Salvaged

Title: Salvaged
Author: Kaid
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: I never thought I’d say this, but there is a bit of foot action involved in here. Just a little, and not in a seriously smutty fashion. Prude!Simmons inside. Beta = nada. All mistakes are mine!
Summary: Zombies, porn, and an amazing sofa. What more does Grif need? ~5,700 words

I love this couch. I don’t care that Donut scrunches his nose at its ugly brown color or that Simmons insists on fabreezing the thing every week. It’s comfortable, it’s massive, and it’s mine.

I had this baby shipped in from home. For some reason my mom could never settle on just one couch. When Kai and I were growing up she’d buy a new set every other year, never satisfied with what she had. Most of the older ones have been sent out to relatives, but this one we got about a year before I left for college.

I adopted it as my own. My twin bed was nothing compared to the delightful plushness of this sofa. By the middle of my senior year of high school mom had already purchased another pair so I kidnapped Jaba, stuck him in my room, and slept on him from then on.

I took him to college. Yeah. Many a girl has bounced upon his wide surface, and many a male ass has flopped on him only to remain there for a good six to eight hours during those long, video game filled days. Two years of parties and Jaba is still in almost perfect condition, if not heavily, heavily loved. No rips, no tears, and…minimal… staining.

Sucks that I can’t really sleep on him anymore. My back hasn’t agreed with me since the day with the tank. But damn, it feels good to stretch out after a day spent in armor.

So here I am, sprawled along his cushions, propped up by a pillow with my feet a good three feet from the opposite armrest. Did I mention Jaba is massive? Fuckin’ huge bastard. I adore him.

“Grif, will you please change the channel?” Donut groans from his seat on a disgustingly bright beanbag-like chair on the floor.

“Nng.” I grunt the negative, feeling the remote tucked under my thigh and leaving it wedged there. The operation on screen gets bloodier. Donut lets out a pained groan and fumbles out of his squishy seat.

“Gross! I’m going to bed. Don’t forget to turn off the lights!” he points at me and stares me down with hard green eyes, then shuffles off to his own room.

“Nng.”

Whatever. I free the clicker and flip through the hundreds of pre-recorded movies on the chip inside the television, settling on a zombie flick I haven’t seen in a few months. With a sigh, I relax into the ever comforting embrace of Jaba and focus on the film.

“Can I sit with you?”

I shift my eyes to Simmons, standing in his pjs at the other end of the couch with a glass of water in one hand and a book in the other. This is odd for him. He usually picks one of the two recliners positioned on either side of the sofa, generally the one on the left since Sarge tends to tinker with things in the other one, leaving little grease smears or screws on the seat. I’ve caught him once or twice sitting on Jaba just staring off. He’d get up and leave when he saw me, like I’d snap at him or something for sitting on my couch. I don’t really care as long as he doesn’t do any permanent damage.

That’s not the weird thing about him asking to sit with me – it’s that he’s asking in the first place. He and I do not fucking get along well outside of forced time spent on duty. He hates that I eat all of the food that doesn’t belong to me, and never do my chores or listen to what Sarge has to say or blah blah, the list goes on. I despise his perfectionist tendencies, his need to constantly disagree with me, his condescending, holier-than-thou attitude and of course his compulsion to kiss the ass of our superior at any opportunity.

“Sure.” I shrug mentally. What the hell, you know? What could it hurt? Simmons nods and sits down, glass on top of his thigh and book held open with two of his metal fingers, spreading it in a way that would make most hands cramp in minutes.

We used to get along a lot better before all this bullshit happened. The first gunshot goes off in the movie, and I watch the blood spatter over cement as the disease spreads on the t.v.. Simmons reads right through it, like the screams and bangs and music don’t bother him at all. Maybe they don’t. Maybe he can turn his ears off. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never asked. There was that one time when he pretended…maybe it was real and he actually can. That’d be awesome.

Yeah, we used to be cool. We used to be able to talk without taking anything personal, or really even thinking about what we said. Shit’s different now. I’ve got his parts, he’s got fake parts, and I don’t really need to go into how it feels to not own the one thing you should be able to.

