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“Fuck, Simmons,” Grif gasps. Simmons wishes he could look up, see what Grif’s face looks like right now. If it’s anything like usual it’s probably priceless, Grif’s eyes half-closed and unfocused, his mouth hanging open like a panting dog, nose flaring. But if Simmons is being honest, having a dick in his mouth is not the most comfortable thing in the world, his neck is already starting to cramp a little, and looking upwards would just make everything worse. So he just continues what he’s doing, which is. Blowing Grif. Jesus God, that’s what he’s doing right now.
He hadn’t really planned on doing this, like ever, but half an hour ago Grif had dragged Simmons into his lap and rubbed at him the way he liked, big strong fingers over Simmons’ clit, sucked at Simmons’ collarbone and dragged his nails over Simmons’ back sharp enough to overwhelm him, and Simmons had come gasping against Grif’s sweaty neck. It was simple but it had been so, so good, and Grif had been so, so gentle, so out of character and cautious, and Simmons hadn’t even hesitated, he just slid down the bed and put his mouth on Grif’s dick before he could scare himself out of it.
And here he is now, not panicking. He’s pretty proud of that, actually, because it’s the first time he’s ever done this with anyone. But he likes to think he’s got enough common sense to manage. He knows to cover his teeth with his lips (even though that makes his jaw hurt worse, and seriously, having a small mouth doesn’t really lend itself to this stuff) and that it’s about suction, not actual blowing. After that, though, he’s kind of making it up as he goes. Deepthroating is a thing he’s heard of, but he’s sure as hell not gonna risk it, because his gag reflex isn’t terrible but this might be a major exception and he’s nervous enough as it is. He’s got his hands to make up for it anyway, stroking wherever his mouth can’t cover. It feels a little silly, leaning over Grif laying flat in his cot. Does he look silly? He always kind of thought you were supposed to give blowjobs to people who are standing up or something. Would that be easier on his neck?
“Keep going,” Grif mutters, and Simmons realizes that he’s thinking so hard he stopped moving. He shakes himself a little and breathes hard through his nose (yeah, that’s the other thing, he’s kind of a mouth-breather so he’s gotten lightheaded a few times during this process and he must be breathing super loudly) and keeps going, sliding his lips a little further down to meet his hands. There’s a lot to manage here, he thinks, and his brain likes to go all over the place, so this is a more difficult procedure than he’d expected. He’s not even sure he’s turned on by it, to be honest; it’s taking too much of his concentration for him to focus on what he’s feeling himself. But it’s not as unpleasant as he figured it’d be, and Grif seems to be liking it, so. It’s worth doing.
For a few seconds they are both quiet, and the only sounds are Simmons’ wet lips and Grif’s hard breathing. But then yet another question occurs to Simmons, and as soon as it does he knows it’ll drive him nuts until he actually asks it.
“How am I doing?” he says, sitting up a little. (And cracking his neck, God, that feels so much better.)
Grif lifts his head from where it’d been thrown back on the pillow and just stares at him, face full of betrayal. “Why did you stop?”
“I wanna make sure I’m doing this well,” Simmons says defensively. “If you could give me, I don’t know, some constructive criticism--”
“Of your blowjob technique??”
“I want it to feel good!”
Grif groans and drops his head again. “Jesus Christ, you’re insecure. It already felt good. Until you stopped, that is, asshole.” When Simmons just sits there and doesn’t start up again, Grif sighs and rubs his face. “What, do you want specific instructions?”
“I mean.”
“Are you serious?” Grif squints at him. Simmons is, in fact, pretty serious. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and that tends to create hangups for him, and he wants to make this good. Grif figured out what Simmons likes, which is kind of a feat considering Simmons hadn’t even been sure what he liked, or if he liked anything sex-related at all. Simmons kind of feels like he owes him the same courtesy, at least. Plus detailed instructions are never a bad thing, in his opinion. And maybe… maybe if Grif tells him exactly what to do, the part of Simmons’ brain that likes to critique everything he does will shut the fuck up and let him blow Grif in peace.
“Christ. Okay. I guess just….” Grif considers. “Put my dick in your mouth again, we’ll work from there.”
It’s a simple command, but Simmons shivers at it. It’s one thing to perform the act , so to speak, but another to hear Grif say it out loud. He does it, closing his mouth around the head. He means to move, he really does, but something in him pauses, and so he just holds still, waiting for Grif to tell him what to do.
