#grimmons if you squint

[franklindonuts]

help me

[ehhgg-art]

it’s him. the simon.

[yareyaredolphin]

i fucking hate drawing on paper theres so many anatomy issues in the drawing of church and i cant just use the transform tool why do people enjoy this can traditional artists please explain what they find enjoyable about this

[skipitty-bop]

lol

[sparrowchute]

Healthy Coping who?? Yeah sorry I only know Drawing Simmons Until I Feel Better

[cyboyg]

Grif, sensibly: Okay, I'm going to bed now because I have a normal sleep schedule.

Simmons, sleep-deprived and loopy: HAHAHA, that's what I thought you'd say, you vanilla normie bitch! You're WEAK! [laughs maniacally]

Grif:

Simmons, embarrassed:

Simmons: Yeah, uh...I'm going to bed right now, actually. See you next week.

[tealmandarine]

i just really like b99 and immediately thought of them

[demi-dufresne]

Haunted*

Hello! Still feeling particularly halloween-esque. Here’s another entry for the red vs blue bingo, hosted by @rvbficwars ! This one’s for gen, seeing as I’d probably tag it as that if it were on ao3 or something. Break a leg, blue team!

Church hated halloween. He fucking hated it. It was this time of year that kids got the bright idea to whip out the Ouija boards, trying to summon deadass spirits who want to haunt their houses or some shit. Nine times out of ten, one of them would move the pointer thing anyways. What was even the purpose of calling him there? Church hated it.

Like, okay, October did have its perks. For starters, it was the time he actually had the most communication with the living, being a ghost and all. That was pretty nice. He had very little memories still intact from when he was alive, and being around living people sometimes brought them back. And he really liked the smell of pumpkins, which was all over the damn place this month. So cool. October. Not cool? The responsibilities of being dead.

Every time a person put their grubby little fingers on the Ouija board, the nearest ghost was summoned. Okay, yeah. That makes sense. It just sucked that, in Church’s little suburb of Valhalla, he was pretty sure he was the only dead guy who cared to stick around.

One perk he got out of that? Messing with people.

It was twenty days until Halloween when he got yet another call. Every time this happened, Church felt like his stomach was being dragged up his throat by a vacuum cleaner. This time was no different. He choked on air, as if he needed to breathe, and then suddenly, bam! He was in some random house in the middle of town. Grand.

“What do you even want?” He grumbled. Of course, they couldn’t hear him. There were four kids sitting on the floor there, each with one hand pressed to the pointer thing. Church hadn’t been dumb enough to mess with this shit as a kid. Like, come on. You’re begging for trouble.

“Uh, dear dead guy, or something,” one of them said. He wore a obnoxiously teal (aqua?) shirt, and for some reason held his head down in prayer. “Welcome to my house, I guess. I live here. It’s pretty great. Bet you’re glad to be in my presence. But uh, hey. Don’t like, kill us, I guess. Amen.” The other three nodded, one in dark blue a little more enthusiastically than the others.

That first one of the kids- okay, hold on. They weren’t really kids. They were somewhere around seventeen, old enough to know better. That almost pissed Church off even more. “Okay, guys,” the dude said. He had dark black hair cropped close to his head, with a darker skin tone than the rest. “We need to remember to be, like, polite and stuff. I think. Maybe. Or wait, did it say aggressive? I don’t know, I’ve only looked this up on wiki-how once, in like, seventh grade.”

“Thanks, Tucker. Nice preparation. Always great to hear you have an expert on your team,” a second guy said. Ginger, curly hair, glasses. Looked like a fucking dork to Church.

“Let’s just get this over with. Why can’t we like, sit around and eat popcorn and watch movies like normal teenagers?” This third dude looked kinda… Hawaiian, almost? He definitely had a point, though. These motherfuckers could be doing literally anything else, and they chose to summon ghosts. Great.

“I like ghosts. My cat Apples was a ghost once. She came to me in a dream,” said the fourth one. Don’t do drugs, kids, Church thought to himself. Even sitting down Church could tell this guy was tall as hell. Something about him seemed familiar. Fucking druggies. There was always one of those in a group, it seemed.

“That’s nice, Caboose, but we’re not here to summon a dead cat. Don’t think they can talk, anyway,” the first guy- Tucker- said. “Alright, come on. Let’s think of some questions.”

“Ooh, I know. What is your favorite color?” The Caboose guy said. Church felt his face fold into a scowl. He came all this way for this? Who the hell cared about his favorite color? He was a ghost, for Christ’s sake! At least ask about, like, ghost stuff! Or something!

Either way, he was bound to the damn thing. “Hey, look! It’s actually moving,” nerd boy said. Church touched the pointer, sliding it across the board. The four teens started in awe, watching it glide slowly. Church didn’t have fucking time for this.

“Uh… B- wait, no- oh, yeah. B-L-U-D? Blood? Oh my god it’s gonna kill us! Why the hell couldn’t we have just like, watched Star Wars like you guys said we would? Holy shit I don’t wanna die,” the Hawaiian guy said.

“Shut up, Grif, it’s B-L-U-E. Blue. Dumbass,” nerd boy said.

“Oh. Hah. Right,” Hawaiian guy- Grif- continued. “Favorite color blue. Gotcha.”

“This isn’t even real, it’s not like it matters,” nerd boy complained.

“Oh, boo hoo, I’m Simmons and I don’t believe in things I can’t see,” Tucker mocked. “Grow a pair, dude. Grif, your turn for a question.”

“Right. Uh, I guess… What’s your name?”

If Church was able to kill them, he just might. Everyone started with that stupid question. Like, he was never asked anything of relevance. ‘Hey Church, what’s it like being dead?’ ‘Hey Church, do you want us to light a pumpkin candle?’ ‘Hey Church, how do you feel about not eating?’ Nah, instead it was a bunch of bullshit about favorite colors and names. Ugh. It drove Church nuts.

He did toy with the idea of giving his first name. Then again, who respects a ghost named Leonard?

“C---H-U-R-C-H. Church. Huh. That’s a weird name,” Tucker said. He then turned his head to the ceiling, shouting at what he probably thought was Church. “We didn’t ask you your place of worship, dude!” Church sighed.

“Oh look, he’s spelling something out again!” Grif called.

“I-M… okay, I’m, what’s next? Oh. J-E-W-I-S-H. Hey, he’s Jewish,” nerd boy- Simmons- said.

“Never said he was a dude,” Grif said. Simmons bit his lip.

“I- I just hope it’s a dude, I wouldn’t talk well to, uh, lady ghosts I don’t think-” Simmons stuttered out.

“Apples was a lady ghost,” Caboose said. “Oh! I know! Ghosty-man, do you know Apples?” Church laughed. If there was a druggie’s cat-ghost floating around with him, maybe life would be a little more interesting. All four teens started intently as the pointer moved to “No.”

“Whelp, sorry Caboose, looks like our Jewish Church here doesn’t know your dead cat friend,” Tucker said. “Church! Tell me buddy, are you the only ghost here?”