Simmons said – wow, I don’t remember when he said this, or when I even brought it up – he said that our bodies don’t belong to us anyway. That us being out here was testament enough. I thought he enlisted. Everything’s more complicated with him than he lets on.

After a while he shuts the book, just lets it rest on his leg, and watches the screen with interest.

“Did he just…?”

“Yes,” I confirm.

“God,” he laughs. “That’s so wrong.”

I stuff a stray chip in my mouth and talk around the crunch. “Yeah. It’s mandatory for porn and horror flicks to do that.”

“What, be funny in inappropriate places?”

“Mmhm.”

Simmons abandons his book in favor of watching the movie. This is…well, not as awkward as I’d have thought. He looks a little too involved in the scenes, cocking his head when blood sprays and his mouth turning up at the odd close-up of rotted, slithering flesh.

And that’s when I remember- like stumbling across a smell that reminds you of the shampoo you used to use when you were little, and then all you can think of is your mom giving your sister a bubbly mohawk in the bathtub with you – I remember that one of those days so long ago Simmons said…Simmons said…

“My god, man. You’ve never really seen one of these before, have you?”

The spell he’s slipped into snaps and he hunches into the couch, arms furling over each other protectively like I’m going to call him an idiot for not being exposed to the glory that are these brain-feasts. “Grif…” he warns, facing away from me like his cheek is going to take the brunt of my assault more effectively.

“No, it’s – I just remembered it, man.” It wasn’t that he’d never seen a horror movie, that would be just impossible. He mentioned something about Jason X and I recall laughing him off the top of the base. Whoops.

I snatch up the remote and switch back to the menu, searching for the perfect movie to pop Simmons’ zombie cherry. “Get comfortable, you’re watching this.”

The tension bleeds from his frame and he glances over at my excited smile. His brows furrow a little but lift when the first scene comes into focus.

“We’re going old school. Not ‘golden oldies’ old school, but close. Night of the Living Dead, while a classic, isn’t really a good example of zombie potential. This one’s a favorite of mine for a very, very good reason.”

And so it begins. We settle into an intense silence as I watch Simmons watch the screen. I’ve seen this movie so many times that it doesn’t even phase me, but Simmons’ reactions are just…they’re so perfect. Even when I know nothing’s going to happen, he doesn’t, so he flinches and tightens at every nerve-racking moment. If it weren’t for the almost constant little smirk on his face I’d think he wasn’t enjoying it.

Eventually the scenes get so tense that Simmons actually lifts up his long legs and tucks them to the side, hands in fists below his chin. I bend my knees to give him more room and he gratefully takes the space, eyes locked on the plasma.

Then the very important reason why I had him watch this particular movie comes into play, and he tears his eyes from the screen and looks at me with an expression of utter disbelief.

“Zombie baby…”

“Zombie baby,” I nod.

He laughs. He laughs so hard for so long that he’s completely missing crucial plot developments, so I pause and let him snort and cry in his corner.

“Are you good? Gonna live?” I ask when he finally calms down, gripping his side with the metal and wiping tears away with the other hand.

“Yeah,” he coughs, clears his throat, and rubs at the corner of his mouth, smiling and shaking his head, still not accepting what he just saw. “Yeah, I’m good. If…you know, if all of these movies are like this I can see why you’re so obsessed with them. That was just ridiculous.”

“Oh, you have no idea. We have a long night ahead of us.”

Simmons shakes his head again and stuffs one of his legs under the pillows on the back of the couch, so his leg runs beside mine all the way up to the hip without touching. He arches his back and I hear a faint pop.

We’re getting old.

“Man, I don’t know about all night-”

“Here then, just watch the rest of this and we’ll see if you still want more.” I say hurriedly and press play. He’s immediately sucked back in.

Another fifteen minutes or so roll by until the characters finally attempt to escape. A few explosions later and Simmons is sitting up, hands held out at the t.v. with incredulity.

