renaissanceman | (no subject)

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granby

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Priestly's done this so many times now he could practically do it in his sleep, washing up the kitchen, putting pots and pans away, helping drunk patrons out the door and storing all the food. But there's one person he doesn't urge out the door at closing time, and it doesn't feel quite like business as usual, as familiar as all the tasks are.

"Looks like you closed the place down," he says as he hangs the last of the glasses. "Could probably serve you one more, if you like, since there are no actual, you know, liquor laws or anything."

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Granby takes that as instruction, as an order, and one that he's happy to take. He shifts his head, lips sliding down the shaft of Priestly's cock, taking it as deep as he possibly can without gagging before he bobs his head, sucking in long, firm strokes.

Priestly doesn't force himself not to thrust, doesn't tense his hips, it just feels right at the moment to arch his back slightly and rest his weight against the wall because John's already doing everything he needs. He doesn't need to take more than is being offered. John's mouth and throat and lips and tongue are already well on their way to bringing him off.

It's better, somehow, making himself do it without using his hand, focusing on what He can achieve with just lips and tongue. He sucks eagerly, sucks hungrily and, mostly, what he wants is more. More of anything that he can get.

There's a particular way that John is sucking him, a particular nerve ending that he keeps working that's just about driving Priestly insane. He wants to stay in control here—and in the most important ways he is—but it's just about driving him right over the edge. There's a part of him that doesn't want to do anything, because he doesn't dare do something that might make it stop.

Long years of practise and determination plus a certain love for the task at hand has made Granby the master of his own body. He all but wills the muscles in his throat to liquefy - that's how deep he wants to swallow Priestly down.

Priestly has been relatively careful up until now, because god knows he's had people messing with his hair all his teen and adult life, but he clutches at John's hair now, takes handfuls of it and doesn't care that he's holding it so tightly. He needs to hold something through this.

Priestly's fingers in his hair make his cock throb and Granby's rhythm doesn't falter, the slide of his mouth and the bob of his head. He loves this, loves the weight of Priestly's cock on his tongue, the press at the back of his throat. He moans, urging Priestly on.

"Hey, hey, hey," he says, but it's definitely not a warning. No, this isn't a situation in which John is warned that Priestly is about to come. Merely informed. As a courtesy. Without invitation to stop.

He's got no intention of stopping, whether he has permission or not. He stays exactly where he is, mouth and tongue working, hand well out of the way, eager for what comes next.

Priestly is not ashamed of the sounds he makes when he comes, but they're certainly ones that could be heard if there were anyone still in the vicinity. The side effect of completely letting go to the experience is that your body reacts in ways that aren't entirely expected, and that you're powerless to stop.

Priestly takes a moment before he stops clutching John's hair, before he starts to smooth his hands over it.

God, Priestly's so loud and it's glorious. Granby thinks, perhaps, that he ought to be ashamed of how easy all of this, how practised but he isn't. He just swallows neatly, sucking Priestly's cock until it starts to soften and then lets it slip from his mouth altogether.

He draws in a shaky breath and tilts his head, looking up.

It takes Priestly a few moments to be able to talk again, collecting himself, remembering subjects and verbs and how to construct thoughts. Then he says,

"You can take care of yourself on me now."

Granby stays on his knees, blue eyes wide and startled, licking his lip, not a bit of him self conscious.

"What?"

"You want to come," says Priestly, still a little breathless but quite sure of his facts there. "You can use my body. If you want that." Priestly might not be actively touching him, but his body is there to rub up against, and he's given John explicit permission to do just that.

"God, yes," says Granby, and that's all of the permission that he needs to get to his feet, leaning in against Priestly, pressing into the heat of his skin.

"Go ahead," he says, posing himself back against the wall, arm above his head. "I'm still not touching you, so use me."

He can imagine what he looks like as his hips start to move, pressed against Priestly's body and rutting like something in heat, but, Jesus, he can't bring himself to care.

Priestly loves the way he looks. It's everything he wanted to see, when he'd all but told John to do that--beautiful and wrecked and desperate and so completely into what he's doing that he'd probably do anything Priestly said now. But mostly it's the desire that continues to take his breath away.

He would do absolutely anything, he's so lost in it. All he's aware of right then is his cock and the friction from Priestly's skin and he's had it before, had it almost exactly like this, but it's never, ever been this good.

"Do it," says Priestly, as though a person can be ordered to come. As if it's that easy. "Go on. Do it."

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