That Dirty Mouth

Title: That Dirty Mouth
Author: Kaid
Pairing: Sarge/Grif, Simmons/Donut
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: PWP, possible ooc, kink, voyeurism, light B&D, excessive use of the word ‘fuck’.
Summary: For doilyhands on LJ. Someday I swear I’ll write something that isn’t a kinkfest.
Simmons gets restless. Grif gets spanked. ~2,900 words


I will not apologize for the shameless porn. :D


Simmons glanced up from his book with a frown. Something felt off tonight. Was it dinner, he asked himself? Nah, it was the same packaged crap they ate every evening. Was it the lighting? He generally had the lamp next to him turned on as opposed to the one near the television. Simmons’ eyes narrowed as they flashed from corner to corner of the rec room, finally settling on the book in his hands.

Oh. He was alone.

The maroon soldier’s brows came together sharply, deepening his frown. It was rare that Red Team had any private time in this base. Simmons had trained himself to ignore ambient noise and focus on the things where he wanted his precious attention to stay. After a year or so of living with three slightly (in Grif’s case, very) annoying roommates, the Spartan had developed pristine selective hearing.

It was no surprise that the complete and utter silence that greeted him now was almost disturbing in its intensity.

Fiddling with the pages of his forgotten book, Simmons berated himself for his clingy nature and begrudgingly set out to find some company. Even if it just happened to be Grif scarfing down a box of some contraband sweet, he didn’t really care. He was only looking for someone to ignore. The lazy orange ‘soldier’ would suit his needs just fine.

Simmons’ bare feet padded along the cold concrete floor of the hallway, his sweats hanging low on his hips and his shirt coming up a little short on his stomach. The others frequently reminded him how silly it looked, someone like Simmons wearing something two sizes too small for his tall frame, but he ignored the comments. It was the only piece of clothing he had left from home. If they didn’t like it, they could just fuck off.

As he walked down the hall a series of shouts began to filter through the passageways. Confused and intrigued, Simmons followed the sounds deeper into the barracks.

Out of nowhere, a hand clamped down over his mouth and yanked him back into the shadowed doorway near Sarge’s workroom. He yelled into the hand and gripped the wrist of his captor. Wrenching it away he turned to glare at Donut, a mixture of shock and anger morphing his face. The shorter man shushed him as he opened his mouth to protest the random abduction, the look in the younger Marine’s eyes doing a better job of keeping him quiet than the finger against his lips.

“Shhh. They’re fighting. It just started. It sounds like it’s gonna be a good one,” the blond grinned mischievously. Simmons raised an eyebrow and peeked around the corner adjacent to their hiding spot. Grif stood in his pjs, facing an armored Sarge and looking vulnerable and completely underwhelming next to the tank-like, gold-visored Spartan. The slacker had his arms crossed, attempting to make up for the gross differenced in body mass, but only succeeded in looking like a pouting child. Simmons smirked.

“It’s not fucking fair,” Grif growled (whined). “Simmons gets a room to himself, YOU get TWO rooms, and eight months later I still I have to share my space with the guy who puts up pictures of faggy boy bands and unicorns? What the fuck?”

Sarge sat on the stool next to a low metal table that held an array of firearms. He quietly rubbed a cloth over the barrel of his shotgun as Grif continued to rant, tossing out ‘fuck’s and ‘shit’s like it was going out of style. The calm mood that Sarge acquired while cleaning his darlings was slowly breaking down. Simmons could see it in the increasingly rough swipes of the rag on the gun. After a few strained minutes, Sarge’s hand stopped. Simmons held his breath.

A big, helmeted head lifted and tilted in Grif’s direction. Grif glared defiantly into his reflection in the visor of the older Spartan, even when Sarge’s thick voice rolled from the speakers of the suit.

“Private, Ah’ve told you before – Ah’m tired of your cussin’. It hurts mah head and makes you sound like a bigger jackass than ya already are.”