Church looked around the room. Of fucking course he was. Everybody else died and got to go up or down, but Church? He didn’t know. They couldn’t find a place for him, so they stuck him in the middle. Figures. He was alone his entire life, why should his afterlife be any different? He moved the pointer to “Yes.”

“I don’t know guys. I don’t think this is real. Tucker, are you moving it?” Simmons asked.

“The only place my fingers will be moving tonight is inside your sister. Bow chica bow wow.”

“I don’t even have a sister, assbag,” Simmons said. “Now grow up. This is fake and we all know it.” He stood to leave.

“He’s the only reason I’m here. He’s out, I’m out,” Grif said.

“Wait!” Tucker called. “Here, let me- Church! If you’re hearing me, prove you exist. Like, I don’t know, float something or whatever.”

This was another thing Church hated about Ouija boards. The people behind them almost never knew what they were doing.

Church moved the handle to “No” again. Tucker whined.

“Aww, come on man, don’t be like that!” Tucker said. Church rolled his eyes. “Wait guys, don’t leave, he’s moving it again. Uh, C-A-N-T. Can’t. Oh, come on. Dammit, Church,” Tucker said.

“Right. You two have fun with your fake ghost. We all know it’s you,” Simmons said. Caboose looked up at him with wide eyes. “Well, at least, Grif and I do. Now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna head.” He left Tucker’s bedroom, Grif trailing behind.

“Hey, ghost-Church,” Tucker whispered. “If they leave the house, you should haunt their asses.”

Okay. There was one rule of the Ouija board that it bugged the hell outta Church if people didn’t follow. That rule was saying goodbye. Like, not only is it common courtesy, but it leaves the portal stuck here. He’d have to stay in the shitty room where the kids were goofing off, and he couldn’t leave until they opened it again and closed it properly this time. If Church had learned anything about these motherfuckers over the past twenty minutes, it was that they certainly wouldn’t know how to close it. That aside, he didn’t want to see what Tucker got up to in here, his bedroom. Fucking gross.

If they did ask him to do something like a haunting, where he’d need to leave the house, however… and he agreed to it… he wouldn’t be stuck here. That sounded nice.

“S-U-R-E. Oh my god he’s actually gonna haunt them,” Tucker said to Caboose. “Dude I wasn’t being serious.”

“T-O-O, too what? L-A-T-E- oh god, dammit,” Tucker swore. “Fuck.”

“Maybe ghost-Church could say hello to Apples for me. I know they’d be best friends,” Caboose said. He still seemed a little too familiar.

Behind him, Church heard a door close. He followed after the noise, knowing Simmons and Grif to be the culprits. Afterall, he had some haunting to do.

II.

“Ooh, it’s really cold all of a sudden,” Simmons said, wrapping his arms around himself. Church knew that was his fault. Stand too close to someone and wow, it’s like they’re a living icicle.

“It is fall, dumbass,” Grif said. “Here, take my jacket.” He shrugged an orange jacket off of his shoulders, passing it to Simmons.

“You sure?”

“I don’t need a jacket, I’m always hot,” Grif boasted. Church smirked, taking a step closer to Grif. Grif visibly shivered.

“Grif, you’re a fucking liar. Now come on, we can’t just stand here on Tucker’s doorstep all evening. We still on for pumpkins tonight?” Simmons said.

“Oh yeah! I almost forgot about that. My mom did buy them this morning, so they’re ready whenever you are,” Grif said, walking off the porch. Church was all but beaming. Not only did he get to fuck with these bozos, but he fucking loved pumpkins. If only he could eat, man. His (after)life would be complete.

The two of them walked silently, side by side down the autumn streets. Leaves were everywhere. Yellows and oranges and dark reds. It was kinda pretty.

And damn, what Church wouldn’t give to have the energy to read their minds right then. Shame he got so tired after a seance, because usually that wasn’t a problem. The joys of being a ghost, he guessed.

“Hey, Grif, can I ask you something?” Simmons said, looking over.

“Yeah, sure,” Grif said. “You want to borrow the jacket?”

“Uh… y-yeah. Right. Thanks,” Simmons said, his face suddenly flushing red. Grif passed him the coat, and he shrugged it over his shoulders wordlessly. A few moments passed before he said something. “Ugh, it smells like smoke.”

“Well, I smoke, my mom smokes… and I’m pretty sure Kai smokes weed,” Grif said.

“It’s gross. You’re gonna get cancer and die, dumbass,” Simmons said.

“Yep. That’d leave you sad and lonely.”

“Ppsh. Yeah. I don’t know what I’d do without you eating all of my parents’ food and making bad first impressions. And second impressions. And really, all the impressions,” Simmons said sarcastically.

“You eat all my parents food too,” Grif protested.

“Uh, yeah. If by that you mean I eat half a serving and then you finish mine, yours, and Kai’s without even asking, then yes. I do eat all your food,” Simmons said.

“Don’t make me take that jacket back, Simmons,” Grif said.

“Is that a threat?” Simmons said with a chuckle. Church looked between the two of them. He was having trouble telling if they hated each other’s guts or there was just a lot of, uh… tension. Romantic tension? Sexual tension? Friendly tension? Just plain regular tension? It beat Church.

They arrived at Grif’s house a couple minutes later. He opened the door, sliding into the house. It wasn’t even locked. Church was pretty sure that when he was alive, he must have been born in a city, because he hated unlocked doors. Something about them just set him off. He wasn’t sure what. Simmons shut the door behind him and Grif, and Church took a bit of his energy to lock it. Something about unlocked doors, man.

“Sister! Mom! You guys home?” Grif called. No one responded. “Whelp. Guess it’s just you and me, Simmons.” Grif waltzed into the kitchen, checking twice for good measure. Nope. No one else was here. A line of six pumpkins sat on the counter next to the stove, and some newspaper was spread out across the floor.

It kind of reminded Church of when he was a kid. It wasn’t a clear memory- those rarely occur- but it sort of seemed like something he’d done. The spreading out the newspaper, cutting off the lid, collecting the pumpkin seeds to put in the oven… It was familiar to Church.

Something about that made him wonder what year he’d died. He had no idea.

“Cool. Let’s grab some knives, it looks like we’ve got some pumpkins to carve,” Simmons said. Grif grinned.

“Hell yeah we do,” Grif said. He pulled down two of the six pumpkins off the counter. “Bigger one or smaller one?”

“Eh, whichever one you don’t want,” Simmons said.

“Dude. It’s a pumpkin. Just pick one,” Grif said, sitting down on the newspaper. Simmons plucked two knives from the butcher’s block, sitting down next to Grif.

“Fine. I’ll take the smaller one,” Simmons said.

“Hey, I’ve always said size doesn’t matter, it’s what you do with it,” Grif joked. Simmons gave a forced smile.

“Heh, yep,” he said quickly. His cheeks were going red.

“Oh, relax. Grab the pumpkin, nerd,” Grif said.

