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It was hard enough to get time to himself as it was in the canyon. Ever since the bomb went off, everyone’s been trying to look busy on some theoreticals he didn’t dare spend brainpower on trying to figure out. Sounds hard. Sounds like work.
But when you’re paired with such a kiss-ass you have to find some way to get fun out of the dirty work. Dirty work he would bite your ass about until you did something, like he was some kind of herding dog.
Turns out the magic word to get Grif to do anything was ‘you can drive the jeep’. You’re telling him you can kick back, drive around the scenic oceanside rocky terrain of this alien planet… listen to his favourite music… and not have to pay attention to a damn thing?
It sounded like heaven.
And it would be, if Simmons didn’t see something every five minutes and hop up from his seat. Sometimes it was deserted weapons and ammo. Sometimes it was supplies, or some weirdly shaped rock he thought was an animal.
…Eh. Beat walking, he figured.
Except for when he did make him walk, that he wasn’t as into. Watching him run to and from his seat was fun, running with him was less of what he imagined he had signed up for. The sun was beating down pretty hard and this place, and much like Blood Gulch was unrelenting in its lack of tree coverage.
This high up, they can see the full coastal mountainside they landed in. Everyone looks like little colored specks- he can make out the figure of Donut following their Sarge like the total kissass he was, something he could tell Simmons was grumbling about the moment he pointed it out.
“Let him get dicked down, man, it’s not hurting you any.” Grif held back his laughter, telling immediately that the comment made Simmons’ blood boil beneath his armor.
Simmons leaned sideways over him, trying to see better from Grif’s angle. “It’s not good for the chain of commands!” he spun around and paced a bit before returning to his side and kicking a loose stone. “They do everything together! It’s like he wants to be his second in command or something!”
“Yeah, Simmons. Because he does. Don’t stoop to his level.”
“Gross! It’s bad enough thinking that he thinks about the Sarge that way, what the hell gives you the impression I’d ever do something like that?!” he crosses his arms animatedly and kicks his thigh with his foot.
He doesn’t, really. Donut and Sarge hadn’t made much effort to hide the very transparent ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule they abided by. Nothing explicitly open, but the echo-ey hallways of Blood Gulch Outpost Number One held no secrets… at least not well. Nothing they were involved in received any acknowledgement. At least he was going to tell himself that, even if it wasn’t true and everyone knew… which he doubted. Ignorance is bliss, Grif would say.
Simmons grumbled something, finally making Grif grumble back some ‘huh, yeah… whatever, Simmons’.
“Don’t be such a dickhead.” Still worked up, he can assume by the stomping.
“Ehhh. Nah… you like it.” He can’t see it, but he can tell there’s a vein in Simmons’ temple about to burst. He could sense the way his eyelid twitched under that maroon helmet.
Expecting a scolding or another nip in the ass, he turns to face him properly and is instead surprised to see Simmons looking back at the jeep. “What, you had enough snoopin’? We didn’t even talk about whatever the blues are doing!” Grif shifted back to lean against him before stumbling.
“...You wanna joyride before we have to report back?” Simmons motions his head up toward the sun.
Now that. That’s what he’s talking about.
That’s the Simmons he liked. Knowing how bad their asses would get beat if they busted up the jeep, the lack of inhibition when it came to abandoning his suck-up nature the moment they’re away from the Sarge. He really liked this side of him. Grif can’t help but grin up at him, a smile heard he knew came through in his voice. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”
Fuck therapy, this was how Grif would choose to spend his time relieving stress any day if he could.
They both climb back in and start off, letting themselves get pulled off the main road to just explore. They’re both cheering as they get their first taste of air, wind whipping their helmets as all four tires left the rocky ground below before they reconnect. They bounce, and Grif takes the slow moment as they collect themselves to release the seal on his helmet.
If he could trust the system data, the air was fine. It was hot as fuck out anyway and his fans were struggling to keep up with the power demand. His hair flopped down, unkept and tussled heavily from the helmet but still clinging to the hair tie he tried containing it with. Sweat lined his forehead and he had to just take a second to let the breeze wash over him.
