Semantics
Title: Semantics
Summary: Simmons and Grif in the follow-up to Perceptions
Simmons's eyes fluttered open and a low groan slipped passed his lips as he realized the most wonderful dream he was having was not entirely a dream. He gave a slow exhale as his hips involuntarily rolled up a little, the dead-weight hand of his partner creating such marvelous pressure against his "Little Richard."
God, he hated that stupid nickname Grif had come up with, but now it was inexorably stuck in his head every time he thought about it. However, he had more things to worry about right now than what Grif called his penis, because right now it was becoming anything but 'little'.
Grif had taken to sleeping with him most nights, now. It wasn't sex. God knows, they were both straight. Besides, it was against the rules. But as he had told Donut, it was nice to just have someone there, to not feel so alone. After they had somewhat 'confessed' their love for one another, things had been awkward for a few days, but soon they settled into a comfortable routine. Simmons was still exasperated with Grif's laziness. Grif still ignored him most days. But at night they could escape into the warmth and comfort of one another's arms and get to feel that of all the dark, insignificant corners of the universe, theirs, at least, had a little spark of light.
Simmons tried to move, but it only served to send a wave of pleasure that climbed up his spine and swirled in his gut. He wondered just how long he had been asleep while his body responded to another's touch, because right now he felt just about to finish. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gathered every ounce of self control he could muster and reached down to move the hand. The brief friction it caused was all it took. With little warning, his muscles tightened and he soaked the front of his boxers, unable to entirely bite back the little grunts he gave as each pulse washed through him. When he was spent at last, his head fell back to the pillow as he panted in relief.
And that was when the niggling guilt set in. He had lost it to Grif's touch. It wasn't even that he wanted to, it had just... happened! But then, it wasn't his fault that he had woken up to Grif's hand being on him in the first place. Grif should learn to control himself in his sleep! What did that mean, though? Did it mean he was...
He realized he was still holding Grif's hand. Or rather, gripping it tight against his stomach. With a deep breath, he let go and rolled to his side. Grif mumbled something and curled up behind him, clutching him tight in his sleep. Simmons couldn't stay awake and agonize over the moral implications of what had just occurred. He tumbled rather quickly back into dreams.
When he woke up the next morning, Grif was still asleep, but had rolled to his back, leaving Simmons to slip unnoticed from the bed. He grabbed his sweats and made a bee-line for the bathroom to clean up. He couldn't help but blush at the thought of how he had gotten so rock hard at another man's touch, how he had spilled faster than he ever had before without even wanting to. It left him a bit shaken.
By the time he had finished and got back to the room, Grif was up and rubbing his eyes.
"Good Morning," Simmons murmured, feeling a flush of guilt and yet sudden desire as his eye fell to the other's bare chest.
Grif yawned a return greeting, though his words were almost entirely obscured. He finally slid from the bed and wandered over to his locker to get dressed. Simmons tried not to think about last night.
The day wore on pretty much as usual. Sarge hollered and stomped and generally threw fits at Grif. Lopez stayed busy with the vehicles, and Donut was lounging in a sun-chair on top of the base trying to get a better tan. Grif and Simmons were out in the canyon on 'guard duty'. Not that it really mattered, the Blues never did a damn thing. They certainly never attacked.
"Man, their command must be even more useless than ours," Grif laughed.
Simmons sighed and had to agree.
His thoughts continually returned to the previous night. Being stuck around Grif all day did nothing to help, and even Grif noticed how distracted he was, but he brushed it off. He was just tired, he insisted.
And the day wore on.
That night, he couldn't help but stiffen as Grif crawled gracelessly over him to snuggle in behind him. Simmons was on his side, trying to read, and grumbled about being jostled. Grif told him to stop being so naggy. Simmons told him to stop being so clumsy. Grif told him to stop being such a girl.
Simmons said nothing. He put his book down and turned off the light as he felt Grif's arms slip around him and pull him back into his chest. Then he laid there, staring into the darkness. Again, he could think of little else but the amazing feelings that he had experienced. The feelings he wanted to experience again. But that meant admitting he wanted Grif to touch him, didn't it? Would that make him gay?
It wasn't gay if it wasn't sex.
