him by swirling his tongue around the ridge of his dick.
Ryan pulls back again. "I'm just prepared," he says, sounding disinterested, and pushes a slick finger into Jon's ass.
Jon thinks Ryan says something else after that—his lips keep moving, anyway—but Jon doesn't hear a word of it over the rush of blood in his ears.
"Sneaky bastard," he hisses, bearing down on Ryan's finger, and Ryan hums noncommittally as he takes Jon's cock back into his mouth.
He isn't gentle, doesn't tease as he gets Jon ready, just fucks him open with businesslike thrusts of his long fingers, soothing him through the stretch with his tongue sloppy on Jon's cock. He avoids Jon's prostate, even when Jon whines and shoves his jeans further down his thighs, trying to get more leverage, a better angle, anything. He feels like he's been on the edge forever, even though it's been bare minutes since they walked off stage; Ryan has him feeling completely out of control, and Jon can tell from the smirk in Ryan's eyes, the upturned corners of his mouth around Jon's dick, that that's exactly how Ryan wants him.
"Ryan," he pants, grabbing for Ryan's free hand where it rests on Jon's hip, nails pressing bluntly into Jon's skin. His fingers circle Ryan's wrist easily, hot skin on hot skin, begging with the touch, with the cant of his hips back onto the fingers scissoring in his ass. "Ryan, come on."
And Ryan smiles that smile again as he sits back on his heels, the one that he usually reserves for the music, the one that does crazy things to Jon whenever he sees it. "Yeah?" he says, sliding his fingers free from Jon's body.
"Yeah," Jon says, letting Ryan turn him around and arrange him how Ryan wants him. He feels the edge of the counter digging into his thighs; it's already warm from him leaning against it.
He glances at the mirror, looks into his own lust-dark eyes and shivers at what he sees. His hair sticks wet to his forehead, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest, and his cock is flushed and leaking, heavy between his thighs. He looks debauched twice over: once by the show, the frenzy of the crowd and the pulse of the music, and once by Ryan's purposeful hands and disarming smile.
Jon braces his hands on either side of the chipped sink and shuts his eyes.
"Hold on," Ryan says, and Jon hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper—and Christ, did he have that with him while they were on stage? Talk about prepared—and the soft, wet sound of Ryan slicking up his cock, and then Ryan is pressing into him, steady, slow. Always slow, because two skinny fingers are nothing compared to Ryan's dick.
Ryan drops his forehead onto Jon's shoulder as he slides in, shuddering as he holds himself in check, one hand curled tightly around Jon's bicep. Jon wonders if he'll bruise, if tomorrow there will be dark smudges in the shape of Ryan's fingers circling his arm; the want that slams through him at the thought makes him rock back, disrupting Ryan's careful movement, forcing him deeper just so Jon can get a hand on his dick. And that is too much, too fast, the stretch burning up his spine.
The intensity of it, too raw to be pleasure but with a sweet edge he can't quite call pain, traps his breath in his chest, but it's so fucking worth it, even when Ryan curses and sinks his teeth into Jon's shoulder. Especially when Ryan curses and sinks his teeth into Jon's shoulder, sharp through the thin, sweat-soaked cotton of Jon's shirt.
Jon's cock twitches in his hand, dripping fresh wet over his fingers. "Jesus," he moans raggedly, dropping his head to the side to give Ryan better access to his neck, dimly aware of how submissive he must look but far past any ability to care.
Ryan presses in close, rolling his hips, his open trousers scraping against Jon's ass, panting open-mouthed against Jon's neck. "God," he says, "You're so—fuck." His hand comes down to wrap around Jon's forearm, moving with Jon as he strokes himself, and all Jon can do is groan, needy and raw.
Neither of them can hold back, Ryan setting a fast pace as soon as Jon rocks back against him, thighs straining to spread wider even though his knees are still trapped by his jeans, leaning into the counter so that Ryan's cock is hitting him just right. Between the pressure on his prostate and the shifting of Ryan's grip on his wrist—tightening unconsciously in time with his thrusts, just hard enough to bruise and so, so fucking good—it isn't long before Jon cries out, hunches forward, and comes all over his hand and the edge of the counter.
