Morning-Afters (and Blueberry Pancakes) | Corbin and Pryor
[He likes the flash of smug pride, when he sees itâof proud debaucheryâitâs one of the few things that doesnât surprise him, one of the elements of Pryor he can predict like a favorite television show.
He chuckles, ducking a bit under the large hand that musses with his already-mussed hair. And Corbin couldnât give less of a fuck about it. He likes that he looks properly disheveled and  rung out. Likes that heâs wearing his easiness for Pryor like a fuckinâ giant pride flag on his back. Because he does feel easy for himâironically, maybe. He hadnât made getting here easy for Pryor, and he wonders what the blond would say to him if he ever told him that that.  But heâd played hard-to-get because the rest had been too easy. Heâd felt a tug and pull in his chest, in the bubble of his laugh, that had been far too dangerously willing, not for money, not for loot, not for nothing other than want, and that wasnât something usually in Corbinâs books. That wasnât something he was used to, that kind of vulnerability. The sensation that he had as much to lose as his partner.
So heâd had to weigh it out and wait it out. And now that he has, he can feel himself dancing a delicate balance between being skittish and being comfortable. Nervous that Pryor might flee, so having to fight the temptation to do so himself.]
Well, it ainât my fault youâre a fuckinâ giant freak of nature, [he teases, though he likes it. More than likes it, actually. And not just because he has the fuckinâ cock of a horse, (though thatâs admittedly a wonderful, wonderful detail) but because his height and his length and his enveloping stature is enough to make Corbin feel dwarfed, in a way that Corbin rarely does with men who arenât fat or brick wall gym-junkies (back when there was a such a thing). Pryor is lithe, sexyâalmost cat like, suiting also, in the way he stalks his prey. And  oh how Corbin loves being his prey. And donât even get him started on those hands.]
Not trueâ[ÄĽe grins]Â You donât gotta toss yourself off while Iâm around. [He winks, chuckling and tossing his bunched up napkin at the Torrenâs chest, before he stands, the chair giving a loud scrape on the floor, his utensils clattering.Â
With a long, whining stretch and a satisfied yawn, Corbin chugs the rest of his coffee and takes his turn tussling the blondâs thick tresses. Only his fingers curl  into it in the last moments, and he leans forward to drop a brief and syrupy kiss on a plush mouth.]
Fuck class. Iâm gonna take a shower. Care to join? [He smirks, fingers lingering on the side of Pryorâs face just a moment or two as they drift from his hair, and he turns, sauntering out of the dinning hall, Pryorâs loose sweatpants hanging a little too low on his hips.]Â
[âYou donât gotta toss yourself off while Iâm around.â Thank god for small mercies.
Only it does feel small at all. Feels like a stupidly romantic promise wrapped up in teenage-boy humor, which feels particularly apt for Pryor, who only comes by sentiment sideways, something he catches in his peripheral vision but never wants to face head-on without deflecting.]
Never? [He asks, agog and aghast and like Corbin might be seriously underestimating his jerkoff scheduleâitâs not like thereâs much else worthwhile to do around himâand his open mouth is a perfect waiting receptacle when Corbin tugs his head back, kisses him upside-down and off-center. Itâs sweet, and itâs not just some miraculously unspoiled maple syrup thatâs making it that way. So, back to teenage boy humor it is, complete with lewd jerkoff gesture and accompanying waggle of his eyebrows.] I've got a lot of needs to satisfy, Iâll have you know. You may want to take that back before I give you carpal tunnel.
[Their whole hot-cold courtship is over, now, but the thing is that Pryor had never been anything other that willing, anything other than pathetically salivating as Corbin led him around by his dick, hot the entire time. He hasnât been led anywhere he wasnât willing to go itâs justâuneven. Corbin is sure, but Pryor is less sure, because heâs been following Corbinâs lead the whole time, moderating his steps to suit some strangely slower pace. It should be over now, but it isnât, because Corbinâs sauntering out of the dining hall without even looking over his shoulder, like heâs that certain that Pryorâs going to follow him.
He will. He knows he will, especially when when the alternative to groping Corbinâs ass in a shower is going to class, he knows what heâll choose.They both do. Heâd be a fool not to.
And maybe itâs petty, but thereâs a low rumbling somewhere in his gut that warns against letting himself be too tamed, and so he counts one-one-hundred, two-one-hundred, lets Corbin get to the double doors that lead out of the dining hall before he moves to follow.]
