Breakfast at Red Base was never notable for its peaceful atmosphere. By now, Simmons and Donut were accustomed to this; however, that didn’t make the constant arguing between Sarge and Grif any more bearable. Possibly the worst part about it, for Simmons, was the fact that the last several weeks the fights had been almost entirely centered around him.
He kept his gaze down on his plate of eggs, cheeks burning red while Grif and Sarge argued over whose bed Simmons should spend the next night in.
“You got him last night,” Grif griped.
“But only after the two of you stayed up until two in the morning marathoning that Star Truck! That doesn’t count!” Sarge shouted back.
“It’s Star Trek , and you would have gotten more time with him if you didn’t insist on dragging us all out of bed at five o’clock every morning for drills!”
“It’s an essential component of military training, dirtbag!”
It was a frustratingly common argument that had started cropping up almost daily since they had both begun sleeping with Simmons. Both literally and… sexually. Literal sexually. Simmons had, somehow, gotten two boyfriends, and even more shocking, Donut was the only member of Red team left that hadn’t tried to get into Simmons’ pants. Because, actually, he hadn’t gone after Sarge or Grif--it had been both of them who pursued him. Separately, of course. And without realizing that the other was doing the same. Being Simmons, he couldn’t bear to refuse a commanding officer (although that wasn’t to say he was uneager to be involved with Sarge, because he absolutely was) and Grif was… persistent. And Simmons had always had a crush on them both, although he never expected either of them--and certainly not BOTH--would reciprocate.
Simmons’ alarm that they would be angry with him for having sex with them both, once they found out about each other, had turned out to be for naught--instead, they had grown increasingly competitive, which, one would assume, would be flattering in some capacity at least. Instead, it was alienating, and instead of feeling like the center of attention, Simmons (as always) felt pushed to the side, making way for the obnoxiously massive egos of his boyfriends. As they bickered over the kitchen table with just as much spite and obliviousness as ever, Simmons quietly finished eating his breakfast, washed his plate, and attempted to make a break for the door before he was stopped short.
“Simmons, where do YOU want to sleep?” Grif demanded, in a tone that emphasized he wasn’t actually interested in Simmons’ answer, but wanted the soldier to choose him automatically. Sarge, with a scowl barely hidden underneath his bushy, silver beard, too stared at Simmons expectantly.
“You know what? Maybe I want to sleep in my OWN bed tonight! Have either of you considered that?” Simmons snapped, before storming out of the room and leaving Grif and Sarge staring blankly at the empty doorway. Donut glanced between the pair of them, silently chewing his breakfast, before swallowing and sighing theatrically.
“Hopeless, the both of you,” Donut said.
“Oh what do you know?” Grif snorted, although he couldn’t ignore the pang of confusing guilt in his chest.
“I’d agree with Grif, except that might cause him to make the mistake that he might actually have a modicum of worth,” Sarge replied acerbically, earning an aggravated growl from the private.
“As if you’re some great prize,” Grif snorted at him.
“I’m better for him than you are, dirtbag,” Sarge countered, and Grif stood up, slamming his hands on the table. Sarge stood as well, and landed his fist hard enough on the edge of the table to make the dishes rattle. More collected than his counterparts, Donut also rose from the table, snapping his fingers at the pair before they had a chance to go for each other’s throats.
“You know, maybe instead of spending all your time fighting over the guy, you both should start showing him that he actually means something to either of you; in case you haven’t noticed, he isn’t exactly as aware of that fact as the rest of us.”
Donut sashayed out of the room without so much as a backward glance, leaving both Sarge and Grif at a complete loss for words. They hadn’t even considered the possibility that Simmons was oblivious to their rather evident affections--but then again, it was Simmons . Maybe he really was just that dense.
Reluctantly, they looked across the table at each other.
“...We probably should do something to fix this mess,” Grif muttered.
With a grunt, Sarge slowly nodded in concession. “Yeah. Any ideas?”
Grif hesitated, none too eager to suggest the first and only idea in his mind, but if it meant making up for upsetting Simmons…
“Yeah, I think I got an idea.”
“Okay, uh, you can go first and I guess intimidate him into submission, and then I’ll--”
“Grif, just shut yer mouth and follow my lead,” Sarge grunted, shouldering past him and striding into the room.
Simmons stood up abruptly from his seat on the bed when he saw the pair of them entering his quarters. His eyes were wide, confused already at the sight of the two of them standing in front of him, especially considering the fact that they were standing within fifteen feet of each other and not hitting each other.
“Uh… what’s going on?” He said, alarmed. “Is there an emergency?”