“You’re a fucking pumpkin,” Simmons muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” Grif said, nodding his head. “And Simmons, you know I can’t let that pass.”

“Grif, Grif, don’t- Grif-” Simmons said, but it was too late. Grif tucked his fingers into Simmons’ side, tickling him relentlessly. “Grif, Grif!” Simmons chuckled.

“I’ve got you now!” Grif called, laughing himself. Simmons had fallen over, sprawled out across the newspaper, giggles leaving his mouth.

Church stared down at the whole thing with one eyebrow cocked. What the hell.

Grif pulled away, panting with laughter. “Are you really out of breath from tickling me? Wow. You really are a fatass,” Simmons said.

“Kissass,” Grif panted out, falling next to him on the papers.

Simmons met Grif’s eyes. They just sat there for a second, making weird eye contact for longer than Church knew to be normal. Or at least, thought to be normal. Was everyone more comfortable with each other in the future? It beat Church.

Grif’s eyes flicked down for a second. Just a second. But Church knew what that meant. Simmons tilted his head, his eyes closing.

That’s when they heard someone pulling the door.

“Hey, dirtbags! Who’s bright idea was it to lock the door?” A harsh, almost southern accent filled the front of the house.

Grif groaned, rolling away from Simmons. Simmons jolted up, rushing to get to the door.

“Sorry sir,” Simmons called, “It was probably Grif.”

“That no good, lazy, son of a gun…” the southern man said, his words trailing into muttering.

Within the few seconds of the man coming to the door, both Grif and Simmons’ demeanors changed entirely. The two of them went from being relaxed and content and- maybe about to kiss?- to Grif starfished out on the floor grumpily while Simmons was wearing the biggest grin in existence. Church didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Simmons unlocked the door, grinning up at the man who stood behind it. He had greying hair with a military buzz cut, and a bit of stubble surrounding a firm scowl. “Took you long enough,” he said.

“Sorry, sir. Grif and I were about to start carving pumpkins,” Simmons said. “Would you care to join us?”

“Join you? Grif, how dare you start pumpkin carving without your dear brother!” the man called. He pushed past Simmons into the house. Simmons, instead of protesting, just sat up straighter. He struck Church as the type to always be eager to please. The man made his way to Grif, looking down at him sprawled out on the newspaper. “At least wait for Donut.”

“Listen here, dickhead,” Grif said, sitting up from his position on the floor. “Just because you got with my mom doesn’t make you my dad. And it sure as hell doesn’t make that stupid son of yours my brother!”

Oh. Now Church could see what was going on. This man was Grif’s stepdad. That Donut guy was his step-brother. Got it.

“Oh, hey boys!” Someone else was standing in the doorway, looking between Simmons and Grif with a grin. Just by his looks Church could tell this guy was named Donut. He just… looked like a Donut. Short blonde hair, a pink tank top tucked into denim short shorts- if that didn’t scream Donut, Church didn’t know what did.

“You know what? Fuck this. I’m going to Simmons’ place. At least his parents seem to ignore me,” Grif said.

“My parents hate you, Grif,” Simmons said.

“As they should! All you do is eat and sleep! Why can’t you be more like Simmons here, listening when people tell him things-”

“Really? Thank you, sir!” Simmons said.

“-and then misreading them entirely, messing it all up! At least that’s humorous!” the step-dad said with a hearty chuckle. Simmons took a second, his face falling.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Grif said. He stood at his full height, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Come on, Simmons. We’re leaving.”

“Yeah. See you later, Sarge. Bye, Donut,” Simmons said, following Grif outta the house with a shrug. Church sighed. He really wanted the smell of pumpkins.

With that, Church felt a tugging feeling in his gut, like his stomach was being dragged up his throat by a vacuum cleaner. He knew what that meant. Another seance! Great. Just what he fucking wanted.

III.

“Dear father, son, and holy ghost- we come with peace in our hearts and curiosity as our intention. We wish no harm and only to learn of the other world. Vile spirits be warned. Amen,” started the first guy.

“Amen,” the group chorused. That group being distinguishably recognizable. Dammit. Church was ready to kill a man.

This was probably the last place he’d wanted to be. But, as cruel as fate is- he was back in Tucker’s bedroom.

This time, though, an Indian looking teen in a purple hoodie was leading the seance, blocky black glasses over his closed eyes. He’d gone and lit some candles, too. They weren’t pumpkin candles, but hey. It was close enough. At least someone had some respect for the undead.

“Peaceful spirit, we ask you to please state your name,” hoodie said, pressing his fingers lightly against the pointer. His eyes flickered open. The group- consisting of Tucker, Caboose, and some blonde guy in gray and yellow- followed suit.

Church sighed. He was so sick of this.

“C-H-U-R-C-H. Oh, hey there, Church, buddy!” Tucker called. “I was hoping you’d be back.”

“I wasn’t,” Church grumbled, but it fell upon deaf ears.

“Church! We wanted to tell you not to haunt Grif and Simmods!” Caboose said. His eyes were squeezed tight, as if he was trying to mimic the guy in the hoodie. He wasn’t doing it very well.

“His name is Simmons, you fucknut,” Tucker said. “Anyway. You can stop haunting them or whatever, but first you should definitely tell us any dirt you caught on them. Any secrets? Any mystery women? I mean, come on. Grif strikes me as the type to hold an illegal sex ring.”

Church had never realized the capacity of stupidity. These people freakin’ embodied it.

“Grif wouldn’t. I wouldn’t put it passed you, Tucker, but then again, I wouldn’t put much of anything passed you,” the blonde guy said. His whole face said ‘exasperated.’

“Why are you even here, Wash?” hoodie said. “You are obviously a skeptic of the supernatural arts. I can read it all over your face.”

Blondie-- Wash-- rolled his eyes. “I was told there would be cats. As of yet, I have seen no cats,” he deadpanned.

“Cats? Did you see Apples? I want to see Apples!” Caboose shouted, his eyes slamming open.

“Seriously. Shut up,” Tucker said. “Back on topic, Church! What did you dig up on our friends?”

Church moved the pointer with a sigh. These people were ridiculous.

“T-H-E okay the, wait not the, T-H-E-Y-’-RE. They’re. They’re what?” Tucker translated. “G-A- game? Y. They’re- oh.” Tucker paused. “They’re… They’re gay.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Wash said. “Have you seen the two of them?”

“I knew it! I always thought Simmons was a secretly a gay robot,” Caboose insisted. Church raised an eyebrow. For as strange as that sentence was, he swore he’d heard it before, somewhere.

“Ppsh. No you didn’t. That’s what you used to say about… uh, Leo,” Tucker said. At those words, everyone got real quiet. Wash’s head hung down. Hoodie bit his lip. There was something going on, and Church couldn’t tell what.

“Tucker,” Caboose said. His voice was lower than usual, almost at a whisper. “I miss him.”

“Me too, buddy,” Tucker said. He moved his hands from the pointer, swinging an arm around Caboose’s shoulders. “Me too.” Caboose’s eyes stayed locked on the board. He wasn’t moving.