“Dude, really, do I have to tell you every little thing? Move up and down, like you were doing before.” And there it is, that shivery feeling again. He’s blushing, Simmons knows he must be bright red, his ears and face are burning, because he’s never felt like this. Part of him is embarrassed and shy, because Grif isn’t saying any of this in a sexy voice or anything, but it’s still dirtier than anything Simmons has ever heard. But also…. Well, let’s be honest. Simmons doesn’t mind being told what to do. He supposes it’s not surprising that that applies here too. So Simmons does what Grif asked, sliding his mouth up and down slowly. Too slowly, probably, he’s figured that much out on his own, and he’s embarrassed to admit it’s because he wants to see if Grif will correct him.
And he does, God, Grif slides a hand into Simmons’ hair and pulls him up very slightly, says, “A little faster, like this,” and guides Simmons’ speed with his hand. And he’s not pushing, he’s not going down Simmons’ throat or anything, but just the sensation of that hand on him has Simmons’ eyes falling shut almost against his will. For once Grif is making things easy for him. Simmons might be an anxious disaster who doesn’t know what he wants, but Grif knows what Grif wants, and he won’t be shy about saying it. That knowledge releases a weight in Simmons’ chest, the fear that he’d do something wrong and mess this all up and Grif might never want to touch him again. Right now he just has to do what he’s told, doesn’t have to think about it, doesn’t have to worry and freeze as his brain runs through every failed scenario. He can just follow instructions and feel every tiny detail of this moment.
And suddenly, knowing that, a switch flips inside him and he starts to be kind of into this whole blowjob thing.
Grif tightens his grip in Simmons’ hair, and Simmons doesn’t mean to but he moans around Grif’s dick, still moving on it. He feels Grif’s hand loosen in surprise, and he still can’t help himself when he pushes back against it, wanting the pressure back. He can’t see Grif’s face (he’s not sure he can even open his eyes right now, he’s feeling too much) but he hears a small “oh” as, he thinks, Grif figures out exactly what’s going on. And then Grif’s fingers tighten again, this time near the base of his neck, and Simmons shudders and sighs.
“Use your hands,” Grif says quietly, and something in his voice has changed, something subtle but almost reverent. Simmons obliges him, wrapping his fingers around Grif, and he doesn’t even have to wait before Grif continues. “Move them up and down with your mouth.” He does it, his whole body swaying a little with the effort. He wonders if this is what a trance feels like, because he’s starting to feel a little cloudy and floaty, and this time it isn’t because he forgot to breathe through his nose.
Grif taps Simmons’ head. “Breathe, Simmons, breathe. Don’t pass out on my dick.”
...Okay, at least it wasn’t entirely because he forgot to breathe through his nose. Whatever. This feels nice. Like, the kind of nice that would probably freak him out if he wasn’t so busy feeling nice. “I don’t think I earned feeling this good” kind of nice. Except that maybe, for once, he did earn it. He is, after all, doing exactly what Grif asked him to.
The thought makes him warm inside, more than just turned on, but content. Safe.
That said, turned on is also a thing he is feeling. He just came a little while ago but already he’s wet again, and when he moves further down Grif’s dick his hips grind forward against the air. A tiny bit of self-consciousness about that cuts through the warm glow, and for a second he wonders what he looks like, if he looks as terrible as he fears, as desperate and stupid.
Grif notices, of course, because he’s always paying attention when Simmons feels shy and unsure. Usually it ends in mocking, but Grif doesn’t seem inclined to do that now. Instead he groans and grabs at Simmons with his free hand, touching his face, then his shoulder, unable to settle. “Not sure why you’re so into this all of a sudden,” he mutters, “but--oh, fuck--for the record, it’s pretty great and I’m not complaining.”
Simmons doesn’t reply, because his mouth is occupied at the moment ( because Grif didn’t tell you to stop ), but he appreciates it, appreciates that his body is more or less moving on its own now and Grif isn’t worried about it, appreciates that Grif being okay with it means that he can be too. He goes a little further than what Grif had showed him, then pulls back up slowly, sucking hard as he goes. Grif gasps and tenses, knees pulling up to hold Simmons tight around the waist.
