For your kiss prompt, either 53 with JonGerry or 63 with JonGerryMartin?
(63 - Routine Kisses with JonGerryMartin)
This is 53 - "against a wall kiss”. Have some college-age punk Jon and Gerry.
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Jon laughs around the butt of the cigarette dangling precariously between his lips. “Stop being such a shit.”
“King Shit, trying to call me out,” Gerry grumbles, easily stealing the cigarette to take a drag from it. “I’m fine.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re concussed.”
Gerry rolls his eyes. “If you don’t come out of one of those shows with at least two head injuries, you’re doing something wrong.”
Jon matches the eye roll. “Well sorry.” He has his arms crossed over his chest, one leg propped up against the brick wall of the venue. He makes a very pretty picture, fake frown in place, makeup smudged, and hair coming loose in wisps.
Gerry offers him back the cigarette, but Jon simply tilts his head — lips parted and hint of a grin lurking just beneath the surface. So Gerry keeps it and nudges one of Jon’s boots with the toe of his own. “Shut up.”
Jon just laughs again and reaches for Gerry’s belt loop. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” He lets himself get pulled in, because Jon is an easy gravitation to fall into.
“We can go back in. Even if you do have a concussion.”
Gerry huffs and pouts and pretends to not be incredibly convinced that he has already found a much better way to spend the rest of the evening. “No. They weren’t that good anyway.”
Jon opens his mouth, and Gerry knows that it’s going to be an apology — because this was his idea for a date, because he was the one that got the tickets even though Gerry was the one that mentioned being interested in the show off-hand.
So Gerry decides to be the little shit he’s already been accused of being. He lets out the lungful of smoke into Jon’s face, not even bothering to go through the effort of shotgunning it. “‘S fine.”
The punch to his gut is barely even felt. “Piss off.”
This time, Gerry slips the cigarette in between Jon’s lips, though his fingers linger there to hold it in place. “We can beat the bar rush if you don’t wanna go home yet.”
One of Jon’s arms folds comfortably around Gerry’s waist, effectively hemming him in. His head is tilted just so to half-rest in Gerry’s palm, careful of the burning end of the cigarette. His other hand lifts to take the cigarette between his own slender fingers. “Home sounds good,” he says, the smoke curling between his teeth and his lips.
Gerry kisses him.
It’s not their first kiss, but Gerry feels a sharp little curl in his gut each time. It always feels new — like each kiss, he’s learning a different piece of Jon, pulling apart the arrangement he knew to find something else.
Jon drops the remains of the cigarette to rake his fingers back through Gerry’s already tousled and sweaty hair. He pulls Gerry in closer, allowing himself to be pushed back into the wall. There’s a faint scuff as his foot hits the ground to steady himself, legs tangling with Gerry’s, eliminating the minimal space left between them.
When Gerry finally pulls back, his head is swimming — senses overwhelmed with the taste of smoke and Jon and the trace of whatever drinks they had before the show — and maybe he does have a concussion, but Jon’s lips are on his jaw, his neck, fingers curled possessively around the open flaps of his jacket. And maybe it’s not a concussion, it’s just Jon.
“Home sounds good,” Gerry echoes, and he can feel Jon’s laugh against his throat