“Um. Is that safe?”
“You can only live so much worrying about the safety of shit Simmons. We just survived a ten ton bomb. Somehow. I’m taking the chance of riding the jeep without my titanium spacesuit. I felt like a roast duck in there, dude.” he decides to fix his hair back in its ponytail- though it’s just short enough that the elastic doesn’t hold it all back. Black curls still fall over the sides of his face, framing his face flatteringly. He sighed contently, already putting his foot back on the pedal before Simmons could retort or take the sight of him in.
He’s seen him helmetless. Fuck, he’s seen a whole lot more than that if he was being honest with himself. It might have been a moment, though, and he was far from ugly. No, he looked good. Dark intense eyes he wasn’t always able to see, focused on the road lit with unbridled joy.
Breaking rules wouldn’t be worth it without him.
Simmons relents, quietly unsealing his own helmet and freeing his own unkept short dirty blond hair- helmets’ll do that to you. The wind takes care of the ‘smoothing it out’ bit he may have worried about, but he can’t help but squint and adjust to the light the visor of his helmet had helped with.
“Boutta get air, clench your ass Simmons!” it’s barely a warning, and while he braces excitedly as they race toward the bump in the road and fly, he squeaks when he notices the landing.
“Grif, Grif, GRIF!!!” he grips his helmet tight between his hands as Grif adjusts their angle–
And right into a small ditch.
When they collect themselves, they’re laughing. “You asshole!” he laughs, punching Grif’s shoulder. “You fucking dickhead, getting me to take off my helmet then trying to launch us off the edge?!” he’s cursing him out between laughs and labored breaths.
“Uh, yeah, well I got distracted by the sick ass jump we could have made. Imagine if someone was filming? We could have been on TV!”
“You bastard, you would give my life for your fifteen seconds of fame…” but they’re both grinning like idiots. How many times had this happened before? God, he couldn’t count. He didn’t want to. This always lead them into the same direction.
“Aw, Simmons, baby you know that isn’t true…” he mocks baby talk while grabbing his cheeks between his hand.
“I’d sell your life for a lot less than that.” he continued.
“Dick.”
“That’s your name.”
“Asshole.”
“Sure have one.”
“Bitch boy.”
Now that one he refused. “I thought you were trying to insult me. I don’t see the mirror you’re talking to, Simmons!”
“No, I know I’ve got the right guy.” he assures, pushing the hand on his face away finally.
Grif’s brow furrowed, this was pretty typical banter for them. “Pretty sure you’re the bitch in this, Simmons.” He leaned back in his seat and watched as Simmons shifted up from his own.
“Shut up!” he’s already sliding his gloves from his hands. It’s almost like he’s baiting him. Which he has been. Because this is always how it goes.
“...Make me?” he’s not gonna pretend it’s not perfectly good bait.
“Give me a second.” he grumbles, gloves tossed into the truck bed as he finished unhooking the rest of the top half of his armor. “And don’t just sit there! You fucking idiot!”
Those were orders he was okay following, that’s for sure. They were pretty efficient with this kind of thing, at this point.
Grif’s armor joins his until the only thing between them and the open air was the large rock shielding them and the non-existent doors of the jeep. The hot sun continued to beat down upon them. He wriggles and manages to finally free himself from the confines of the undersuit, deeply satisfied with the way he commanded Simmons’ eye over him wordlessly. The ogling was more than appreciated, equally mutual.
