It was over quick, when they got down to it. Kavinsky was left still holding his cock, panting desperately, as John pulled back. He felt messy and used, but mostly frustrated. Hard and aching, tripped up with the way that John stepped on his jeans.

"They're designer, fuckhead," he grumbled, letting go of his cock and grinding his knuckles into the wall. There was a needy thread in him, some young nonsense that wanted to beg for a little help in getting off. Maybe it was this place, or how he hadn't been close enough to just get himself over the edge with any sort of timeliness, but the temptation to beg was there, caught in the back of his teeth.

When John wasn't stepping on his jeans anymore, he awkwardly bent down and pulled them up. Christ, he was going to be sore.