“Shit, do that again,” Grif says, and Simmons moves to comply, but Grif tugs his hair and he moans again and holds still. “Wait, wait, use your… fuck.” He catches his breath, and the ragged sound of it makes Simmons’ whole body thrum. “Use your tongue more too.”
When Simmons started doing this he’d kind of avoided using his tongue, because precum tasted funky and it almost made him gag and he figured gagging on someone’s dick was probably rude. Now, though, he flattens his tongue out and presses it against the underside of Grif’s dick, dragging it over the head as his mouth moves upwards. And yeah, the precum still doesn’t taste great, but somehow it’s easier to manage now, because he can concentrate instead on the little sounds Grif can’t hold in, on the way he’s trying to play it cool even though his legs are shaking against Simmons.
He’s getting lost in all of it, sliding his tongue in slow circles around Grif’s head and reveling in every twitch and hitched breath. Grif keeps tugging at his hair, not pushing him to do any particular thing, just holding on, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Simmons hits a particular spot and Grif jerks, his hands spasming before they tighten again.
“Fuck,” he hears Grif groan out, “Simmons--oh fuck--that feels--”
Simmons whines almost without noticing, and his hands stutter in their movement. He wants to reach out, he realizes, lay his hands flat against Grif’s skin and feel how warm he is. And he thinks, maybe it’d be okay for him to go against what Grif asked, just for this. So he compromises, one hand still jerking Grif off, the other with fingers spread across Grif’s hip, thumb stroking at the hairs there. And Grif doesn’t complain about it, doesn’t tell him to focus. Instead, to Simmons’ surprise, he grabs Simmons’ hand with his free one, curls his fingers around Simmons’ and digs his blunt nails in. They’ve never held hands before, but he likes it. Just a little more reassurance that yeah, there’s a dick in his mouth, but it belongs to Grif, and so it’s okay, it’s more than okay, it’s kind of the best actually.
Grif arches up a little, unconsciously, and Simmons speeds up his hand to match, his other hand clinging to Grif’s. “Keep going, keep going,” Grif breathes, so Simmons pushes on, heedless of how his hips are flexing in time with the movement of his mouth, heedless of anything except his mouth and hands and Grif’s voice--God, he sounds wrecked as he pants and almost sobs--and Simmons can’t get enough, he wants to be closer to Grif, wishes he could reach his face, wishes he could kiss him--but this is as close as he can get right now, so he’ll take it. And maybe he’s not experienced but no one can say he’s not ambitious, so he takes a chance even though Grif hasn’t told him to, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue back and forth over Grif’s slit.
Grif yells, he actually yells, not even full words, just noises that sound a little like “Simmons” (and maybe a little like he’s dying) and Simmons has a few full seconds to gloat catlike over what he’s done. He, Simmons, made a guy scream out his name in bed. He’s not a failure, he just needs proper direction.
But then, of course, with no warning, his mouth and throat are suddenly full of sticky fluid and he rears back and gags, and gags more, and barely manages to roll off Grif, off the bed, and over his trashcan before all of it comes back up, with a little vomit besides.
“Holy shit,” Grif says shakily, as he rolls over and looks down at Simmons bent over the trashcan. “Dude, I’m uh. I’m really sorry. It’s… kinda been a while and I didn’t think it would happen so fast, I woulda warned you, Christ, you look terrible, are you alive down there?”
Simmons considers hanging his head over the trash for another second, but it doesn’t smell great and it looks even worse, so instead he curls up on the floor and clutches his heaving stomach and wishes for death. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been embarrassed, but it is the first time he’s gone straight from turned on and feeling great to… well, this disaster, so fast it’s like he got whiplash.
Above him, Grif coughs awkwardly. That’s one comfort, Simmons thinks distantly. He doesn’t get to witness sheepish Grif very often. Thank God Grif can’t actually see his face, because he’s pretty sure he’s tearing up, and not just from retching so hard. It’s just….
It’s just that for a little while everything was easy and everything felt right, and he felt like maybe he could be sexy and not just a short, miserable nerd who can’t get out of his own head enough to even fuck the guy he’s seeing and--
“Here.” A canteen drops down in front of his face. It takes him a minute to compose himself enough to sit up and open it, but the water in it does clear the bad taste from his mouth somewhat. He rinses his mouth out and spits in the wastebasket (because at this point, why not), then sits cross-legged and rests his back against the leg of the bed, eyes clenched shut.