“No,” Grif said.
“Yes,” Sarge answered, at the same time. They both glanced at each other, and there was a moment of tense silence.
“...No, there’s no emergency,” Sarge said slowly, and then Grif added, “But yes, there is a serious problem we have to address. Like right now. All of us.”
“All…?” Simmons echoed, the look of alarm not wavering on his face. “Did I... do something wrong?”
“No, Simmons, no way,” Grif shook his head immediately, distraught that Simmons would think he somehow owed an apology to either of them. Sarge shifted, clearly just as perturbed, and strode forward, caging Simmons against the foot of the bed.
“You didn’t do a damn thing wrong son; we’re the ones who need to apologize to you,” Sarge told him, his voice gruff and throaty but his tone more gentle than Grif had heard in his life.
Simmons was staring up into his eyes, slack-jawed in awe, his hands gripping tentatively at the sleeves of Sarge’s shirt, as if uncertain about whether he should be holding on or pushing himself away. Grif took this moment of hesitation to eliminate the man’s second choice as he sidled himself up against Simmons’ back, pressing his warm, broad chest against him and placing his hands on his hips. Simmons immediately straightened, at first pulling away from Grif’s touch then back out of Sarge’s, and realizing with a burst of near audible panic that he was trapped between the two.
“Relax, Simmons,” Grif murmured, his breath hot against Simmons’ smooth, cool neck, “This is for you.”
“For… for me?” Simmons squeaked back, trying to crane his neck back and look at Grif. Unanticipated by either of them, Sarge took the opportunity to lean down and bury his face into Simmon’s exposed neck. Simmons gasped, either unable or--more likely--unwilling to fight as Sarge’s strong hands pulled him forward, flush against his chest.
Grif adjusted his position to fit himself back up against Simmons, his hands playing idly at the hem of Simmons’ shirt as he licked a strip of skin on the opposite side of the man’s neck.
“We’re sorry we’ve been such dumbasses lately,” Grif intoned to him, scratching a finger against the small bit of exposed skin on Simmons’ hip and enjoying the marvelous shudder of Simmons’ body against him. “Really, the only reason we’ve been fighting more than usual is because you mean so much to us.”
“I mean so...” Simmons parroted, as Grif lapped and sucked his neck. It was bizarre; he could almost feel Sarge through Simmons’ body, all rippling muscle and physical power. Grif could tell that, whatever it was that Sarge was doing on his end, it was working wonders on Simmons; he was already trembling between them. Subtly, Grif craned his neck back enough to peek at Sarge, and found the man’s flintlike blue eyes glaring daggers at him as he bit down on Simmons’ neck, drawing out a startled cry. That bite, Grif was already certain, was definitely going to leave a mark. A claiming mark, judging by the triumphant glint in Sarge’s eyes.
Well, Grif wasn’t just going to take that challenge laying down.
His hand slid around Simmons’ waist to his front, cupping the quickly growing erection in his hand. Simmons gasped, thrusting into the grip, which alerted Grif to the exact proximity of his hand to someone else’s nether regions. But he didn’t back down; he kept his hand firmly on Simmons, a gesture of what was to come.
After a moment, Grif’s hand was suddenly covered, but not by wiry fingers and cold, soft skin, but a rough, calloused palm that almost startled him into releasing. The hand matched Grif’s initial squeeze and then a little more, making absolutely certain that Simmons knew just how much he was wanted-- wanted by both of them.
Grif allowed the touch to last for a few more moments while Simmons groaned, a halting, needy sound in the back of his throat, before gently but purposefully nudging Sarge’s hand out of his business. Whatever Sarge had planned for the rest of their performance, he was the one that was getting first dibs on Dick’s dick.
If only for the wordplay.
Sarge seemed willing to compromise, it seemed, and his hand didn’t attempt to replace itself on Simmons’ groin. Instead, he continued his work on Simmons’ neck, mouthing at the skin and teasing tiny grunts and pants out of him with each lick and nip. He pressed harder into Simmons, and now Grif couldn’t ignore the press of Sarge’s growing heat against the back of his hand, but he didn’t care. Simmons felt like an ice cold dreamsicle, the focus of his affections for the past decade that he finally had been given the chance to indulge in. It felt fantastic, and he nuzzled the side of Simmons’ neck in playful affection before sucking his own softer mark into that pliable skin.
He eventually became aware of a hand slowly working its way around Simmons’ back, and at first he was inclined to ward it off possessively. After a moment of thought, however, Grif reminded himself that they both had to make certain concessions if this was going to work. He allowed the hand to wind back around Simmons’, a small line of separation between their bodies before Sarge’s hand suddenly lowered, and Grif realized that Sarge was gripping Simmons’ ass.