“Caboose. It wasn’t your fault,” hoodie said.

“Thanks, Doc,” Caboose whispered. “But you do not have to play pretend. I did bad.” It almost looked like he was going to cry.

“He was your best friend. There’s no way you would have done that on purpose.” Wash said.

Church took a second, looking at the people across the room.

That’s when it hit him.

Church had that feeling again. The stomach sucked through a vacuum cleaner kind of feeling. Except this time, he wasn’t travelling in space. His mind was going back in time.

A flashback. A flashback of when he was alive.

He knew where he was, somehow. He was outside Michael’s house. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a beige newsboy cap over his messy black hair. He could kind of see his breath, if he tried really hard. He had to squint to really see it.

He must’ve been like, eleven at the time.

It was such a vivid picture. For the minutes it took, Church felt like he was actually there. The details of Tucker’s bedroom faded out as the muted yellows of Michael’s house faded over his vision.

He rapped his knuckles on the screen door, waiting a couple of seconds. Church rocked back and forth on his heels. It was mighty cold outside, especially for the time of year. Leaves were a muted brown and red, occasionally bright yellows sticking through. It was October. His birthday was coming up. He was gonna be a big twelve year old soon, and he couldn’t wait. One more year until he could actually get into PG-13 movies in the theatres! He wished his mom was still around. Maybe she could have taken him. God knows his dad wouldn’t.

“Michael! Hey, Michael! Michael J. Caboose, open the damn door!” He called to the upstairs window. Of course he didn’t think to try the handle. It was always locked. That’s how the Caboose family was- always locking things.

This was the one time they didn’t.

Church rocked on his heels again, whistling some melody off key. Two flights of stairs up, a certain Michael leaned over the window, looking down at Church with a grin on his face. Boy, was Leo gonna love him! He had the funniest idea for a prank. All he had to do was startle him, drop the thing twenty feet to his left, and laugh about it later. Nothing could go wrong. It was the perfect plan.

Church didn’t hear the window upstairs slide open. He certainly didn’t see the bright orange of a pumpkin being pushed out of said window, a smiling Caboose looking down over him. And he definitely wasn’t awake long enough to feel the brute force of the impact, the pumpkin smacking into his head and his head smacking the cement. It all happened too fast.

Caboose’s smile slipped slightly.

“Hey guys, we’re back. We- oh, come on. You’re still playing with that ghost bullshit?” Simmons’ voice interrupted. Church’s flashback came to an abrupt end. Grif and Simmons stood at the door, Grif peering over Simmons’s shoulder. His eyes were trained on Church, almost as if he could see him. But he couldn’t. No one could.

Church took a step back, suddenly heartbreakingly aware of the people in the room.

Tucker. Lavernius Tucker. He’d lived on Second Street, right down the block from Church’s house. They’d learned to ride bikes together.

And Doc. Frank DuFresne. That idiot thought he could heal anything, though he’d barely even earned his nickname. Hell, Church was the one that gave it to him. Once put a band-aid on Church’s mouth to get him to shut up.

Simmons. Richard. And Dexter Grif! They were the two kids on the playground who would always fight over who got the basketballs at recess… Dexter would only fight Dick about it to piss him off, and Dick would throw a hissy fit. God. It seemed like forever ago.

Wash didn’t ring that many bells, but even Donut was starting to seem familiar. He knew them. He’d known them.

And Caboose.

He’d killed him.

“And like, dude,” Tucker continued talking to Caboose, as if Simmons and Grif still weren’t there. “We’re not stupid. We know why you turned to ecstasy in the first place. But like, man. It’s really fucked you over,” he said. “It’s been five years. You need some closure or some shit.”

Caboose still hadn’t moved his eyes from the Ouija board. Church took a second, looking at this broken man. He was labelled as a murderer at twelve years old. And, as Church slowly realized, he’d turned to drugs to forget about that. To forget about the one time he fucked up and ended his best friend’s life.

But he couldn’t.

Church didn’t have much energy left, but damn if he wasn’t going to try his best. No hands were left on the pointer. In the moment, that didn’t matter.

“Wh- guys, it’s moving. What?” Simmons said. He took a step further into the room, Grif on his tail.

“What’s it say, what’s it say?” Tucker said.

“Will you be quiet? The spirit is trying to contact us, how could it possibly think over all this chatter? What you guys need is some Chamomile tea, that’d calm you down,” Doc said.

“Doc, shut up, I’m trying to read it,” Grif said, squeezing into the circle. All six of them crowded around the board, watching quietly as Church moved the pointer slowly, carefully. All of his energy was going into this. It was all he had.

“Caboose. It’s me. It’s Leo,” Church muttered, using the pointer to spell his words as he spoke them. “Leonard Church. I’m here.”

“Holy shit. Holy fuck he’s here,” Tucker said. “Holy shit.”

“Maybe this is the reason I stuck around, my unfinished business. It’s been years, dude. I’ve always been here,” Church said. Caboose’s eyes were going glassy. He still hadn’t moved from his position, and hadn’t uttered a word. “I just wanted to say I forgive you. I do. It wasn’t your fault. I mean, yeah, it kind of was, but you didn’t mean it to be.” At this point in his speech, Doc had begun writing his words down letter for letter. Church noticed this, and used it as an excuse to move the pointer a little faster. “You aren’t defined by mistakes, Caboose. Michael. You’re defined by your decisions.”

Caboose pulled his knees up to his chest, blinking his eyes hard and fast. This was getting too much for him.

“And I mean, yeah. You’re a fucking dumbass. And so am I, I guess. But I’m starting to think it’s time to let go.” He paused the pointer here, looking around the room. Six faces stared at his hands intently. Five people he’d known his whole life, but hadn’t known until just a few minutes ago. Candles were lit around him, and faintly in the October air, he could smell a trace of pumpkins. It was time to go. “I’ll say hi to your cat, buddy, if I see her,” Church said. “Good luck.” With that, Church used the last shred of his energy. He moved the pointer hesitantly to the ‘Goodbye.’

Six faces looked up, searching each other to better understand. Their friend was gone, but up until now, he wasn’t really. No one said a word.

Huh. Church had always wondered what would happen when he ran out of energy.

He guessed he’d find out.

[agent-murica]

About the Fanfiction Trope Mashup. Grimmons. 42 (The Big Damn Kiss) + 79 (Anger Born of Worry) 🙃😍

There were a lot of thoughts swimming in Simmons' head, but the one that stood out the most prominently was this:

The second he saw Grif he was going to tackle the ever-living shit out of him.

Had a mirror suddenly spawned in front of him he would be able to see how red his face had gotten in his fury, very near blending perfectly with his fiery colored hair. His fists were shaking, and everyone else had left by this point because they were smart enough- just barely though, the Reds and Blues often toed this fucking line on a daily basis- to recognize a ticking time bomb when it was standing right next to them.

So it was just Simmons left to wait for Grif.