Jon shakes through the aftershocks, his hand sliding come-slick and loose over his cock. Then Ryan moans brokenly, fingers digging into the taut flesh of Jon's hip and clamping down even more tightly around Jon's wrist, and he spasms again as Ryan comes, part sympathetic pleasure and part sure knowledge that he'll be carrying Ryan's marks on his skin tomorrow.
"Fuck," he pants when Ryan finally stills behind him, leaning into Jon's back.
The hand on Jon's hip moves to rest next to Jon's on the counter, fingers touching but not intertwined, and Ryan breathes deeply against Jon's neck, the air hot and humid on Jon's skin. "Yeah," Ryan says.
They move apart, Ryan gently pulling out, Jon stepping out of his jeans and rinsing the come from his hand. The red marks on his wrist, already darkening at the edges, stand out against the tan of his skin.
"Fuck," Jon says again, hesitantly fitting his own fingers over the bruises, eyes sliding half-shut at the awkward thrill the touch gives him. It occurs to him that maybe he's a little messed up.
"What?" Ryan asks, hooking his chin on Jon's shoulder. "Oh, shit, that's. I did that?"
"It's fine," Jon replies automatically, dropping his hands to the hem of his shirt, and Ryan waits a long beat before obligingly stepping back so he can pull it off.
He opens his eyes after the fabric clears his face to find Ryan studying him in the mirror. His face is impassive, but his eyes are intense, lingering where his fingers (and mouth, Jon thinks as he rolls his shoulder and the bite marks make themselves known) left reminders on Jon's skin. And, incongruously, it makes Jon feel like an unread page, like his skin's a roadmap to somewhere Ryan thinks he'll get lost going.
Yeah. Definitely messed up. He furrows his brow and looks pointedly away from Ryan's eyes.
Ryan clears his throat. "I didn't think—I didn't mean to leave marks."
Jesus, could this be any more awkward? "Seriously, it's fine," he says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, feeling the prickle of a blush under the skin of his cheekbones. He ducks his head, glad that he's still sex-flushed enough that the blush won't show, and adds, "I should probably shower, or Spencer's going to kill me in my sleep." And this would be the perfect time for Spencer to throw a shoe at the door or something, yelling for them to hurry up, Christ, but Spencer's comedic timing isn't nearly as good as his ability to keep a beat, and anyway, Jon has never been that lucky. He wishes that Ryan would just get out, let Jon rinse off in peace.
Instead, Ryan starts unbuttoning his shirt. "We've got time," he says.
"What?" Jon says, surprised.
"I swapped Bren for second," Ryan says, shrugging, and it's all Jon can do not to stare hungrily at the way the muscles move under his thin, pale skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his chest shining in the ugly, fluorescent light. What is he, fifteen? And also a girl. Fuck.
He shakes his head a little, like that will help clear it. "Red Bull?"
"Bottle of Ketel, actually." Ryan finishes stripping off his clothes, neatly folding his pants and laying them on the counter. "He already had the Red Bull."
Wow, Jon thinks. He really did plan this. "You really are a sneaky bastard, Ross," he says again, tone purposefully light so as to cover up the little curl of pleasure he can't help feeling in his chest.
Ryan smiles serenely. "So I've been told." Then his face slides back into seriousness; he fixes Jon with a look, hesitates a moment before stepping into Jon's space. "It's really okay?" he asks. His fingers circle Jon's wrist again, just above the bracelet of nascent bruises, but his eyes are seeking Jon's, gaze hot and intense.
"Yeah, it's—" Jon starts, and then it hits him that they're not just talking about the marks. Breath hitching, he looks down, swallows, and then he drags his eyes back up to Ryan's.
Fuck it, he thinks, and leans forward to press his mouth to Ryan's again, wrapping his free hand around the back of Ryan's neck to pull him into the kiss.
It's not a demanding kiss, just a question, but Ryan opens for him, makes a little noise of pleased assent in the back of his throat.
And that, apparently, is Spencer's cue to bang on the door. "I don't hear the shower running!" he yells, and okay, maybe his timing's not so bad after all.
"Fuck off," they both say in unison, and Jon feels Ryan smile against Jon's lips.
He smiles back.
***
Here, I'll fix it.
Title: QED, or Whatever
Pairing: Ryan/Jon
Rating: Pretty solidly NC17
Summary: In which there is shameless bottom!Jon porn. Yeah.
