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//drafted out

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It was all bullshit and he knew it.

He could spout all the science he wanted to at these dumb fucks and they still wouldn't get it. He knew it would all be down to him and it'd be his job to stop the Russians nuking everyone off the face of the earth, but for those few minutes, he could forget how stupid his support was and focus on what he loved about being drafted in.

Big, horny men with issues and hard-ons out where women were sat high and far away. Oversized dicks and swollen egos, burly muscles and tight suits and powered armour, it just got his blood running. It only took a few hushed words and insisting that he wouldn't tell anyone, though more often than not, more than two marines would be waiting for the scientist in his tight suit and smirk. The smug son of a bitch held himself somewhere above them, looking down at them like they were pigs. Oafish, macho, thick as shit and yet, exactly what he wanted.

He'd light a cigarette and spread his arms; "Bring it on, fucker."

He knew he was a sick fuck for liking it, but it never crossed his mind in the moment. He loved impatient men manhandling him and tugging at his second skin, cursing through gritted teeth but never asking for help. He loved thick, clothed cocks grinding at his ass when they gave the fuck up and the mutters when he pulled the collar and the zip split, exposing his pale, muscular flesh as the teeth clicked audibly, like it had been straining all day. There would be grunts of joy, perhaps, when they realised the zip would reach all the way down and back up his front again. They were crazy for the suit to stay on, to smell the hot sweat of the day and lavish his skin with tongue and teeth, then pry apart a tight, muscular ass with thick, flat thumbs. The type that demanded plowing, apparently, and he would just laugh, cast pale eyes up and exhale smoke through his nose.

Sam knew. These attention-starved men were putty in his hands, one licking at his asshole as if his scent were some kind of drug. It was raw and bestial, and the other men that watched the scene palmed bulges in combats until a subtle shift of his head and a swipe of his hand beckoned them over to start unbuttoning. He'd please them, but on his terms; the glowing tip of a cigarette was their constant reminder that if too much dick was in his face, he'd lash out. He let one rub his head against rough stubble, punctuated with a flick of the tongue and a plume of smoke. The other, he took in his free, suited hand; the synthetic was glossy and just rough enough with the weave of flexible fabric to draw a shudder and a groan, as a finger loop pulled back a thin foreskin, tantalisingly and unashamedly just fucking with the guy.

Why?

Because he could.

His dick was pure fucking indulgence, he decided. The gruff guy with a scarred eye and short-shaved hair sucked at it through his suit, trying to dredge out the taste of the man that offered himself so readily to them. Sam was a bastard and he knew how much they wanted him and his suit-sweat slick thighs and even his muscular, ripped chest. He was smaller than them and they loved it, yet understood his control fully and sought to please him- not that they'd allow such things to come to light, but Gideon was a good guy, Gideon was a bro, he'd keep it quiet, he was in on it, right? Right. He wasn't a dick, he was a dude, and he understood their plight. Everyone got something from it.

"You could get another one in me. Just saying. It'd be good."

Such a suggestion made his cocksucker look up into that smug, unshaven face. The permission was there, a dirty, dirty suggestion and a look that asked 'how?' from below. Precum shone on the scientist's lips and he was fine with it, bright and saturated like vulgar gloss, picking up bright synthetic light.

 

And he was a roaring fuck- talking shit and smoking cigarettes with cock in his ass, stretched lewdly around two marines caught up in the glamour of the moment. He blew another, slamming his whole body back and forth to satisfy himself, handling the others roughly to no complaints at all. There was no love in the room- it was saved for people that mattered, not some flashy cunt from the big leagues. They painted him with release and couldn't resist cleaning his form with tongue until he zipped up, took handfuls of notes and supply chits and thanks and left.

Smelling of other men, he knew it would rile his sweet girl up.

She loved him best like that.