He doesn't even know why he's so mad- so fucking infuriated beyond all belief. They've done dangerous missions before! From simulated war to real, actually real and just as deadly war. They've fought through time- on multiple occasions too, depending on who you asked!

But Simmons was with Grif during all those times, except for that brief stint where Grif had quit, but it wasn't long before they were side to side again.

And right now? Right now Simmons was left waiting in the wings, counting away the seconds before he heard back from Grif.

And the longer that time grew, the longer he had to steadily grow and stew in fury.

So that the second Grif walked into their base, helmet held loftily in his hands, letting Simmons get a full view of his split and still bleeding lip, the cut turning an ugly shade of yellow on his nose, and the prominent as hell black eye he was sporting, the only thing he could yell was, "You fucking idiot!"

Shocked at the sudden yelling, Grif's helmet slips from his fingers and bounces noisily against the floor, but Simmons ignores that in favor of still glaring at the orange-colored soldier.

The same anger that the others had noticed radiating off of him completely flies over Grif's head as he squints his eyes and repeats, "Idiot?"

"Yes! You're an idiot," Simmons stalks closer to him, gritting his teeth. "Just what the fuck do you think you were doing?"

Eyes looking him up and down as if searching for whatever it was that was pissing him off so much, Grif says, "Uh, saving all of your asses?"

"Sure let's call it that! What I like to call it is you gallivanting off with only Locus- who shouldn't be trusted that easily mind you, no matter what he says about redemption!- and not telling us about anything until you were gone," he exploded. 

"Hey, that isn't fair to Locus," Grif countered. "I was trying to do the right thing instead of the lazy one! Why are you even so mad about this?"

"I was worried about you, you dumb bastard!" and there it is, the source of all his anger, the worry that Grif wouldn't come back and that he'd have to return to that horrid feeling of emptiness at his side.

Grif blinks owlishly at him and asks, "Why would you be worried for me?"

"Of all the completely idiotic, brainless, stupid things to ask!" Simmons rants before swooping in and planting his lips firmly against Grif's, tasting metal and blood before anything else because of Grif's split lip, but not letting that deter him. He deepens the kiss, thinking about how this is a talk that should've been had long, long ago- after the temple and the awkward silence that proceeded it.

When he separates away from Grif, he makes sure to look him directly in the eyes, bruised and all, as he says, "I'm worried because I love you, you idiot."

Still shocked from the kiss, Grif can only utter out a quiet and mesmerized, "Oh."

"Yeah," his fury had drained out of him in his display of passion. "Oh."

It's silence for a few moments, and he begins to worry that maybe he overstepped something, that perhaps this wasn't the best time for this- after all Grif was injured and just came back from a very dangerous mission and maybe he shouldn't have said-

"I do too," Grif broke the silence like a shattering frozen over pond. "Back. That is, I love you back."

"Oh," and now Simmons found himself in the very shoes that Grif had worn a minute ago.

"Do you think," here Grif paused and licked his lips tentatively. "We could try that whole kissing thing again?"

"Of course, you idiot," and Simmons swooped in again.

It felt good- better than good even. The connection between the two, the feeling of Simmons' palms against Grif's cheeks, and just knowing that there together again, at least for right now, is enough for him.

[arse-blathanna]

A small Simmons moment with Red Team's newest member; Locus, for fluff week pretty plz 😄

I love this prompt and everything it stands for so much more than you could ever believe. Thank you so much for it, I love it. 

[Read it on Ao3]

Title: A Lukewarm Welcome

Fic Summary: Simmons stands up tall. “I know that you aren’t used to things here, but usually if someone’s name is on a day for a chore, nobody else picks it up. That’s my job!”

“Your job is doing the things that your teammates don’t do?” Locus asks

Rating: G

Relationships: Locus & Simmons. Background Grimmons if you squint.

Characters: Locus, Simmons

Tags: Getting to Know Each Other, Team Bonding, Chores

Simmons has been trying his absolute hardest to get used to how things are with Locus around, since he’s apparently staying with the Reds now.

He might spend a lot of his time trying to avoid the massive ex-mercenary slash mass murderer gone almost pacifist. He might duck out of the room most of the time if Locus is around because he’s scary, but Simmons is trying.

Really, he is. But it isn’t as though there isn’t anything for him to get used to. It definitely isn’t like Locus is constantly brooding, or like Locus seems to do everything like he wishes that he could disappear at will and the only thing stopping him from doing just that was a verbal agreement that said he wouldn’t. Or like Locus isn’t completely fucking terrifying and nobody will say anything about it.

Nope. There is definitely absolutely nothing about Red Team’s new addition that has Simmons a little on edge.

[Read it on Ao3]

Simmons walks into the kitchen on a perfectly normal Tuesday evening, the same way that he would any other Tuesday because that’s the day that Grif has dishwashing duty on the chore wheel and Simmons knows that Grif won’t do it. He’s expecting to find the kitchen empty, save for a too-tall stack of dirty dishes that someone will need to deal with.