“You’re shitting me. Since when do these fuckers run? I thought they were supposed to be slow, ambling, braaaaaaaaaaains…”

“Weren’t scary enough.”

“Weren’t scary enough my ass.”

“Well, look, there was a time when-”

“No,” he cuts me off, stealing the channel changer from my hand and rewinding back to when the creatures first burst from behind a building in a reeking, salivating pack. “You see that? That is no, Grif. Just no. The guys who thought that was a good idea need a swift kick to the nuts. No.”

And now I’m laughing, reaching to nab the remote. “Just watch the rest.”

He reluctantly resumes watching, starting impassively until the main character is bitten and stays behind while the rest of the cast sail away on a boat. I can see Simmons’ head whip around angrily, see his mouth open to yell at me with something like “that was bullshit!”, but I stop him.

“Not over yet,” I point at the screen and his eyes follow my finger. Little handheld camera clips keep flashing up next to the credits, essentially showing that the escape plan has completely fallen apart. The movie ends with a violent clash of screams, pounding feet, and an abandoned camera.

The screen goes black. From the dark, Simmons whispers:

“That was amazing. How many more do we have?”

Is it weird that Simmons’ sudden enjoyment of a subject I’m so passionate about is making me feel slightly uncomfortable? I’d expected him to watch the movie and hate it, not watch it and then practically fall in love with the genre. I’m…not really sure how to feel about it.

“Uh. About a hundred? Maybe a little more?”

“Oh. That’s…a lot of movies. To shift through. By myself.”

It’s still dark, so I can’t see shit. But I swear it feels like Simmons is looking at me expectantly. I let the screen drift back to the menu, which casts a light blue light over our half of the room.

“What, you want to make me sit and re-watch all these fucking movies with you? Gaaaay.”

“No! I just…uh, wanted to know which ones are the good ones.”

“They’re all good ones.”

Simmons gives me a ‘yeah fucking right’ over his shoulder.

“Okay, okay. Here.” I start flipping through, tagging the best of them with little red markers so he can find them later. It takes about three minutes to find the top ten. I drop the remote in my lap and lean back, arms behind my head. “I guess you can ask again after you watch those. Not like I should let you abuse my expertise or anything…”

“Yeah, because that would be too much of a nice thing for such a jerk.”

“Insulting the man who just picked out ten highly enjoyable features for your ungrateful ass – smooth, Richard,” I grunt, looking up at the ceiling.

“Sooo,” he mumbles after a few ticks of silence. “We gonna watch any more?”

“Meh. Don’t feel like it right now.” I crack an eye and watch his face fall.

“Oh.”

God, he sounds so sad. I smirk and stretch my calves, wiggling my toes. “Actually, I kinda feel like watching some porn. Y’know, ‘cause I mentioned it earlier.”

Simmons blinks and shrugs. “Uh. Okay. I don’t know how you could look at a vagina right now without thinking of one expelling gross zombie babies.”

“Heee, vagina.”

I get an exasperated look for my giggle. “Pussy, then. Fucking zombie pussy. Ew, dude.”

I’m already into the porn section, flipping through the titles with amusement. “Pokin’ in the Great Wide Open. Lick Her in the Front, Poke Her in the Rear. Shaving Ryan’s Privates, Beaver Creek. Oh man, Simmons – so many great names, I don’t know which to choose.”

The taller man lifts his metal arm and rubs at his temple, attempting to hide the subtle shade of red that’s sneaking over his cheeks. “Again, I don’t know how you could look at a pussy right now. Can’t we just watch more movies?”

“Nope, porn time. C’mon, it’ll be even more funny than zombie babies. There’s this fantasy one… “you must please the gatekeeper”. Oh man, it’s stupid funny. Or the ones where the girls sucking dick make weird ‘nomnom’ gurgly noises, hahaha. You know the ones.” Simmons scoffs at me. “C’mon man, c’moooooooon, I know you want toooo.”

“Nooo, I really doooon’t.”

