Tim is sprawled out on the couch when Jon gets home to Martin’s flat, taking up the whole length of it with his annoyingly long legs as he scrolls on his phone instead of actually watching whatever is playing on the television. Jon is in a shitty mood, and he glares over for a moment, waiting for some annoyance to manifest into something to snap about. Instead all that washes over him as he looks at Tim is the great need to crawl on top of him, and the knowledge that he’ll fit perfectly.
So with a sigh, Jon drops his bag, shrugs out of his shoes and coat, and trudges over. Tim glances up at him as he nears, and then opens up his arms without a second look.
“Rough day, boss?” He asks, failing to hide the mild strain in his voice as Jon practically belly flops down atop him. “You know, you didn’t have to go in today,” he continues, draping his arm over Jon’s back as Jon squirms unnecessarily long to find a comfortable position to collapse into.
“I know I didn’t, shut up.” Jon grumbles, face pressed into Tim’s chest.
“Okay, okay.” Tim agrees, and blessedly returns to his phone, rubbing gently with a thumb at Jon’s shoulder every once in a while as he lets Jon stew and his tension slowly drain.
Tim thinks Jon has fallen asleep after a long while; he’s certainly relaxed enough for it, and hasn’t said a word in half an hour, which usually means he’s out cold. He’s awfully endearing like this, clinging to Tim like a disheveled little bat, skinny frame moving under his sweater every time he takes a breath. His head is pillowed on Tim’s chest and his leg is hooked around Tim’s thigh; he’s got him properly trapped here until further notice. It’s fine, though. Tim has nothing better to do— well, really there isn’t much better to do than this. He’ll hold Jon until the cows come home, especially when he’s quiet and precious like he is right now.
Trying to be subtle, Tim shifts his arm so that he can fuss with the hair that falls over Jon’s collar. When Jon shifts and sighs, though, he knows he’s been awake the whole time. If he were asleep he wouldn’t have budged; Jon sleeps like the dead.
No longer afraid of waking him, Tim pushes his fingers up through his hair towards his nape, scratching gently with his nails. Jon lets out a contented little sound, and Tim smiles to himself. Not so hard to get rid of a bad mood after all.
With a dramatic sigh, Jon wiggles and turns his head, pushing his face into the space between Tim’s pecs. He mumbles something Tim can’t understand as his sneaky little hand worms it’s way unsubtly under the hem of Tim’s shirt.
Tim laughs brightly, resisting the urge to jerk away as Jon’s fingers slide over the ticklish spot above his hip. “I thought you were grumpy, babe. Now we’re getting frisky?”
Jon picks up his head and glares. His hair is stuck to his cheek and his eyes are soft, which ruins the effect somewhat. Tim smiles at him and digs the fingers of his other hand gently into his side teasingly. Jon sighs and puts his head back down, this time nuzzling directly into the plusher part of Tim’s chest.
“Not getting frisky.” He grumbles. “You’re just comfy.”
That hand is sliding over Tim’s ribs now, making his shirt ride up as Jon’s wicked fingers get closer to what is now their obvious goal.
“Jon. I love you, but you can’t just feel me up and expect me not to get horny about it.”
“Getting horny is inconvenient,” Jon complains as he noses around, and Tim doesn’t really have time to prepare before Jon finds his nipple and promptly closes his warm, wet mouth over it through Tim’s shirt.
Tim yelps and wiggles, his hand fisting in Jon’s hair.
“I’m sorry to be— inconvenient?” He stammers as Jon’s tongue presses against him and then flicks, sending a little rolling shock of pleasure straight to his dick.
Jon just grunts, shrugging, and then pulls off, leaving a wet spot on Tim’s shirt that Tim cranes his neck to stare at incredulously.
“This escalated extremely quickly,” he comments weakly as Jon’s hand finally finds his pec, kneading at it, making Tim’s knees feel weak.
“You have nice tits.” Jon says oh so casually, nuzzling into the other side now, then resting his head there as his thumb skates over the now very peaked nipple opposite him. Tim barks out a baffled laugh.
“So I’ve been told.”
Jon seems to think he’s offered a suitable explanation as he happily continues to grope at Tim’s chest, a contented little smile on his face. Tim doesn’t really know what to do other than sit there and let him, as he gets helplessly hard in his joggers.
That is until Jon turns his head and opens his mouth again, pink tongue peeking out as he prepares to make the splotches on Tim’s shirt symmetrical. He peers up at Tim for a moment, green eyes heavy lidded as he licks and then bites down.
A moan tears itself from Tim’s throat and his hips jerk. “Jon,” he gasps. “This is cruel and unusual.”
Mouth still firmly closed around Tim’s chest, Jon rolls his eyes and then shifts, pressing his thigh between Tim’s legs. When he pulls back to speak his mouth is faintly red and Tim feels a bit dizzy.
“Okay?” Jon asks, as if he’s checking to see if Tim’s tea has got enough sugar, and nudges firmly with his thigh. Tim grits his teeth.
“Yep, yep, I can work with this,” he breathes. “Go nuts.”
And Jon does, for some goddamn reason, squeezing and nipping and leaving little aches all over that Tim is sure will be bruises. Until Tim is panting and his hips are moving in aborted little jerks as he grinds against Jon’s thigh. He’s holding Jon’s waist in a vice grip, head thrown back as he tries his best to not beg.
Until Jon finally shows him mercy, wriggling up to mouth at Tim’s throat as he shoves a hand down Tim’s pants. Tim whimpers as Jon wraps a hand around his leaking cock, twisting one of his smarting nipples in the other.
“Come on then,” Jon murmurs, commanding, before biting down under Tim’s jaw— and Tim does, coming all over Jon’s hand on only the third stroke, his back bowing even as he tries to be still.
Jon wipes his hand off on Tim’s trousers and settles back where he was as Tim comes down, breath slowly evening out, his grip on Jon’s waist loosening until he’s petting absentmindedly at the small of his back again.
“What the fuck, Jon?” He wheezes.
Jon just nestles closer, having moved his leg over just so, obviously avoiding the new wet spot.
“I’m a bit of a mess now, are you sure you don’t want to…?” Tim points out again, staring dazed at the ceiling. Jon still does not budge.
“Just a few more minutes,” he protests, just as the door to the flat opens.
Martin surveys them with amusement as he walks in and sheds his coat. Tim looks at him helplessly. “I was attacked.” He pleads.
Martin snickers. “I can’t help you.” He says, and Tim can feel Jon’s smirk even if he can’t see it.
“This house is a nightmare.”