Instead, when he walks in he finds the kitchen occupied and with Locus’ hands deep in the sink as he washes something. The former mercenary looks tense and frustrated, but doesn’t seem to notice him.Simmons freezes at the door. His cardboard and colored construction paper chore wheel is taped to the door beside him, dish duty clearly under Grif’s name. Locus hasn’t noticed him yet but Simmons also really doesn’t want to try and push his luck. Not when he’d be pushing his luck with a mass murderer that could definitely snap his spine in half with one hand. He gets the feeling that surprising Locus would be a fast way to end up stabbed, at the very least.Locus sets the plate he was cleaning in the rack idly. He lets himself stretch and roll his neck, and when Simmons sees the slight bit of grey eye, he knows that he’s been seen. When it comes to Locus, he also knows that the guy’s vision isn’t entirely based on movement. Locus lets out a sigh though, turning back to his work and grabbing a washcloth from next to the sink and drying his hands for a second before glancing back towards Simmons. “Is there something that you need?” He asks, not seeming quite annoyed but also not coming off as too happy either. The washcloth gets dropped next to the sink again before Locus reaches over for a knife that is in the pile of dirty dishes, and just like that Simmons freezes entirely. “I uh-” Simmons starts, somehow managing to feel like he’d just been put into an interrogation. No matter what, one of the things that he was pretty sure he was always going to be confident in was that Locus with a knife was probably just as scary as Felix as a knife. Probably scarier, since Locus tended to be methodical in ways that Felix just wasn’t. It didn’t help that Simmons didn’t usually carry a knife of his own around base. “I was going to do the dishes!” Locus raises an eyebrow. “Your chart said that you do the dishes on Wednesdays.” “I do!” Simmons answered. “But I also usually do Tuesdays because Grif doesn’t do the dishes when everyone else is here.” “I see.” Locus turns back to his work, reaching for the sponge that he’d been using to clean. “You can leave if that’s all you’re here for. I believe that I have the situation handled.” Simmons looks at Locus’s hands as he cleans the knife in a far too practiced way. “I would but-” He takes a breath. He’s got to get used to this. Locus is part of Red Team now, that means that he’s got to get used to the prospect of Locus being there and living life. Or at least doing chores like the rest of them. “Why are you doing the dishes for Grif?” Locus shrugs, disinterested. “He asked me if I would.” He lifts the knife up, holding it up in front of his face and turning it in the light, expression thoroughly bored. What he’s looking for, Simmons doesn’t know. “And since I owe you all for allowing me to be here, it was the least I could do.” “Oh.” Simmons hadn’t been expecting something so normal. He’d been expecting some sort of weird answer from Locus. Like something sinister. Probably involving that knife. “I guess that I should add you to the chore wheel, shouldn’t I?” Locus shrugs, and Simmons is pretty sure that’s as good as the answer he got out of Locus was going to get. He gives Locus yet another suspicious look, walking over to the door and pulling down the chore wheel. It only takes a cursory glance for Simmons to realize that he’s going to have to remake it from scratch. There are six of them to account for now instead of only five. Maybe life would be a little bit easier because of it. Either way, he was going to have to ask Donut for any crafting supplies and hope that there was some green construction paper among it. They’d never used green before, since it wasn’t a shade of red. They’d never needed it.Simmons looks back up at Locus’ back once he’s sure that Locus isn’t paying him any sort of attention. The dishes by him do look like they’ve been cleaned until they were nearly immaculate, and all of the knives used for cooking had been set aside. Probably for the sake of sharpening them, Simmons realizes belatedly. He swallows. “You know-” He speaks up, and sees Locus’ shoulders stiffen significantly. Obviously nervous. “It was nice of you to do the dishes. Because you really didn’t have to.” Locus rolls his eyes. “I had to.” “No, you really didn’t.” Simmons stands up tall. “I know that you aren’t used to things here, but usually if someone’s name is on a day for a chore, nobody else picks it up. That’s my job!” “Your job is doing the things that your teammates don’t do?” Locus asks, but there is something about it that seems… off. In ways that Simmons has never considered and definitely isn’t used to. “Or-” “I mean-” Simmons feels like he’d just been shocked. “That’s not it entirely! I just want to make sure that you and I have clear ground rules!” He takes a breath when he realizes that Locus has turned to face him partially. “You’re a new Red so you don’t really know how things work here!”Locus raises an eyebrow expectantly. Simmons takes another breath. “It’s just that you don’t even know our operations yet! Or Sarge’s protocols! As second in command-” “I was under the impression that you were third in command.” Locus deadpans.“It’s my duty to do everything that Sarge doesn’t.” Simmons keeps on going. This is a conversation that they need to have. “And to make sure that everyone else has their stuff together. I take the notes at our staff meetings and maintain the chore lists. I help make sure that things are clean, and-” He looks at Locus, and Simmons only gets what he could describe as a pitying look in response. He should have been ready for it and he knows it. But what right did Locus have to judge? He was new. Surely he’d never been in the same place!“Simmons,” Locus sighs, reaching for the towel by the sink so that he could dry his hands off. “I’m not trying to intrude on your place here. I can see that you value your position.” “I do!” Simmons exclaims, but when he looks at Locus’ face he can’t help but feel almost guilty. Like maybe he had misunderstood something. “I just want to be sure that everyone here will be able to co-exist.”

Locus takes a breath, almost wincing and seeming very unsure of himself. “I simply intend to try and stay out of the way.” Locus admits, making a point not to make too much eye contact. “I’m sorry.” Simmons can’t help the surprise that goes through him. He looks down at the chore wheel, and frowns. This is something that he should talk to Sarge about anyways, and Locus- He’s really just trying to exist. Doing chores that wouldn’t have been done otherwise. Contributing in a way that isn’t just carrying the team during Capture the Flag.“It’s okay.” Simmons says, but he isn’t quite exactly sure as to why he says it. The idea that he would ever have to reassure Locus about something would have been laughable, so long ago. Now it just feels… strange. And almost wrong. “I believe you about just meaning to do the dishes.” “That’s all I’m doing.” Locus replies, looking back at the dishes. He frowns, like there is something he’s unhappy about. Maybe something hadn’t come out as cleanly as he would have liked. Simmons doesn’t know. “I understand that you aren’t sure about me being here.” Locus says quietly. “I don’t blame you.” Simmons looks up at Locus and shrugs. “I mean, I think it’s nice having someone else that does chores. And Grif likes you.” That alone counts for a lot in Simmons’ mind. He got a taste of what life without Grif was like, and Simmons hadn’t liked it at all. Grif had said that he didn’t like most of them. He’d been excluded from that, which was a relief. But Grif having someone else that he likes is good. Grif seems happier. That matters a lot more to Simmons than anyone probably realizes. “Grif is…” Locus’ voice trails off. “He’s surprisingly… kind. I suppose. I don’t exactly understand his attachment myself, but… it’s nice.” “And Sarge likes you.” Simmons adds. “And Lopez too.” Locus shrugs, not exactly smiling. He’s far from confident and they both know it. Simmons frowns. He knows that Locus probably just isn’t used to people wanting him around in general. Even on Chorus it had seemed like Locus’ partner hadn’t even wanted him. It at least explains why Locus likes to keep his distance from the others. Maybe distance keeps it from hurting less in the long run.“I try to do what I can.” Locus says, shaking his head and going back to the work he was doing in the sink. Simmons watches him reach for a glass and a sponge, beginning to clean again. “You don’t have to like me.” “I know.” Simmons stands up and pins the chore wheel back up. He wants to say more to Locus, but can’t think of anything. Locus is different from the rest of them and they all know it. Simmons just wishes that he actually knew how to make himself fit with Locus around. “I just… I guess that it’s nice having you. We can win capture the flag now.” Locus raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you’ve evened the teams. Skill-wise, not people wise. Kind of.” Simmons barrels on. “And that’s pretty nice.” Locus shrugs. “You and your teammates deserve more credit than you’re giving them. But thank you.” Simmons swallows, feeling nervous still. “I should probably leave you alone, shouldn’t I?” “I would appreciate the space.” Locus replies, his shoulders stiff. “But the company hasn’t been terrible.” Simmons feels his cheeks get red mostly out of surprise, because he’s pretty sure that’s as close to a real compliment as Locus was even capable of giving. It’s a surprise, and not at all an unpleasant one. “I’m going to think about the chore wheel. I mean-” He looks back at Locus. “You’re a part of the team now. I guess that you should be included on that. And I guess that I should let you know that Donut’s Wine and Cheese hour is open invitation.” Locus freezes and looks back at Simmons with a very confused look on his face. “What?” “Wine and cheese hour.” Simmons clarifies. “It’s how we unwind as a team. You should join us sometime. Donut knows how to treat guests.” Locus is silent for far, far too long, and then he sighs. “I’ll consider it.” “Cool.” Simmons blinks. “Welcome to the team, I guess. And… I think that next time it’s Grif’s day to do dishes, I’ll do it. You can take out the trash that day instead.” Locus blinks, and nods. It’s not much, but it’s definitely an olive branche. One that Simmons hopes that Locus decides to pick up, because it’s something that can make Locus being there feel quite a bit less scary. “I think that would be good.” Locus says. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” Simmons answers. “I think I’ll leave you to it.” He looks back at the sink one last time, and Locus’ frame. He’s doing his best to fit in, Simmons understands. He’s familiar with it himself, and the least that he can do is try not to be the odd one out with regards to Locus being there. Figuring out a chore schedule is a good place to start. Simmons is sure of it.