“Man up,” I hit play and some heavily augmented whore fades into focus. She bends over to strap on a high heel, giving the camera a perfect up-skirt shot of panty-covered muff.

There’s obviously no plot to this porn – some random shirtless guy just appears on screen and starts groping her, smacking her ass for the camera. As nasty as the top half of this woman looks, she does have a pretty rockin’ booty.

“You an ass man, Simmons?”

He doesn’t answer. I plant my foot flat on the sofa and bend my knee, just in case I need to hide a hard on from my teammate. I am an ass man. Watching this chick’s junk jiggle is definitely pushing some good buttons. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had the chance to watch some decent porn, so I’m sticking with the ugly girls for entertainment’s sake.

I’ve gotta go uglier. Even with horribly shaped fake boobs, I can still feel the blood rushing to my groin because of this chick.

“Hmn, this isn’t the one. Nothing funny here,” I make up the lame excuse to change the channel and flip until I noticed one I flagged a few weeks ago. “OH! Fuck yes, here, watch this Simmons.”

He still hasn’t said anything. He hasn’t even moved his hand from his face. Heh, embarrassing Simmons is fun. I fast forward until it gets to the part I want to see. There’s a split second of cock slamming into a very loosened hole and then the camera switches to the guy’s face.

He makes a sound like a dying elephant when he comes and Simmons jerks in his seat, eyes going wide as laughter rips from his throat. I rewind it and play it again. “Holy crap! Listen to that guy! What the hell was that?”

“I know, fucking awful,” I chuckle. Simmons lets his arm hang over his bent knee. Hmn, I never saw him shift positions. We must have shared a similar instinct.

“You get off to this?” he asks, though he isn’t looking at me when he says it.

“Fuck no. Er, it depends. If the girls are damn fine, yes. Amateur is usually what I watch, it’s more...I dunno, I feel less cheap when I see someone who’s being paid probably less than me get fucked in a sleazy hotel room.”

“Oh, yeah – much better. Much more arousing, those sleazy hotel rooms,” Simmons mumbles. “Much more morally sound.”

“Hey, hey now. I’m serious. Like ..like this one.”

Oh, bad move, Dex. Bad move. This one’s a damn good one. I hike my leg a little higher and drop the remote by my thigh.

“I wasn’t actually dissing you, Grif…” he trails off as a tiny brunette smiles and waves at the camera, clearly tipsy and clearly thrilled by the male attention being laden on her by the man laughing beside her. The cameraman’s hand keeps popping into the frame, pointing, motioning, but I’ve never been able to understand what they’re saying. It’s Italian or some shit.

Again, I’ve seen this so many times I don’t need to watch it to know what happens. I’m more focused on Simmons, who grows increasingly more and more uncomfortable as the scene plays on.

“Grif…” as a hand finds its way to a full, pliant breast.

I ignore him, staring hard at his flustered profile from the very edge of my vision.

“Grif,” a little louder as both beautiful tits are exposed, the girl pushed back against the couch, a tongue lapping out to swipe at a pert nipple.

I ignore him.

“Grif!” A gasp now as the camera is set on a table and a second mouth joins the first, two hands slip under a waistband, wet fingers resurface to find their way into another male mouth.

The remote is yanked out of my grasp. A frantic Simmons curses and smashes buttons until the screen goes black, tossing the room into darkness.

“Geeze, been that long for you, buddy?”

“Shut up,” he hides the pant in his voice poorly. “Just shut up.”

I can hear his excited breaths in the dark. Oh, shit. That’s me. My mouth clamps shut. The remote lands on the couch with a soft thump.

“Well that was smart,” he grumbles.

“What?” I ask, bewildered and a little offended.

“That was smart,” he emphasizes. “We’re fucking… stuck out here…”

“Most guys can watch porn together without freaking out, man. I don’t know what your problem-”

“WITHOUT ANY FEMALE INTERACTION!” he shouts. “And it’s been years since I’ve even seen-”

“You can’t honestly tell me that you don’t have porn stashed somewhere in our room.”

“I don’t.”