Simmons’ eyes darted to Grif. Donut glanced up at him with a giant smile. The two exchanged a few words of silent conversation - Simmons saying that Grif couldn’t be that big of a moron, Donut clearly saying otherwise, and Simmons finally conceding that yeah, the pink soldier was undoubtedly correct.

Grif took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and confirmed their assumption.

“Oh fuckin’ really? Fuck that, sir,” the orange Spartan sneered. “I’ll fucking curse all I god damn fucking want. What the fuck are you gonna do about it, huh? Pull rank on my ass? Ship me back home? Not like I’d give a damn, there’s nothing to do in this shithole, anyway, The Blues are pansies, I swear to fucking GOD if Simmons calls me an idiot one more time I’ll rip his fucking face off, you could make a mountain of cakes out of Donut’s fruity fucking ass, and to top it off YOU want to tell ME that I can’t fucking cuss?”

Simmons sighed and closed his eyes. Don’t say it, Grif.

“Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck the Red army, fuck this fucking place!”

Idiot.

Sarge stood up so fast he knocked over his chair. The shotgun crashed down next to its brothers. One red-clad hand whipped up, grabbed Grif by the back of the neck, and slammed him face down over the edge of the table. The younger soldier yelled in surprise, trying to wrench himself free from the C.O.s crushing grip.

“What the fuck!? What is this shit?!” his panicked voice rang down the (nearly) empty hallway. Donut looked over his shoulder at Simmons, his expression both fearful and excited. Simmons was ashamed to realize he was wearing a similar face, so he schooled his features and gazed dispassionately at the scene of…of Grif bent over a table in front of their Sergeant. He flushed.

Sarge was eerily silent as he gathered Grif’s wrists behind his back, holding them with one hand while he shoved at the man’s neck with the other. He pressed close, pinning the orange Marine’s hips to the table with the weight of armored thighs against his ass. Donut let out a small gasp, tearing Simmons’ attention from the provocative position of his teammates. He watched a sliver of tongue peek out to moisten dry lips, felt himself doing the same, then mentally bitchslapped himself. Stop it, Richard.

“What the fu-AH!” Grif shouted as Sarge tightened his grip, cutting him off.

“Ah told you,” the older man rumbled. “Ahm sick of that dirty mouth of yours spoutin’ off indecencies in mah base, son.” He leaned over his trapped inferior, twisting Grif’s head to the side so he could look into the visor he’d so stoically stared at moments before. “An’ was Ah hearin’ things, or did you just disregard mah rank, question mah authority, and downright insult me, Private?”

Grif grit his teeth.

“Answer me,” Sarge rasped, twisting at Grif’s wrists.

“Y-yeah! Yes, sir!” he stuttered, face reddening, cheek pressed hard against the cool metal of the table.

Sarge grunted. “You know what mah daddy did when Ah mouthed off?” Beneath him, the younger soldier gulped. The armored Spartan chuckled. “He took a belt to my behind and beat my little tush raw,” he explained, tying the soldier’s wrists with the cloth he’d used to clean his gun. Grif’s struggles were non-existent. “Do you know what Ah’m gonna do to you now, soldier?”

Grif let out a shaky laugh. “L-let me go? Lesson learned, no harm no foul?” he squeaked, voice fearfully hopeful. This close, Grif could see the teeth in Sarge’s grin.

“No,” he said simply, then yanked down Grif’s pants.

Outside, Simmons had to clap a hand over Donut’s mouth to keep the smaller man from squealing. He was impressed at how quickly he’d moved considering his own state of frozen amazement, but he supposed that his body acted out of self-preservation. He’d die if right now Sarge looked over and caught him and Donut crouched in the shadows, looking in on what Simmons knew had to be the most surreal situation he’d ever seen.

He swallowed thickly when their C.O. pulled back and set his gloved palm on one of Grif’s raised cheeks. Not squeezing - just holding it there, letting the younger man know that what he suspected was going to happen really was going to happen.

Grif was practically hyperventilating, eyes wide, shoulders shaking with a myriad of suppressed emotions. Fear and anger warred with shock on his red-tinged face. Simmons watched, fascinated, as the orange Spartan’s eyes fluttered shut when Sarge’s resting hand squeezed down on the pale flesh beneath it. Oh really?