And it wasn't sex.
Summary: Simmons and Grif in the follow-up to Perceptions
Simmons's eyes fluttered open and a low groan slipped passed his lips as he realized the most wonderful dream he was having was not entirely a dream. He gave a slow exhale as his hips involuntarily rolled up a little, the dead-weight hand of his partner creating such marvelous pressure against his "Little Richard."
God, he hated that stupid nickname Grif had come up with, but now it was inexorably stuck in his head every time he thought about it. However, he had more things to worry about right now than what Grif called his penis, because right now it was becoming anything but 'little'.
Grif had taken to sleeping with him most nights, now. It wasn't sex. God knows, they were both straight. Besides, it was against the rules. But as he had told Donut, it was nice to just have someone there, to not feel so alone. After they had somewhat 'confessed' their love for one another, things had been awkward for a few days, but soon they settled into a comfortable routine. Simmons was still exasperated with Grif's laziness. Grif still ignored him most days. But at night they could escape into the warmth and comfort of one another's arms and get to feel that of all the dark, insignificant corners of the universe, theirs, at least, had a little spark of light.
Simmons tried to move, but it only served to send a wave of pleasure that climbed up his spine and swirled in his gut. He wondered just how long he had been asleep while his body responded to another's touch, because right now he felt just about to finish. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gathered every ounce of self control he could muster and reached down to move the hand. The brief friction it caused was all it took. With little warning, his muscles tightened and he soaked the front of his boxers, unable to entirely bite back the little grunts he gave as each pulse washed through him. When he was spent at last, his head fell back to the pillow as he panted in relief.
And that was when the niggling guilt set in. He had lost it to Grif's touch. It wasn't even that he wanted to, it had just... happened! But then, it wasn't his fault that he had woken up to Grif's hand being on him in the first place. Grif should learn to control himself in his sleep! What did that mean, though? Did it mean he was...
He realized he was still holding Grif's hand. Or rather, gripping it tight against his stomach. With a deep breath, he let go and rolled to his side. Grif mumbled something and curled up behind him, clutching him tight in his sleep. Simmons couldn't stay awake and agonize over the moral implications of what had just occurred. He tumbled rather quickly back into dreams.
When he woke up the next morning, Grif was still asleep, but had rolled to his back, leaving Simmons to slip unnoticed from the bed. He grabbed his sweats and made a bee-line for the bathroom to clean up. He couldn't help but blush at the thought of how he had gotten so rock hard at another man's touch, how he had spilled faster than he ever had before without even wanting to. It left him a bit shaken.
By the time he had finished and got back to the room, Grif was up and rubbing his eyes.
"Good Morning," Simmons murmured, feeling a flush of guilt and yet sudden desire as his eye fell to the other's bare chest.
Grif yawned a return greeting, though his words were almost entirely obscured. He finally slid from the bed and wandered over to his locker to get dressed. Simmons tried not to think about last night.
The day wore on pretty much as usual. Sarge hollered and stomped and generally threw fits at Grif. Lopez stayed busy with the vehicles, and Donut was lounging in a sun-chair on top of the base trying to get a better tan. Grif and Simmons were out in the canyon on 'guard duty'. Not that it really mattered, the Blues never did a damn thing. They certainly never attacked.
"Man, their command must be even more useless than ours," Grif laughed.
Simmons sighed and had to agree.
His thoughts continually returned to the previous night. Being stuck around Grif all day did nothing to help, and even Grif noticed how distracted he was, but he brushed it off. He was just tired, he insisted.
And the day wore on.
That night, he couldn't help but stiffen as Grif crawled gracelessly over him to snuggle in behind him. Simmons was on his side, trying to read, and grumbled about being jostled. Grif told him to stop being so naggy. Simmons told him to stop being so clumsy. Grif told him to stop being such a girl.
Simmons said nothing. He put his book down and turned off the light as he felt Grif's arms slip around him and pull him back into his chest. Then he laid there, staring into the darkness. Again, he could think of little else but the amazing feelings that he had experienced. The feelings he wanted to experience again. But that meant admitting he wanted Grif to touch him, didn't it? Would that make him gay?
It wasn't gay if it wasn't sex.
And it wasn't sex.