“Fuckin’ liar,” I chuckle.

“No, Grif. I seriously don’t.”

My jaw drops. Thankfully he can’t see my dumbfounded expression in the dark.

“Why the hell not?!”

“Because I don’t really like it!”

“That’s bullshit!” I yip. “Everybody likes porn!”

“Well I don’t! There’s nothing genuine about sex on camera.”

“Wh-…that’s…I…what the fuck?” I stutter. “I don’t believe you. Lies.”

“Just drop it,” he snaps and I hear a shift, a rustle of cloth as he folds his arms over his chest. I can’t see it, but I know he’s doing it.

“Alright,” I shrug. Whatever, you know. If he wants to pretend like he doesn’t like watching people screw, that’s fine. In the meantime, my cock is fucking killing me.

Thankful for the darkness, I spread my legs, reach down between my thighs and squeeze, dragging my uncomfortably positioned erection over my hip to give it room. I let my hand linger a little longer than necessary, cupping the upper half of the shaft and rubbing a little to relieve some tension.

“What the hell?!” Simmons yells.

“What?!” I jump at his shout, head whipping from side to side uselessly in the pitch black, wondering what has him so startled.

“Fucking do that somewhere else! I’m sitting right here!”

Oh. OH…shit. An angry blue glow flashes from the side of Simmons’ face, and wow, what a great time to remember that he has fucking night vision installed in that fake eye of his.

“Uh. I forgot. You could see,” I say slowly, pulling my hand from my dick and resting it on my hip instead. As an afterthought, I snap my legs closed. I mean, I know it’s too late. It’s not like he hasn’t already seen the bulge in my sweats, the fucking outline of hard cock - which I just totally fondled in front of him. I groan and bury my face in the pillow near my shoulder. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

“Yes,” Simmons says, then clears the roughness out of his throat. “Just a little. So, you should go… take care of that …or something.” A part of me knows he’s just saying that to say something in the wake of such a weird moment, but I can’t help but lash out at what I think is a veiled command to get out of the room.

“What?!” I sit up, glaring through the black space between us. “This is my couch, I’m not going anywhere.”

“This is the rec room, Grif. You don’t seriously-”

“My couch.”

“You’ve done this before,” he accuses.

“Damn right I have.”

“Grif, we EAT here!” he gasps.

“Oh don’t give me that,” I snort. “Don’t give me that whole ‘I’ve never jerked off somewhere I shouldn’t have’ thing. How many times did you spread the blanket between your knees and rub one out in your living room? Hm?”

He doesn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to.

“What about in our room, huh? We sleep there. I eat there. I hear you-”

“No, you don’t,” he viciously cuts me off. I know, I was lying. I don’t hear him. I never hear him. The most I’ve ever heard out of him is the occasional snore or grunt.

“Okay, okay, so you’re quiet. Whatever, you still do it.”

He sighs, let’s his hand rub over his face. I hear the skin scrape over the stubble near his sideburns.

“No. I don’t.”

Well that put a hole in my sails. “You’re telling me that you don’t watch zombie movies and you don’t like porn and you don’t masturbate.” I shake my head sadly. “Dude, there is seriously something wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says firmly. “Some people just don’t feel like doing it.”

“I bet you feel like doing it now,” I smirk. He gives a short chuckle, the falsely amused kind, the one that makes it sound like he’s about to grab Sarge’s shotgun and go on a little spree.

“I can’t fucking believe-”

I stretch out, scooting down on the couch just enough so my arms can fold behind my head. “You do. You totally do. I can feel it.”

I should continue on with my jeering. I should keep pestering Simmons until he gets up and leaves, or begs to watch more movies, or hell, punches me in the face. Instead I shut up, and the silence that hangs between us is absolutely frightening.

Because I can feel it. That stretch, that stupid, arrogant stretch, pushed my leg up just enough between his bent knees, just far enough for my foot to press against something very, very solid and very much Simmons’ fucking cock.