The new cyborg shit suited his lanky limbs and ‘just built enough to not be a beanpole’ style build. It was gay to tell him, so he wouldn’t, but he was looking. It would be more rude not to. The way he kept himself clean shaven. His handsome square jaw that was so easy to grab and the soft flesh that covered the tough muscle on his chest with scars that contoured his stupid perfectly built chest. He was dusted in freckles that trailed over his arms and over his thighs, down past…
Well. He’d say down past his boxer-briefs if he weren’t already rid of them. So much for a tease. Grif’s were staying put- figured Simmons wanted to do some extra work. Grif reaches to push the seat back as faaaaaar as it will go, leaning himself back comfortably in the seat of the jeep and watching Simmons’ eyes travel him again, over and over, up and down over his chest and stomach and again down the thick happy trail that led from his bellybutton and under the boxers he was practically peeling away with his eyes, staring openly at the small pitch in them.
There’s little shyness left between them; Simmons already leaned from his seat into his with exploratory hands that always started on his stomach and pressed into him gently. He always tried to act so sly about it, like they weren’t both fully aware how much Simmons got from the way he could throw his weight around. Pride swelled as he explored, half climbed over the center console.
“Wh-huh, uh. What did you tell me to do again?” His voice wavers as if he’s not actively feeling Grif’s chest up.
“Oh uh, dude. I told you to make me shut up.”
“Duh, right.”
Simmons finishes his climb over and plops his nude form in his lap- it’s a bit awkward, but the jeep is thankfully large enough to accommodate both figures.
“...Hey, Simmons. Before that.” a hand wraps around to grope at his pale ass. It made him pause to actually regard the following statement. “You gonna get me out of here?” he angled his hips up to him, hardness already brushing his thigh at the motion.
“You lazy ass-”
“Ah, hey. How about yes sir?” the scowl on Simmons’ face melted away, replaced by deep red flushing that quickly rushed up his face and chest. He’s rewarded by the feeling of Simmons’ dick coming to life against his stomach. Nothing made him stir quite like being commanded by Grif. And nothing was more exhilarating than being praised, so he quickly made work of boxers that now sat around Grif’s ankles.
“...And what’s your plan now, sir?” he obliged headily. This wasn’t exactly planned, as much as they both knew it was never not a possibility. Simmons almost groans at the way he displays a tiny bottle of lube from the center console cockily. “Were you actually fucking planning this, seriously?” He sounds like he’s complaining for a moment. “Sir.” he adds. He has to add it.
“I mean… no. But I felt pretty optimistic.”
Can’t blame that. “Great thinking, sir.”
“Thank you Private Kiss-ass. Now spread ‘em.” Grif snakes a hand steady on his hip, but Simmons is so eager he shifts his formation without needing to be asked twice. He props himself on his knees- thank God his legs are long as hell, he figured, because Grif didn’t need to work hard to reach between his legs and let his hand massage gently against the perfect rectangular scar on his thigh on his way up. It always made Simmons inhale cutely, shift his hips and sit with much less slack. Not even touching him yet, he muses in silence.
The sun relented, slowly casting its shadow over the rumbling engine of the jeep and relieving them of its heat…
Simmons basically whines when he pulls his hand away to apply some generous lube to his fingers, biting the inside of his cheek until he relents in returning his hand as his other now free of the container grips and spreads him- as best as he can with one hand. Without a word he reaches to help, spreading himself eagerly.
“Good boy.” He praised as the tips of his fingers circle ever so briefly before dipping into the tight ring- he gasps and restrains from pushing himself right into his knuckles. One was a tease, two was just right. They slowly dip further into him with a light hiss. It never got to feel like something he could get fully used to with how irregular they got the opportunity– even if they tried to make it more frequent.
Grif pushes deeper, deeper until his knuckle and thumb rest behind his balls and up against the tender skin that made him keen with newfound contact. He always took it so well, even when he was straining to not hump himself on his fingers. Even cramped in the driver's seat of the jeep.
“Fuck… sir.” he falters, pushing back hastily against his fingers and clearly seeking more. He stretched and flexed his fingers deep, rocking in and out. Grif is focused and quiet, maybe too focused. Suddenly, his chin is grabbed, Simmons’ mouth upon his own with need.
He didn’t know what to do, he just knew he needed more and needed it now.