Warnings: Jon Walker, naked. You've been warned, Erica.
Notes: Came out of nowhere (puns are no one's friends, I know) and then sat on my laptop for a week being stupid about the ending, but it's all good now. *\o/* Thanks to
t_usual_suspect, anoneknewmoose, and jewels667 for the read-throughs. 2400 words.Jon loves Ryan.
It's not like that's some massive, profound revelation, or anything. Jon loves his band; Ryan is in his band; therefore, Jon loves Ryan. Pete, who took logic in college so that he wouldn't have to bother with calculus, probably knows some fancy term for the logical principle involved, but it's just that simple, as far as Jon is concerned. Jon loves Brendon and Spencer, too, the way that he loves music: the feel of Spencer's kick pulsing in his veins, the cadence of the words tripping off Brendon's tongue, all laid on top of the sharp texture of strings under the hard-won calluses on his fingers. Music is who he is, and he loves it unreservedly, so of course he loves the guys who are that part of his life. QED, or whatever.
Ryan, though. Ryan is—it's not all the time; it's not even most of the time. But sometimes, what he feels for Ryan is...something else entirely.
They're on stage after the encore, listening to the crowd screaming in ecstasy, and Ryan smiles at Jon from across the stage, delighted and earnest and full of love for who they are that night, for this weird, beautiful thing they're doing.
And all Jon can see is the sweat glistening at Ryan's temples, the cording of the muscles in his forearms under the whiteinkwhite of his skin, and he just wants, so strongly and so suddenly that he's dizzy with it, shaking as he shrugs out of his bass and hands it off to the tech, follows Eric off stage.
Ryan waits for him.
"Good show," he says in his usual tone, sounding just this side of bored to tears, but his face is still lit with that achingly open smile. He catches Jon's wrist in a way that would be companionable with anyone else, but which the raw desire under Jon's skin recognizes as a promise, as a story of what's to come, and Jon is already so hard that he's ready to start begging.
Thank Christ it's Jon's turn for first shower, because that means that he doesn't have to wait to get his hands on Ryan, that they don't have to sit in the dressing room avoiding eye contact with Eric and listening to Brendon and Shane giggling together while Spencer spends fifteen fucking minutes washing his hair. No, they can go straight into the tiny, impersonal cubicle of an ensuite bathroom, and Jon's got Ryan's tongue in his mouth almost before the door is closed.
"Want," Ryan says, plaintive, pushing Jon into the counter, dipping his head to taste the sweat at the hollow of Jon's throat.
Yeah, good show, Jon thinks crazily, feeling the hot press of Ryan's cock against his hip.
Because this is the way it is, sometimes: the sight of Ryan smiling on stage might turn Jon into a needy mess, but Ryan gets off on the music itself. Jon can see it, can see the ecstatic way Ryan loses himself in playing, in listening, in the way the pulse and thrum and roar of it feel on his skin, and fuck, just thinking about it is almost hotter than the half-smile Ryan gives him as Ryan drops to his knees.
Almost.
Jon can tell how worked up Ryan is by the way he doesn't waste time; he just tears open Jon's jeans, breath hot through the sweat-damp fabric of Jon's boxers, and groans in pleasure like Jon isn't still gross from being on stage. Like Jon's about to have Ryan's dick in his mouth, and not the other way around.
Jesus. It's so, so close to too much when Ryan takes him in, still humming happily. Jon closes his eyes, lets his head loll on his shoulders, because he's pretty sure he'll come if he watches, and neither of them wants this to be over just yet. He feels Ryan's hands pushing his pants down his thighs, the chill air in the bathroom feeling blessed on Jon's overheated skin, such a contrast to the heat of Ryan's mouth that Jon's breath hitches, the muscles in his groin flexing hard even as he fights to keep his hips still.
"Fuck," he chokes out as Ryan backs off, sucking hard and wet on the head of Jon's cock.
Ryan makes a soothing noise, dragging his fingers across the crease of Jon's thigh to press hard at the sweet spot behind his balls, and pulls off Jon's cock with an obscene little slurp. He mouths gently at the jut of Jon's hip, gives Jon a coy look. "Behind you," he says.
Jon blinks stupidly for a second and then twists, looking over his shoulder with half-lidded eyes.
There's a bottle of Wet sitting on the counter.