“Simmons….” Grif is still a little hoarse, but he’s unsurprisingly lost his enthusiasm. Simmons figures he’s regretting the whole experience, because who wouldn’t after that messy ending? Stupid Grif and his premature ejaculation. Stupid Simmons, who thought this could possibly go well. “Simmons.” Stupid trashcan that he’ll have to scrub out later. “Simmons, get off the floor.”
“No.”
“Jesus Christ.” Grif reaches down and pulls on Simmons’ arm. “Come back up here.” Simmons doesn’t move, and Grif lets go and rolls back on the bed with a sigh. “Oh, now you won’t do what I tell you?”
That makes a spike of anger rise through the fog of shame, and Simmons stands up and glares. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face--”
“Who’s throwing anything? Just chill out and sit down.” Grif stares up at him. He’s worrying at his lip, an uncharacteristically nervous gesture for someone who usually doesn’t care, and that’s the only reason Simmons sits down next to him, clutching his arms to his chest. Grif hesitates a minute, then gingerly places his hand on the small of Simmons’ back. “You okay?”
I’m fine, Simmons wants to say, it’s just that everything sucks and I hate myself. But that isn’t new information for anyone, not for himself and especially not for Grif, who is stroking Simmons’ skin soothingly. And he isn’t sure he has the energy to say much right now anyway. He’s exhausted, after the emotional rollercoaster he just rode (and violently puking didn’t feel great either) and he kinda just wants to curl into Grif’s side and breathe for a while.
Grif pulls him slowly down and he does just that, tucking his face into Grif’s sweaty chest and blinking as his eyes start to tear up again. But Grif’s arms wrap around his shivering shoulders and suddenly he’s overwhelmed, can’t keep the strangled sob from ripping out of his throat. It’s not loud, but Grif notices, because he squeezes Simmons even tighter.
“I really am sorry,” he says into Simmons’ hair. “But don’t freak out about puking, dude, I’ve seen worse. We’ll just have to use a condom next time.”
“Next time?” Simmons croaks, pulling back so his reddened eyes can meet Grif’s gaze. Their faces are really close together now, actually, so it’s kind of pointless to try and hide the surprise he’s sure is all over his expression. “You want to do this again?”
Grif doesn’t even roll his eyes, too legitimately shocked to make fun of Simmons. “Uh, duh? I got to do basically nothing and it was still incredible. Why the hell wouldn’t I want to?”
“I thought…” Simmons swallows past the lump in his throat. “I thought you’d be too grossed out by me…” Just by me, really. “By me getting sick.”
Grif laughs, incredulous. “Really, dude? Me, too grossed out? Listen, I will make out with you right now, that is how not bothered I am.”
Simmons’ mouth drops open in horror. “Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Here, look, I’m dead serious,” Grif says, still laughing, and closes the gap between Simmons’ mouth and his. And it’s not romantic because Simmons’ mouth tastes like shit and Grif is sort of slobbering on him because he’s laughing too hard to kiss close-mouthed, but weirdly enough it grounds Simmons a little. Because, honestly, if it wasn’t dumb and sort of gross it wouldn’t be them, would it?
They break apart, and Simmons’ eyes aren’t watering anymore, so he feels a little braver. “So… that was okay?” he asks. “Other than the… end part.”
“Do you actually have to ask?” Grif says, dropping his head against the pillow again. “I had no idea I’d be into telling you what to do like that, but I guess we learn new things every day. Should’ve probably figured a kissass like you would be into getting bossed around, though.” It’s his usual teasing tone, but the hand stroking into Simmons’ hair reassures him that Grif doesn’t mean anything by it. “That thing you did with your tongue, that was unreal. Where did you even learn that?”
“I dunno, I played trumpet in high school?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Tonguing is a serious technique for brass instruments, Grif!”
“Wow, Simmons, please tell me more about all the tonguing you did in high school, I’m all ears.”
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever known.” He buries his face into Grif’s chest again, winds his arms around Grif and holds him tight. “I wish I’d never met you.”
“Same. Think my dick disagrees, though, so I guess you gotta stay.”
“Make me.”
“Oh, I can and I will.”