There was a rhythm to the pushing and curling motion that rolled against him, it let him free his other hand that was steadying his hip to trace him down until his fingers reached his sensitive cock and letting his palm fall over it. But Grif is nothing if not a hedonist, and feeling he had done enough he pulls himself slowly from Simmons as he gropes at him. The noise is barely contained by his mouth and he nearly loses balance, slumping into his lap.
“Up, Private.” He mouthed against him sharply. Yeah, this ordering around thing always got to his head a little bit. Every little reaction was worth the amount of ass kicking he’d get later for it.
He obeyed, lifting himself albeit somewhat weakly and Grif’s free hand returns to support his hips.
This time it’s Simmons shifting and grasping, he shuffles to grab the lube and squeezes it over the head of Grif’s dick and smoothing it over his girth and drinking the reward of the groan that escapes him. The taller reaches to grasp at the support beam of the jeep above them as he rises, practically half standing as he seeks to angle himself.
Until Grif rises with him, he begins to voice confusion before he’s manhandled into place, knees hit the back of the driver's seat as he’s bent over the back with his head pressed against the headrest. “Hhhokay. Shit.”
“Go on. Tell me what you want.”
“Hhhuh. Huh? Fuck.” he panted, still dazed from the sudden shift.”I– I want you, sir, please.”
“Please fuck me.” he continued, strained.
Yeah. Riding’s too much eye contact, as much as he liked the kissing they had going on. Fuck he was hot. His back arched and seeking, head turned back to watch and hard metallic arm gripping the seat ahead. Grif shifts, looming over and propping his leg on the seat. His tip pushes against his opening briefly teasing before sliding deep in with one smooth thrust.
“How’s that, Private? Hmmmmmm?”
“Cocky bastard, shhhhut up, shut up and just. Please jussttt- do something. Sir.” he grits his teeth- there was a reason he was trying to ride him.
His hold on the seat tightens when Grifs hand grips hard into his hip, pulling him into a thrust and gauging his response. He felt good. Slick and hot and needing him. A shiver rolls up his spine and Grif follows suit by rolling his hips hard into him, heavy and deep against his hips that were pushing back as much as Simmons could manage with the leverage. He’s gripping the support beam to keep upright, for leverage to push down onto Simmons with.
“Gghhhaahh… Grrifff…” he whined. Fuck it was pretty gay to acknowledge the person dicking him down.
“Ss..hhut up, Simmons…” he tries so hard to not sound blissed, but he’s moaning as he says it. Neither of them shut up.
Grif grunts and lets his chest press down against Simmons’ back, the weight pressing down against him instantly made him yelp and shudder; pre was leaking freely from his tip and down into the worn seat below in thick globs. Warmth wrapping over and settling against him with weight that made him twitch. Heat pooled, burning under his skin and deep in the pit of his stomach.
Drool pooled in the corner of his mouth that he tried to suck in, grunting and cursing as Grif buried his head in his shoulder humping into him relentlessly. He needed it as bad as he was getting it.
“Sir, Sir! Fuck,” his legs tremble. Grif was greedy and gave little time to breathe, pumping and ramming himself as hard as he could into him until he collapsed under the pressure against him and just kept going. Thighs and balls smacking against him, groaning into his ear.
“C’mon, beg. Beg to cum. C’mon.” he eggs as if he’d even hold off.
“Please, Iiihh, I wanna- please let me cum, please, fuck–” and even that was a bit much for what little Grif needed in convincing him.
“Good boy. Cum.” It’s a few sloppy, selfish thrusts later with his hand snaking its way to Simmons need. He barely pumps him in his hand before he feels him tighten around him and gasp.
“Sir!” he throbs, white painting the seat below and dribbling into Grif’s hand. He grunts around the new tightness and follows quickly behind him, squeezing at Simmons’ shaft as he finishes deep inside him. His noises are muffled by the seat as he white-knuckled the cushions, both now breathing hard.
They sat pinned to one another as they came down from the afterglow, slowly pulling himself free and leaning far back enough to see his work.