Without warning, Sarge raised his arm and brought his glove down across Grif’s ass with a sharp smack. Grif yelped, jerking in his bonds.

Sarge smiled savagely under his helmet. “Mn, that’s nice. When Ah’m through with you, boy, you’ll remember what the word ‘fuck’ really means.”

Simmons’ jaw dropped, his eyebrows flew to his hairline, and Donut gasped into the fist still covering his mouth. Both saw the big, rosey handprint on Grif’s flesh. They locked eyes and the pink soldier made an odd growl against his teammate’s skin. More slaps echoed throughout the room, punctuated by both Grif’s angry/astonished cries and silence as Sarge admired his handiwork. After seven good smacks, the tied Spartan’s backside was a healthy shade of red and his face was a grimace of pain and embarrassment.

“S’matter, dirtbag? Nothing ta say?” Smack. “No smart aleck remarks?” Smack. “No loud, indignant cursin’ over yer humiliatin’ position?” Smack.

Grif took a deep, ragged breath. “N –no, sir.” An extra hard hit landed on his left cheek, startling a shout out of him.

“You sure, Private? You were so honest a few minutes ago. Ah’d be mighty disappointed if you started lyin’ now.”

“I’m-” Grif couldn’t seem to keep his voice steady. Given the circumstances, Simmons couldn’t blame him. Sarge’s hand came down again, silencing his stumbling response.

Donut was wriggling in his grasp, looking over his shoulder at Simmons with a heat in his eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by the taller Red. He whined in frustration into his teammate’s hand, plucking at the shirt covering his stomach and scrunching it between shaking fingers. He finally tugged Simmons’ wrist away from his face and put his mouth indecently close to his friend’s ear.


“Simmons, I’m going to...” he whispered, bit his lip, and motioned helplessly between his legs. “I can’t help it. This is way too hot to not take advantage of.”

Simmons blinked. Then he glanced at the scene in Sarge’s workroom. He blinked again. Sarge was giving Grif a reprieve, lightly palming the stinging, inflamed skin of his ass, bending over his shoulder and growling words neither of them could hear into the ear of the now sobbing Marine.

Simmons swallowed and looked down at Donut, who leaned against the wall with one shoulder as his hand went to work. Arousal rushed into the pit of his stomach and settled next to denial and shame. The feelings swam over each other like slippery eels, making him queasy, excited, and utterly confused. He didn’t want to be here, but he did. He didn’t want to see Grif being bent over a table and punished by their commanding Officer, but he did. He didn’t want to watch Donut pull his cock in slow, relishing strokes….but he did.

“…never knew you were such a slut.”

Simmons’ head snapped up at the throaty growl. Sarge had one hand between Grif’s legs and the other was fiddling with the latches of his codpiece. Over the white haze that suddenly choked all rational thought, the maroon soldier heard Donut threatening to make little noises of pleasure. Instinctively, he reached out again and cupped his hand over the younger man’s mouth, scooting closer to his panting teammate.

“Sh,” he whispered when Donut’s whimpers threatened to spill between his fingers. “I’m going to….um….too,” he vaguely admitted to the blond, a blush engulfing his face. The look Donut shot him was nothing short of breathlessly impressed. The pink soldier gaped, his own need momentarily forgotten, as Simmons hesitantly touched himself through the fabric of his sweats. Donut’s head whipped from side to side, caught between the chance to see his anal-retentive teammate’s cock and the increasingly sexual happenings in the adjacent room.

Grif settled his dilemma by giving a wild cry of “FUCK!”, the yell catching in his tear-tightened throat. Sarge slapped the abused flesh beneath him again, relishing the bubbling whimper that broke from Grif’s mouth.

“Not yet, Private,” he groaned, two of his gloved fingers knuckle-deep in his inferior’s ass. The orange Spartan panted harshly on the metal table, hips squirming and thighs clenching rhythmically with the plunging fingers inside of him.