[washoutking]

Not-So Fashionably Late

( read on AO3 here )

Rating: Teen and Up (for swearing)

Ships: Grimmons, Sargrey, a bit of Tuckington and some backround ones if you squint really hard

Summary: The war is over. Everybody is living their peaceful lives back on Earth. And Sarge just invited everyone to his wedding!Simmons finds out Grif is taking someone else to the wedding, he is stuck on a 3-hour car ride with his suitemates, and they already missed the entire ceremony. His day couldn't get any worse, could it?

Written for @powerfulpomegranate for @redvsbluesecretsanta ~ The prompt was shippy or platonic domestic things, Sarge being secretly fond of his team, getting drunk and spilling about friendship, some repressed protags, and good old wholesome content.  

“Son of a bitch,” Simmons’s voice groans in frustration through the speakers of Dexter Grif’s laptop.

“Did a twelve-year-old snipe you from across the map again?” Grif mutters in the direction of his computer screen, eating an oreo in two bites. He lays on his battered couch in front of a fan that barely cools the 90-degree room.

If there’s anything Grif misses about Blood Gulch was the dry heat. It was hot, but at least he did not have to deal with the suffocating humidity here in Hawaii. Though if he has to be honest, at least he was as far away from Sarge as he could be. Which also means he’s away from Donut, Lopez, and Simmons, some of which he is not as happy to be away from, but he would never say so out loud.

Grif and Simmons make do with biweekly skype call to make up for the distance. Grif uses the excuse that he needs someone to talk to that is not Sister and that Simmons would surely go mad if left alone with Donut unsupervised for too long. It was the system they have been using for almost a year, and Grif was quite happy with it.

“First of all, I have no knowledge about whether a player is twelve or not,” Simmons’s voice replied through the call, cracking already at the first word. “Second of all, they didn’t snipe me, they sneaked up and stabbed me in the back.”

Grif bursts out laughing, “you got shanked by a twelve-year-old!”

“I didn’t-” There was a sigh and the sound of a remote hitting a table as it is dropped. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Why? Can’t take another twelve-year-old outranking you in the kill chart?” Grif makes it a point that his smug grin is wide enough to be heard through the audio.

“I’ll have you know I still have second place in that kill chart. That’s the best spot there is.”

Grif chuckles, “You only say that because you get shanked by too many twelve-year-olds to make it to first.”

The audio cuts for a second and comes back with Donut’s distant voice asking Simmon’s something while standing just slightly too far away from the mic.

“He’s not- Donut stop-... Okay, I’ll ask him! Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Wow,” Grif raised an eyebrow at the ceiling, amused. “You sound like the real twelve-year-old right there, Simmons. No wonder they’re trying to kill you, impostor.”

“I do NOT sound like a twelve-year-old,” Simmon’s voice cracks, contradicting his words.

“Sure, Simmons, whatever you say.”

There is a small pause between them, filled only by the distant waiting music from whatever Simmons was playing and the whirring of Grif’s fan across from him.

“Hey, Grif,” Simmons speaks after a few seconds, his voice interrupted by static as the internet dies down “Do-..... -one?

“Can’t hear you, Simmons,” Grif complains at the laptop, turning himself around to check on it.

“D-.... want-....?”

Grif huffs to himself, sitting up and checking the internet connection. “I’m losing you, buddy.”

“H- Hello?” Simmons finally comes through clear as before.

“There we go,” Grif smiles, sitting back again. “What were you saying before?”

“I-I was asking you who you were bringing as your plus one,” Simmons stutters through the audio. “For Sarge’s wedding, remember? Did you get the invite?”

Grif made a noise of realization at that. “Yeah, I remember… Made a note saying he did not care if I showed up but he offered to buy my plane tickets.”

“WHAT!?” Simmon’s voice broke again for the third time in that hour. “He didn’t offer any such thing to me.”

“That’s because you can drive there,” Grif states. “I cannot. And to answer your question I am bringing a plus one.”

“Really? Who are you br-”

Simmons suddenly stops talking, and it takes Grif a few seconds to figure out the call dropped.

The country road seems to stretch for eternity through Simmons’ windshield, rolling out into the blue sky with trees lining on either side. He’s been stuck in his small car with Donut and Doc for close to four hours now, and it was not getting any better.

“I spy…” Donut begins for his 30th turn that day, looking out from the passenger’s seat window.  “Something long and wet.”

“Uh… is it the creek?” Doc guesses from the back seat.

Donut turns around, smiling back at his suitemate. “How’d you guess?"

“Can you guys stop?” Simmons interrupts the two, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m trying to concentrate on driving.”

“Is that why you shut off the music as soon as I turned on the radio?” Donut kicks one of his legs on the dashboard. “Chill out, Simmons. What do you need to concentrate on? It’s not like the road is that complicated.”

Simmons frees one of his hands from the wheel, using it to motion past the windshield to the rows upon rows of trees. “We are in the middle of nowhere! What if there’s a wild animal- or a deer that runs through!”

“I think a deer is a wild animal,” Doc points out.

Simmons waves him off, “Shut up.”

Donut sits up on his seat, eyes wide. “OoOOoh~ you’re worried about something, aren't you?”

“No, I’m not!” Simmons’ voice cracks.

“Uh… Guys…” Doc speaks up to get the attention of his suitemates.

“What is it!?” Simmons snaps.

“I think we missed our exit…”

Simmons shakes his head. “There hasn’t been an exit in ten miles. What do you mean we missed our exit?”

“That was it… ten miles ago…” Doc pointed out. His voice suddenly dropped an octave, “You fool. I wanted to see how long it would take you. Now you are truly stranded and nobody will find your body.”

“We’re going to miss the ceremony!” Simmons panics, turning the car around so fast that Doc was thrown into the door.

“We’ll make it to the reception at least,” Donut shrugged, holding onto his seat for dear life.

Simmons manages to get to the location of the wedding with the car in one piece and no casualties, but it just so happened to be about an hour late. By the time they arrive, the ceremony is officially over, and the guests had moved a ways farther into the park to enjoy the wedding reception.

The trio of not-so-fashionably-late men run through the empty chairs of the ceremony, following the sound of music and conversation.

Donut runs ahead of the group with Doc at his heels, as if it was a race to see who could get to Sarge first. “Don’t be slowing down now, Simmons!” He calls out over his shoulder, “We’ve only been at it for a minute. Don’t tell me you’re already hot and sweaty?”

“Donut, shut UP!” Simmons yells at his friend, adjusting his maroon tie as they run. “Sarge is gonna kill us! He’s gonna kill me! We missed his wedding ceremony, for fuck’s sake!”