“Got more in you, Private?”
Over enthusiastically, Simmons nods.
It took them a few rounds to notice the sun creeping further and further from the top of the sky, the ever looming shadow over their position and the comfortable quiet only interrupted by the squeak and rock of the jeep. Simmons turned back in attention when he noticed how dark everything had become, head gophering from their spot in the car. Everything was frankly a bit filthy.
Suddenly, the rumbling engine cuts. “Huh?” Simmons raises his head to look over.
“Eh. Whatever. We can worry about that later.” Grif had more in mind as it seemed, despite the skepticism written all over the other’s face.
“But–”
“Nope. That’s an order.” he emphasized with another squeeze on his tender length.
“Eep! Fine. Yes, Sir. What are my next orders, Sir?”
Surely Sarge could wait. Lower, the sun crept, until it basked them in a red warm glow until they were fucked out, limbs lazy and draped over one another as Grif took a long drag. He could yell at him for fucking up his lungs later.
“...Thh-uh, think we should clean up n’ head back?”
“You want to walk?”
“The jeep died out. We’re going to have to.”
As distractingly hot he found him, he still furrowed his brow in annoyance when Grif’s head rolled back, realizing he’d have to re-suit himself and move after… God. How long had it been?
When they managed to regroup to their Sarge, the answer was practically spat in their faces.
“Grif. Simmons. Where have you two been?” he stared between them, mostly focusing his attention to the actual source of whatever information he wanted: Simmons.
“Our patrol didn’t go exactly as planned, Sir.” He could feel Grif’s stupid grin behind him out of view. It can be hard to account for the gay sex part of the patrol, sue ‘em.
“You find something?” he pauses, then something clicks. “Wait a minute. Where’s the jeep?!”
“Yeah, it’s like this…” Simmons' head whips in his direction, but thankfully Sarge can cut him off before he continues.
“Grifffff… I just built that jeep. I don’t want to hear that it’s been destroyed.” There was a way his grip tightened on his rifle that made Simmons wish Grif knew how to shut up. He wouldn’t, though. Even if he did.
“Oh. Well then maybe I should stop talking.” That idea he liked. “Or maybe you should stop listening.” Liked. Not loved. He deflates. Sarge barks his name like a disobedient dog, and Simmons can’t help but interject to come to his defense.
“Nonono, it’s not destroyed Sarge! The engine just… quit.” Oh fuck they both realize. He’ll see those seats. Fuck.
“And what exactly were you doin’ when the engine died?” his patience was waning on him. Grif should have kept his mouth shut and let him talk.
“Duh. Getting the jeep out of the ditch.”
“And what was the jeep doing in a ditch!”
“Well I can tell you what it wasn’t doing, and that’s reenacting the coolest scene from Dukes of Hazzard ever.” Shut up Grif shut up shut up shut up!!!
His jaw felt tense every time he spoke. He needed to smack him on the back of the head. Sarge grumbled loudly and pointedly, leaving Simmons sweating under his undersuit.
“Simmons was driving!” the bomb was thrown into his hands, it seemed.
“No I wasn’t! I was holding the arrows and dynamite!” We’re so fucked.
And now they’re backtracking, backtracking and Sarge is standing just out front and just out of line of sight with the mess they made of the interior. He looks to Grif, hoping he can somehow hear the plan he was weaving in his head. We just need to get it back to the base of the mountain. Then we can blame Donut or Tucker or… something.
“You would have had to park it in the shade for at least two hours.” Sarge interrupted the silent prayer Simmons was sending to whatever God watched them. Hopefully one did. At least one. Because they sure as fuck needed it now. Please don’t let him see those nasty ass seats.
The last thing they needed was–
“What were you doing parked in the shade for two hours.” His voice rang of that accusatory knowing that neither could escape. Then, when he figured it couldn’t get worse, he heard Grif pipe up from behind him.
“Well I can tell you what we weren’t doing…”