Simmons felt faint. Seeing his dazed state, the pink Marine took the opportunity to press against his chest. He straddled his teammate’s legs, black sweats riding down to mid-thigh, presenting Simmons with nothing short of an invitation. He leaned back and whispered, frantic, into Simmons’ neck.

“If he starts fucking him, please do me. Who knows if this will ever - unnngh, damn…” his words trailed off in a moan as they watched Sarge push the slick, blunt head of his dick past Grif’s loosened hole. The bound Marine arched his back.

“Hah-ah, ahhh, sir-“

“Yes, Private?” the armored Red grunted, voice betraying the strain of holding back.

“Sir, sir, can I….may I…”

“No,” Sarge rocked forward, sliding in to the hilt. Grif screamed.

Donut pawed eagerly at the waistband of Simmons’ pants, discouraged by the lack of response by the taller solider. “Please, Simmons. Please, I won’t last much longer, just….just please…”

Something in the maroon Spartan’s head finally clicked, snapping him out of the haze his mind had drifted into. All he’d wanted tonight was to sit and quietly read his book while Donut yapped on about hair conditioners, or Grif made some rude commentary about a movie they’d all seen a million times. Instead he was hidden in the hallway, watching Sarge ram his cock into one teammate while the other begged the same from him.

Wordlessly, Simmons freed his erection. Donut almost groaned in relief, removing the fingers he’d pushed into himself as he waited for Simmons to snap out of whatever place his mind was wandering. He watched the bigger Red gulp, and nearly purred as he tentatively folded his arms over the blond’s torso. A spit-slicked hand rand the length of Simmons’ shaft. The uncertain Red buried his face in Donut’s hair and took a deep breath.

“Easy,” Donut cooed, lifting himself just enough for the head of Simmons’ cock to rest against his entrance. “Try not to buck, or this will hurt both of us.” The taller Spartan nodded blindly. Donut sank down.

The smacks that were now coming from Sarge’s workroom were the same basic skin on skin sounds that they’d been hearing for the past twenty minutes. The only difference, Simmons noticed, was the volume. Instead of loud cracks, quiet, sticky slaps could be heard under Grif’s constant stream of moans. They were identical to the quiet noises that came from his lap where Donut steadily bounced up and down.

Dirty.

“Sir! Oh god, sir, PLEASE,” Grif practically shrieked, twisting around to look up at the expressionless mask covering his superior’s face.

Sarge’s hands tightened on his hips. “Permission to curse freely, Private.”

Later, Simmons would realize his orgasm lasted the length of Grif’s explosion.

“Oh fucking god yes! FUCKfuckFUCK, Sarge, oh shit, please, please, harder, please. More, give me – FUCK, Ahh! God fucking damnit yes! Yesyesyes, god, ohhhhhhh fuuuuuuuck meeeeeeeeeeee, pleeeeaaaaaaaaaase.”

Donut let out a short cry and came hard around Simmons’ pulsing cock.

“Please, sir, pleasepleaseFUCKfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, more motherfucker! Uunnhhg ohhhhh fucking god yes- AHHH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”

Sarge gave a few more bruising thrusts before he stilled behind the wailing Marine, his armor scraping over mottled skin as he pushed completely inside, filling Grif with everything he had.

In the quiet moments that followed, Simmons looked down to see that Donut had, amazingly, consciously kept any spare spurts of jizz from hitting the floor. The pink Spartan’s had been shot onto his stomach, under his shirt. Simmons’ was….well…

He flushed when he thought about exactly where his load was hiding. Stupid, considering what he’d just done and what he’d just seen. Shakily, he rose and pulled a weak Donut along with him. They leaned on each other, hobbling backwards as they began their retreat.

“Good job, Private. So you can follow orders,” Sarge grunted, brushing a sweat-drenched lock of hair from Grif’s eyes. The only response he got was labored breathing.

And maybe a bit of a satisfied smirk.

“Your room?” Donut looked up at his teammate's face under one of the sconces that peppered the hallway. His eyes were soft in the filtered light, oddly expectant and endearingly uncertain.

If Simmons was going to say no tonight, now probably wasn’t the time to start doing it.