He looks accusingly at Ryan, who is tapping his fingers impatiently against Jon's thigh. "Fuck, you—you planned this," Jon says, passing the lube down into Ryan's waiting hand, moaning when Ryan rewards him by swirling his tongue around the ridge of his dick.
Ryan pulls back again. "I'm just prepared," he says, sounding disinterested, and pushes a slick finger into Jon's ass.
Jon thinks Ryan says something else after that—his lips keep moving, anyway—but Jon doesn't hear a word of it over the rush of blood in his ears.
"Sneaky bastard," he hisses, bearing down on Ryan's finger, and Ryan hums noncommittally as he takes Jon's cock back into his mouth.
He isn't gentle, doesn't tease as he gets Jon ready, just fucks him open with businesslike thrusts of his long fingers, soothing him through the stretch with his tongue sloppy on Jon's cock. He avoids Jon's prostate, even when Jon whines and shoves his jeans further down his thighs, trying to get more leverage, a better angle, anything. He feels like he's been on the edge forever, even though it's been bare minutes since they walked off stage; Ryan has him feeling completely out of control, and Jon can tell from the smirk in Ryan's eyes, the upturned corners of his mouth around Jon's dick, that that's exactly how Ryan wants him.
"Ryan," he pants, grabbing for Ryan's free hand where it rests on Jon's hip, nails pressing bluntly into Jon's skin. His fingers circle Ryan's wrist easily, hot skin on hot skin, begging with the touch, with the cant of his hips back onto the fingers scissoring in his ass. "Ryan, come on."
And Ryan smiles that smile again as he sits back on his heels, the one that he usually reserves for the music, the one that does crazy things to Jon whenever he sees it. "Yeah?" he says, sliding his fingers free from Jon's body.
"Yeah," Jon says, letting Ryan turn him around and arrange him how Ryan wants him. He feels the edge of the counter digging into his thighs; it's already warm from him leaning against it.
He glances at the mirror, looks into his own lust-dark eyes and shivers at what he sees. His hair sticks wet to his forehead, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest, and his cock is flushed and leaking, heavy between his thighs. He looks debauched twice over: once by the show, the frenzy of the crowd and the pulse of the music, and once by Ryan's purposeful hands and disarming smile.
Jon braces his hands on either side of the chipped sink and shuts his eyes.
"Hold on," Ryan says, and Jon hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper—and Christ, did he have that with him while they were on stage? Talk about prepared—and the soft, wet sound of Ryan slicking up his cock, and then Ryan is pressing into him, steady, slow. Always slow, because two skinny fingers are nothing compared to Ryan's dick.
Ryan drops his forehead onto Jon's shoulder as he slides in, shuddering as he holds himself in check, one hand curled tightly around Jon's bicep. Jon wonders if he'll bruise, if tomorrow there will be dark smudges in the shape of Ryan's fingers circling his arm; the want that slams through him at the thought makes him rock back, disrupting Ryan's careful movement, forcing him deeper just so Jon can get a hand on his dick. And that is too much, too fast, the stretch burning up his spine.
The intensity of it, too raw to be pleasure but with a sweet edge he can't quite call pain, traps his breath in his chest, but it's so fucking worth it, even when Ryan curses and sinks his teeth into Jon's shoulder. Especially when Ryan curses and sinks his teeth into Jon's shoulder, sharp through the thin, sweat-soaked cotton of Jon's shirt.
Jon's cock twitches in his hand, dripping fresh wet over his fingers. "Jesus," he moans raggedly, dropping his head to the side to give Ryan better access to his neck, dimly aware of how submissive he must look but far past any ability to care.
Ryan presses in close, rolling his hips, his open trousers scraping against Jon's ass, panting open-mouthed against Jon's neck. "God," he says, "You're so—fuck." His hand comes down to wrap around Jon's forearm, moving with Jon as he strokes himself, and all Jon can do is groan, needy and raw.
Neither of them can hold back, Ryan setting a fast pace as soon as Jon rocks back against him, thighs straining to spread wider even though his knees are still trapped by his jeans, leaning into the counter so that Ryan's cock is hitting him just right. Between the pressure on his prostate and the shifting of Ryan's grip on his wrist—tightening unconsciously in time with his thrusts, just hard enough to bruise and so, so fucking good—it isn't long before Jon cries out, hunches forward, and comes all over his hand and the edge of the counter.
