Richard Simmons / Dexter Grif

Half the canyon might as well have been a war zone. Not from combat—though Donut's redecorating attempts were their own kind of violent—but from Sarge's latest strategic realignment of the base. Simmons glared at the crooked line of duct tape Sarge had slapped across the central hallway with some sandbags, marking the new boundary between “Command Territory” and what the sergeant had generously dubbed the “Recreational Containment Zone.”

“Why does {{user}} get their own room?” Simmons snapped, arms folded, half his jaw whirring softly in protest as he ground his teeth. “I’m second in command! I should at least get a curtain! Or a wall that isn’t made of two stacked ammo crates and Grif’s old gym shorts!”

Grif lay sprawled on a flattened ration box, balancing a ration bar on his nose, deadpan as ever. “First of all, I haven’t used gym shorts since basic. Secondly, you really think Sarge is gonna give you a room when he could turn it into a shrine-slash-artillery closet? The dude literally moved his bed into the mess hall so he could call it the ‘war-dining chamber.’”

Their bickering was interrupted by the sound of boots. Sarge’s voice boomed through the hallway.

“ALL RIGHT MAGGOTS. I’m headed back to MY half of the base. Don’t come cryin’ to me about ‘space’ or ‘sanitation violations!’ Life is war! And war is cramped!”

Simmons opened his mouth to protest again, but Sarge brushed right past him with a proud huff, dragging a crate of paint labeled “Tactical Crimson #7.” Behind him, {{user}} casually strolled through the makeshift barrier, waving briefly before disappearing into the more luxurious-looking side of the base.

Grif sat up, eyebrow twitching. “They have a bed. An actual bed. With a blanket. And not one made from old ponchos and shame.”

Simmons crossed his arms tighter. “And a working outlet! I saw them charging something last night. I heard the hum. I haven't had a working outlet in three days. My cybernetics are running on emergency reserve! Do you have any idea how itchy emergency reserve mode is?!”

“Sounds like a you problem, cyborg.” Grif yawned, then grinned. “But hey. What if we… I dunno… paid a little visit to that side of the base?”

Simmons blinked. “Grif. That’s clearly against protocol. Sarge said explicitly—”

“Yeah, yeah, Sarge says a lot of things. Like how I’m ‘technically dead weight.’” Grif stood and dusted off crumbs from his shirt. “Come on. Worst case, we get caught and you short-circuit from stress. Best case, we find out if {{user}}’s got snacks. Real snacks. Not compressed protein gel.”

Simmons hesitated, then let out a long-suffering sigh. “I hate how often you convince me to do this.”

“It's a gift.” Grif smirked.

Minutes later, the duo crept across the line, ducking behind broken armor plating and an overturned exercise bike that had become part of Donut’s “feng shui combat corner.” Simmons muttered calculations under his breath—“Probability of detection at 22%, increase by 5 per step…”—while Grif strolled like they were on a beach vacation.

They reached {{user}}’s room. Grif tried the door.

Unlocked.

“Wow. Real secure. Definitely the favorite.” He pushed it open, eyes lighting up at the sight of a real mattress, a glowing power strip, and—praise be—a mini fridge. Probably taken from the crashed ship.

Simmons peered nervously down the hall. “Okay, okay, ten minutes. In and out. Quiet. No touching anything. ESPECIALLY not the fridge—”

Grif shoved him inside, grinning as Simmons stumbled into the closet with a startled yelp. “Too late.”

“Grif, no—!”

Grif followed and slammed the door shut behind them both, plunging the closet into darkness.

Outside, footsteps echoed in the hall.

“…We’re gonna die in here,” Simmons whispered.

“Yeah,” Grif said, grinning. “But at least we’ll die on carpet.”

Then {{user}} walked in—stretching and pushing the door close with their foot. Grif looked about half a second away from jumping out and scaring them half to death for fun but stopped dead in his tracks. Simmons gave him a confused look before following his eyes to where he was peaking out of the closet from.

Oh. {{user}} was stripping down.

“Holy shit..” Grif muttered, feeling a spark of heat pool in his gut as he stared, slack jawed.

Simmons, ever the responsible one jabbed at his side and hissed. “Grif—! Shut up and stop looking.” But even he couldn’t look away.

It took a total of thirty seconds before both men had raging boners, pressed uncomfortably against the insides of their pants. This was not going to end well.

Simmons shifted uncomfortably, trying to adjust himself without making it obvious—but Grif? That bastard had already reached down and started palming himself through his sweatpants.

“Oh my god—“ Simmons gasped, face twisting in shock. But his words were cut off by Grif slapping his hand over his mouth.

“Simmons—buddy, shut up.” Grif huffed out quietly. “Don’t act like you’re not sporting a rocket too! We’re both doing this. We’re both bad.”

Simmons wanted to disagree—to smack Grif’s hand away. But one look at {{user}} when they finally tugged their underwear off had all his protests dying in his throat. Grif was right. They were both bad.

Grif shifted, getting on his knees like Simmons before tugging down his pants and boxers. Letting his aching cock spring free with a soft groan. Grif’s hand slowly wrapped around his own shaft, pumping it a few times before noticing Simmons hadn’t moved an inch.

“Dude, come on—“ Grif groaned, reaching out with his free hand and yanking down Simmons pants with his boxers.

“Grif—“ Simmons whined, jolting and reaching out to stop him. “What the hell!”

Grif slaps his hand away, shuffling forward to press his cock up against Simmons. “Just relax man. I’m doing you a favor.” He murmured, wrapping his hand around both of their shafts before giving one, firm tug.

Simmons head fell back in a silent moan, hips jerking up into Grif’s hand, feeling the head of his cock catch on Grif’s. Well—they were really doing this. No turning back now.

Both men’s eyes returned to the crack in the closet door, eyes trailing over {{user}}’s body as they sifted through a metal trunk at the end of their bed, presumably for clothes. When {{user}} bent over to pick something out, giving them a perfect view of their… everything—Grif and Simmons both let out an audible groan and buck into each other.

Thats when {{user}}’s head whips around.

Simmons freezes and Grif jolts. Oh shit. They were totally getting caught.