Well, if that’s what the man wanted, then they were going to have to switch positions.
Gif locked eyes with the other man, and it was like a telepathic link; Grif stepped back, and Sarge pulled Simmons in, thick arms surrounding Simmons’ body like a vice, while Grif took the opportunity to rid himself of his clothing. Simmons let out a startled squeak, and then Sarge kissed him, and for a moment Grif froze, staring at his commanding officer licking into the mouth of his boyfriend, one hand on his ass and the other holding him at the nape of his neck. Grif blinked, trying to identify the foreign sensation in his stomach as some cross between jealousy and desire, before he shook his head and finished removing his clothes, tapping Sarge pointedly on the shoulder.
“Ahem,” Grif said, and Sarge released Simmons who was gasping and wild-eyed, practically hanging over Sarge. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
Sarge growled softly, but handed Simmons off--at this point, the gangly redhead was mostly along for the ride, and made no protest at being passed like a football between the two of them. Sarge took off his own clothes while Grif made quick work of Simmons’ top before he was pulled in by the flushed soldier in a desperate clash of lips and tongues. Grif snickered affectionately against Simmons’ eager mouth, cupping one cheek while teasing at the drawstring of Simmons’ pants, before they were suddenly ripped away to expose bare skin against Grif’s fingers.
Simmons let out a sudden, desperate whine and keened against Grif, scraping nails across his shoulders. Startled, Grif opened his eyes and looked down--and nearly let a loud guffaw escape at the sight of Sarge on his knees behind Simmons, his lips between Simmons’ cheeks.
“I didn’t know you were a kissass too, Sarge,” Grif murmured down smugly.
Sarge glared past furrowed brows at Grif, and continued, drawing sounds from Simmons that sent thrills through Grif, and he brought his lips back to Simmons’ mouth and lapped inside, tasting each moan and whimper on his tongue and savoring each one like a treasure.
After a time, Grif came to realize that Simmons’ legs were wobbling, and that almost all of his weight was now draped over him, and with a grunt, he hefted Simmons bodily off of the floor and onto the bed. Simmons shrieked with surprise, while Sarge let out a protestant snarl as he rose to his feet to confront Grif. Both of them were, however, immediately distracted by the desperate moan from the bed, and stopped to look in awe at Simmons’ lithe, pale body splayed across the sheets, one hand on his dick and the other clutching at the bed covers.
“God damn,” Sarge grumbled, and Grif hummed in agreement, sidling into bed next to Simmons and after a sweet press of lips, slipping two fingers into Simmons’ mouth. Simmons sucked desperately, only offering weak mumbles of protest around the mouthful as Grif pried his hand away from his cock, pinning his wrist down while he worked a new hickey against the underside of Simmons’ neck.
After his fingers were suitably lathered, Grif rolled Simmons onto his stomach and teased his already prepared opening, savoring the soft, hiccuping sob that escaped the soldier beneath him, muffled only slightly by the mattress. He cooed gently into Simmons’ ear, whispering sweetly to him while he nibbled at the lobe, before recalling abruptly that Sarge was still in the room. He hazarded a glance up, to find Sarge observing the display with a critical eye, his attention focused mostly on Simmons’ face and the sight of him being opened up by Grif’s slick fingers. They met eyes for a moment, and again Grif felt a prickle of something unfamiliar in him, this time much lower than his chest, and he ground his dick against Simmons’ hip aggressively.
“You gonna join, or would you rather just watch?” Grif tried to sneer, but it was more throaty than he’d intended. With a growl, the bed dipped as the third participant joined in, Sarge looming over Simmons until Grif removed his hand from Simmons to grant Sarge access.
Simmons panted into the sheets as Sarge slowly pushed into him, and Grif frowned when he realized that with the soldier pinned to the mattress, there was no access point he could reach that would let him be close to his lover.
“Okay, but what the hell do I do?” He whined.
“Shut yer mouth for once,” Sarge suggested, thrusting further into Simmons’ ass.
“That’s not fair, I can’t do anything from this angle!” Grif complained, sitting up on his knees to bring himself face to face with Sarge.