The silence persists. An eternity of awkwardness dances in the dark, fathomless space between us. Slow, boiling panic rises hot in my chest and crushes the lungs that aren’t really mine.

“What do I do?” I squeak, not realizing the words have made it out into the open. Cold metal fingers wrap around my ankle, a threatening pressure that settles the fear lodged in my throat.

“Grif,” Simmons growls -growls- and his hand tightens. I don’t know what he wants me to do. Either way, my foot is going to rub up or down on…him…when I try to pull away. And fuck fuckfuckfuck, the guy is big. Why, god? Why me? Is it because I ate all of Donut’s fucking kettle corn? I’ll never do it again, I swear. Just get my foot off of-OH GOD, I just felt it MOVE!

I can feel his heartbeat. Or is that mine? Does he evenhave a heart anymore?

Simmons gives a miserable groan and tugs back on my ankle, hissing when my knee doesn’t give and my foot presses harder into his crotch. My hip is locked, I’m too far down on the couch. I’d have to scoot back to let my knee bend, and right now I can barely breathe let alone move.

Simmons finally pulls up, and even though it is literally less than a second that my sole drags along his cock it’s still enough time for my mind to scramble for dimensions during the brief contact. Fuck you, brain. Fuck…he’s…bigger…

He lets my foot drop next to his thigh and shifts, probably to get up and walk out of the room. Strangely, he doesn’t move. Instead, a soft, muffled noise fills the dark.

He’s laughing.

“Umn?” I manage, curiosity spurring the sound from me.

“You…” he giggles, voice scratchy. He tries to continue but something’s just too goddamn funny for him to force it out.

“What?” I ask again, and I can feel my face contort in irritation. I don’t mind being the butt of a joke, but I usually like to know why.

“Your brain…and your mouth…must not be connected,” he chuckles. Evilly chuckles.

I blush hotly before my blood runs cold. “Whu…what did I say?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just, you know, something about something being bigger,” he jeers. Ever, ever so smugly.

FUCK. GYAH.

“I…no I didn’t,” I deny, knowing he’s right and my stupid fat mouth probably did jettison everything I was thinking straight out into the black abyss. Bastard mouth. Bastard Simmons.

“You did.”

“It was my foot,” I scramble for an excuse. “Nothing feels the same when you touch it with your foot. Shit’s distorted.”

“I’m sure.” He’s fucking sitting in that corner preening. That son of a bitch.

“It is and I’ll prove it,” I snarl and lunge at him in the dark.

“Gah!” his arms come up, metal crashing into my shoulder as I land heavily on his knees, my hand fishing between his legs and coming to rest on the erection I know is still there.

“See, it’s…oh…”

What I said earlier was just bullshit, just me trying to defend my bruised manhood. This, what I’m doing now? This is me being an enormous dumbass, if the painful hunk of metal and rubber digging into my shoulder is any indication. But I’m pissed. I’m pissed because his dick really is bigger than mine. I grimace and mouth ‘god damnit’ into the cool air. There’s a small shift beneath me, a quick release of breath and a short ‘heh’. Fuck, that’s right. The bitch can still see me.

I figure the only reason why that hand isn’t around my throat is because I’ve got such a good hold on the one body part he actually needs. A man can survive without an arm or an eye, but take away his dick and he’s got nothing to live for. Think I’d still be here if that tank had blown off my wang? I hope Sarge would’ve been kind enough to just accept the ‘loss’ if that had happened.

I refuse to give in to Simmons’ satisfied huff. You think you’ve won this, you cunt? Not yet, my friend. Not yet.

“Hmmm,” I hum and squeeze, groping him lightly through the thin cloth of his plaid pjs. The muscles of his inner thighs flutter against my forearm, tensing and relaxing enough to let his legs ease slightly apart. “I don’t know. Lot of fabric in the way. Adds to it,” I swallow. Christ, he’s thick…

This is where the punch is coming, I can feel it. I let go and slide my fingers into the flap in his pants, and again through a similar hole in his boxers, holding my breath for the sock in the face.