Jon shakes through the aftershocks, his hand sliding come-slick and loose over his cock. Then Ryan moans brokenly, fingers digging into the taut flesh of Jon's hip and clamping down even more tightly around Jon's wrist, and he spasms again as Ryan comes, part sympathetic pleasure and part sure knowledge that he'll be carrying Ryan's marks on his skin tomorrow.
"Fuck," he pants when Ryan finally stills behind him, leaning into Jon's back.
The hand on Jon's hip moves to rest next to Jon's on the counter, fingers touching but not intertwined, and Ryan breathes deeply against Jon's neck, the air hot and humid on Jon's skin. "Yeah," Ryan says.
They move apart, Ryan gently pulling out, Jon stepping out of his jeans and rinsing the come from his hand. The red marks on his wrist, already darkening at the edges, stand out against the tan of his skin.
"Fuck," Jon says again, hesitantly fitting his own fingers over the bruises, eyes sliding half-shut at the awkward thrill the touch gives him. It occurs to him that maybe he's a little messed up.
"What?" Ryan asks, hooking his chin on Jon's shoulder. "Oh, shit, that's. I did that?"
"It's fine," Jon replies automatically, dropping his hands to the hem of his shirt, and Ryan waits a long beat before obligingly stepping back so he can pull it off.
He opens his eyes after the fabric clears his face to find Ryan studying him in the mirror. His face is impassive, but his eyes are intense, lingering where his fingers (and mouth, Jon thinks as he rolls his shoulder and the bite marks make themselves known) left reminders on Jon's skin. And, incongruously, it makes Jon feel like an unread page, like his skin's a roadmap to somewhere Ryan thinks he'll get lost going.
Yeah. Definitely messed up. He furrows his brow and looks pointedly away from Ryan's eyes.
Ryan clears his throat. "I didn't think—I didn't mean to leave marks."
Jesus, could this be any more awkward? "Seriously, it's fine," he says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, feeling the prickle of a blush under the skin of his cheekbones. He ducks his head, glad that he's still sex-flushed enough that the blush won't show, and adds, "I should probably shower, or Spencer's going to kill me in my sleep." And this would be the perfect time for Spencer to throw a shoe at the door or something, yelling for them to hurry up, Christ, but Spencer's comedic timing isn't nearly as good as his ability to keep a beat, and anyway, Jon has never been that lucky. He wishes that Ryan would just get out, let Jon rinse off in peace.
Instead, Ryan starts unbuttoning his shirt. "We've got time," he says.
"What?" Jon says, surprised.
"I swapped Bren for second," Ryan says, shrugging, and it's all Jon can do not to stare hungrily at the way the muscles move under his thin, pale skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his chest shining in the ugly, fluorescent light. What is he, fifteen? And also a girl. Fuck.
He shakes his head a little, like that will help clear it. "Red Bull?"
"Bottle of Ketel, actually." Ryan finishes stripping off his clothes, neatly folding his pants and laying them on the counter. "He already had the Red Bull."
Wow, Jon thinks. He really did plan this. "You really are a sneaky bastard, Ross," he says again, tone purposefully light so as to cover up the little curl of pleasure he can't help feeling in his chest.
Ryan smiles serenely. "So I've been told." Then his face slides back into seriousness; he fixes Jon with a look, hesitates a moment before stepping into Jon's space. "It's really okay?" he asks. His fingers circle Jon's wrist again, just above the bracelet of nascent bruises, but his eyes are seeking Jon's, gaze hot and intense.
"Yeah, it's—" Jon starts, and then it hits him that they're not just talking about the marks. Breath hitching, he looks down, swallows, and then he drags his eyes back up to Ryan's.
Fuck it, he thinks, and leans forward to press his mouth to Ryan's again, wrapping his free hand around the back of Ryan's neck to pull him into the kiss.
It's not a demanding kiss, just a question, but Ryan opens for him, makes a little noise of pleased assent in the back of his throat.
And that, apparently, is Spencer's cue to bang on the door. "I don't hear the shower running!" he yells, and okay, maybe his timing's not so bad after all.
"Fuck off," they both say in unison, and Jon feels Ryan smile against Jon's lips.
He smiles back.