“And what exactly do you want me to do about that?” Sarge growled at him, and from below Simmons moaned almost angrily against the mattress, “Can’t you two stop fighting for once? ”
That shut them both up, though it didn’t immediately solve the problem. Then, before Grif could come up with a solution of his own, Sarge took the initiative--by lifting Simmons up onto his lap and lowering him down onto the rest of his cock. Simmons let out a cry, not so much pained as shocked and a little overwhelmed, and Grif found himself presented with a perfect and erect opportunity laid out in front of him. He glanced up at Sarge, curious to find out whether he’d planned on that, and was met with the sight of Simmons, falling apart and begging, spewing out unintelligible nonsense with his red, bite-riddled neck barred out and gorgeous, and Grif was left speechless.
He leaned down, taking Simmons into his mouth, and relishing the desperate cry from above that he was certain came because of him. Simmons was longer than he was thick, but not so long that he made Grif choke, and Grif was satisfied that he could take most of the man down and thought that, with some practice, could probably get the rest. He went to work sucking Simmons’ cock with undisguised pleasure, the taste and feel altogether unfamiliar but undeniably satisfying.
It took several minutes for Grif to recognize that Simmons wasn’t moving; there was no thrusting, no moving up and down on top of Sarge, and that struck him as bizarre. He slowed himself down, listening when he realized he could hear… well, not exactly a conversation overhead, but something that almost nearly resembled it.
“Sa-arge, ah--! Ple-- S-Sarge--”
“It’s alright,” the older soldier murmured, stroking Simmons’ stomach with one hand while the other ever so lightly carded through his thick, ginger curls. “You can say it. It’s okay.”
“I don’t want-- to make you feel--” Simmons panted, his voice cracked, like he was on the verge of breaking. His body was wracked with shudders, seemingly held together only by Sarge’s strong grip around his middle.
“It’s okay, you can say it,” Sarge whispered, as he took a fistful of Simmons’ hair and slowly pulled his head to the side, to mouth at his neck. “It’ll make you feel good. That’s what we want, to make you feel good . Come on, son: say it .”
“Oh, da- Daddy --!” Simmons cried, and Grif froze at the word, but Sarge didn’t flinch in the slightest. He continued to stroke his hand over Simmons’ stomach, pressing soft, almost reverent kisses on his exposed skin.
“Good boy, there you go. That’s a good boy. You can say it again.”
“Oh, Daddy; please, fuck... ”
Simmons’ body was growing limp suddenly, not from coming (Grif imagined that with his mouth still around the man’s cock, he would have noticed that physiological response) but from the release of that word, pent up inside of him, and finally, finally it was out in the open.
“You’re a very good boy,” Sarge told him, as he finally began to move Simmons up and down on top of him. Grif closed his eyes, following the motion of the older man with his mouth over Simmons’ cock. “Don’t you worry bout a thing, now. We’re going to take good care of you.”
And suddenly, there was a firm hand in Grif’s hair, tight like a vice on him. It was Sarge, Sarge’s hand, gripping just a little too hard at the crown of his head, and Grif had no idea why that realization sent a wave of heat throughout his body, striking his already leaking cock. Sarge’s fist guided his mouth in time with his strong thrusts, and to be entirely honest Grif never realized he had a kink for being manhandled by a commanding officer, but for a split second he thought he might have been ready to obey any order Sarge gave him so long as he kept thrusting Simmons’ cock into his mouth.
None of them lasted very long, after that; Simmons came first, panting and gasping as Grif sucked down each drop. Sarge followed soon after, the only indication of which being a soft grunt and the fingers in Grif’s hair tightening and then releasing. Grif finished himself off with a hand, just a few thrusts with his eyes trained on Simmons collapsed in Sarge’s soft embrace, and he too tumbled down onto the bed, sighing deeply as he felt his body go lax and the strain on his body fade.
None of them spoke, the heavy, heated silence a shield against what would have to come after, the sorting out of feelings, the clean up of the room--Grif could feel himself drifting off into slumber, Simmons breathing heavily beside him with Sarge’s arm draped over his waist. He was roused from his journey to unconsciousness for a brief moment when Simmons shifted to drop his head onto Grif’s chest, pulling Sarge along so that he was still firmly pressed against Simmons’ back. He draped his hand over Grif’s stomach and within seconds was a snoring heap, while Grif wondered wearily what the expected course of action in this situation was.
After a moment, Sarge settled himself against Simmons, again putting his arm around him. A broad, calloused hand came to rest tentatively on Grif’s chest, beside Simmons head, and Grif glanced over at the other man, whose face was obscured from view by a mess of red curls. Grif put his hand on top of Sarge’s, carefully; ready to pull away if the intimacy became too weird. If they fell asleep after their fingers intertwined and came to rest over Grif’s heart, they didn’t ever have to talk about it.