“Wha-” he chokes on the word, gulping around the click in his throat. “Get the….stop that,” he snarls and wraps his hand around my wrist. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He’s angry. Sweet. “Have to make sure there’s nothing that would…lend to the distortion.” I pulled that straight outta my ass. “Don’t worry, I can’t see anything,” I smirk.

“But I can.”

“Afraid you’ll come all over me if I touch you, huh?” I goad and shove my hand inside his underwear, fingers brushing against silky flesh.

“Stop. It,” his voice wavers and metal clamps down.

“Just shut the fuck up for a second.” I sound a lot braver than I feel right now as I curl my fingers just under the head of his cock. Simmons’ body slides down on the couch, I think, in an unconscious attempt to get away.

“God…damnit…” he groans and it sounds like he swallowed a barrel of black velvet. The light on the side of his head vanishes and his hold eases as I drag him out into the open.

By all means, this should be the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever willingly done, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s…empowering to have him under me, sliding even further on the couch, tensing and relaxing intermittently, so unsure of what to do as I squeeze down and chuckle at the eager response I get, at the slow leak of fluid dripping down my fingers.

“S-s-s-fuck…s-stop it, Grif,” he whines, legs spreading, stomach tightening when I set my hand somewhere near his hip to hold him down, right on the naked skin where his scooting has pushed up his shirt.

“No. Not done. Have to make sure.” I bite off the sentences, not trusting my voice to remain steady as what started as an attempt to piss off this tightwad turns into…something else completely.

I expect it to be over quick, the way he starts grabbing at me and slowly arching his hips. His hands are fisted tight in the shirt over my chest, holding me with a strength that stomps mine but he’s not using it to do more than keep me from moving closer…or from pulling away.

“You know,” his achingly deep voice startles me out of the rhythm I’ve built up. “You can only prove it…if we both agree…discrepancy-”

I can’t understand what the fuck he’s saying, but one of his hands unwinds from my shirt and slips down, bumping blindly into my inner thigh.

Oh. Simmons, you bold sonofabitch you.

At this point I don’t even care who’s bigger, especially not as he cups me through my sweats and rubs his thumb over the damp fabric covering my cock. He lets his other hand drop, the metal coming down heavy on the waistband of my pants and dragging them halfway down my right hip.

“Your hands are shaking.”

“N-no they’re not.”

“Yes,” I breathe when his soft palm closes over me, lips grazing his cheek. I don’t know how I got so close. Now that he’s not holding me I just lean forward, years of being on top training me to do it - never mind that it’s a guy under me this time, that it’s Simmons.

“Fuckfuck…so…” I groan against his mouth and push down into his hand, working my wrist in quick jerks under the wet head of his dick. He makes a frightened little sound, the noise catching in his throat, and with a breathless laugh I realize he’s coming.

Shit. Shit. Feeling the heat on my knuckles sends me over in a hot rush and I slam my hips down, grinding hard into whatever I can to keep the friction going. Simmons is moaning loudly into my throat, and when did his legs clamp around my waist, and his cool hand find its way up my shirt and…

All of the sudden I’m flat on my back, head slamming into the armrest on the opposite end of the couch, the impact sending sparks in front of my blind eyes.

“Holy- ‘the hell? Simmons, what the fuck?”

The only response I get is the soft sound of a door closing down the hallway. If it weren’t for the wetness on my hand and the happily softening penis in my lap, this could have almost been a dream.

My clean hand paws around the bag of chips on the coffee table and plucks up a pack of cigarettes and a neon green lighter. I’m not supposed to be smoking in here, but right now I’d like to see someone try to fuckin’ stop me. The lighter clicks, briefly illuminating the mess on my fingers. I take a quick drag and swipe my tongue over the bitter fluid, huffing smoke out of my nose at the taste. Can’t really tell the difference between his and mine.

I shift my shoulders and snuggle into Jaba’s overstuffed cushions, flicking the t.v. back on. My eyes scan the tagged movies and my tongue runs over my fingers again.

He has a lot to watch.

And we have plenty of time.