“Well, then we better get to him quick, for the sake of fuck!”

“I do not think that’s how the expression goes…” Doc points out.

Donut does not have much time to respond. The three men stumble upon the reception area, crashing into each other and a few of the other guests. It starts a domino effect of tumbles and grunts of pain and surprise, and ends in a table toppling over with half a dozen expensive wine glasses.

Simmons shakes his head, pushing himself up with his elbows. He winces at the grass stains that already formed on his jacket, and the sting of a bruise forming on his jaw from the fall. His eyes catch a pair of brown armored boots approaching, possibly belonging to the only guest with any kind of armor on.

<<Hacia tiempo que llegaran, pendejos,>> A metallic voice speaks from the direction of the boots.

Simmons sits himself up and cranes his neck to stare into Lopez’s visor. “Nice to see you too, Lopez,” He wheezes, catching his breath.

By the time he gets to his feet, Donut is already throwing himself at the robot to greet him, earning himself only endless incomprehensible Spanish from the robot. Donut takes them as “I missed you”’s, but Simmons is not so sure if that was the true meaning of those words. It is Lopez they are dealing with, though, so Simmons decides to drop it in favor of looking for his former leader in order to apologize for their tardiness.

He spots Sarge across the reception party, sitting beside his new wife, clad in white, and another man who he could barely recognize from the distance. Clouds dance overhead, cooling down the park and Simmons’ worked up gears from all the running they had to do just to get there.

Simmons weaves around the tables hurriedly, tripping over the chair legs on his way to Sarge’s table. He bends over one of the chairs, catching his breath once he finally reaches it. With his head still down, touching the thin plastic tablecloth, he speaks. “Sir, I am so sorry we missed the ceremony,” He brings up his head for a second just to look Dr. Grey in the eyes. “Congratulations on the wedding though. I’m sure it was beautiful.” He drops his head again. “Please don’t be mad. It was all because-”

“You boys were out fighting the blues in my name!” Sarge interrupts him. Simmons lifts his head again, looking up at his former leader, wine glass in hand. “How can I be mad about that? You found out they were infiltrating civilian ranks! Just as I feared- Leave it to Simmons to lead an attack. That’s a damn good wedding present if I ever heard of one.”

Simmons facepalms, “I knew I forgot something back at the apartment…”

Gray could not help but chuckle in amusement. “Don’t mind him, he’s just had a tad too much to drink. You know how it is, with so much alcohol being passed around. Say, is that purple friend of yours around?”

Simmons furrows his eyebrows at Grey’s sudden change in conversation and her overly enthusiastic expression when mentioning Doc, but the third person on the table beats him to a speaking turn, slamming his glass on the table.

“What do you mean blues infiltrating civilian ranks?” Tucker, as equally intoxicated as Sarge, steers back the conversation. “Dude, the war is over . Anyways, your guys could never win an attack against any blues.”

“That’s what you think, you filthy blue,” Sarge replies, lifting his free arm, which Grey had hers hooked on, to point at the former blue soldier. “But I know my boys better than anyone. They may be a nuisance but they are my boys.”

Simmons blinks slowly, processing the fact that Sarge was actually saying positive about them. “Sarge…”

“Nah, man. Blue team was far superior,” Tucker tries to argue. “Caboose, the damn idiot he is, is already better than your whole group combined.”

“Did Tucker say something nice about me?” A familiar voice calls out from the reception hall.

Tucker turns to the direction of the voice. “Shut up, Caboose! I’m trying to convince Sarge that red team sucks!”

“The sharing of intimate thoughts while inebriated is quite fun to watch, isn't it?” Grey asks Simmons, who straightens himself as the argument unfolds.

“Alright, that’s enough,” A blonde man walks up from behind Tucker, taking the glass of whatever he was drinking from his grasp. He holds it far away enough that no matter how Tucker stretches, he cannot reach the glass. “We have to go pick up Junior from your mother’s house, remember?”

“But babe-”

“If we don’t leave now, you’re catching a ride back with Caboose,” Washington states as stern as he could, but a smile plays at his lips nonetheless.

Tucker sighs, “Fine.” He lifts his arm and Washington grabs hold of it to pull him to his feet.

“Another victory for the reds!” Sarge cheers, leaning back in his chair.

“Why’d you have to marry him?” Tucker grumbles at Dr. Gray, who just laughs in reply.

Simmons takes it as his cue to leave as well. It was a party after all, and parties usually involved socialization. Since he is finally here, and Sarge did not kill him for being late, Simmons decides to wander through the crowd and look for familiar faces.

He finally finds the man he was not aware that he was looking for, hiding away from the crowd and next to the buffet table with a plate piled past his head with different types of desserts. Simmons approaches him without thinking about it, only catching his attention when he finally speaks.

“I’m surprised you haven’t eaten half of the buffet table by now.”

Grif turns his head to look at Simmons, swallowing whatever he was working on. His hair is neatly pulled back for once, and the suit is a little disorienting to Simmons at first. “I’m surprised you even showed up,” Grif joked back. “Thought the fact that Sarge got married without asking you to be his right-hand man killed your from the shock.”

Simmons scoffs, “As if. I called that Lopez would be picked for right-hand man since the engagement. Remember?”

“Like you remembered to get here on time,” Grif teases, elbowing Simmons on the side.

Simmons drops his head in his hands, laughing out of nervousness. “Don’t remind me. Donut and Doc were playing I spy for three hours. Three hours, Grif. ” He sighed. “My suit is covered in grass stains, my car smells like whatever awful dish Doc was eating on the way here, and I missed the whole wedding ceremony. Today couldn’t get any worse.”

Thunder rumbles overhead. A couple of droplets hit Simmons on the head.

“You were saying?” Grif raises an eyebrow in amusement.

As soon as Grif spoke, the rain all hit at once. Guests scramble to find cover under their coats and under tables to protect themselves and their expensive garments from the rain. At this point, Simmons just allows himself to be drenched. He lifts his head once again, watching the chaos in utter silence.

Simmons turns to Grif, “Who’d you bring?”

“My sister,” the other man states, motioning over to a crowd of guests. In the midst of the chaos, Kaikaina was laughing at Doc, whose purple suit was dark with mud stains. “She wasn’t mentioned on the invite, but she wanted to come, so I said I’d bring her as a plus one.” He turns his face toward Simmons, “Why? Who else would I bring?”

“Sister…” Simmons repeats. “Of course it was Sister!” He facepalms.

“You know…” Grif shrugs. “She was talking to Tucker today about possibly trying out for a job at his workplace. Wanted to see what living in a mainland city was like.”

“So?”

“I have to tickets back to Hawaii, and she won’t be using hers,” Grif explains. “Could give you an excuse away from this awful weather.”

Simmons looks over at Grif for a second before hitting his side with his hipbone. “Next time, you could ask me to come visit like a normal human, you asshat.”

“Is that a yes?” Grifs asks expectantly.

Simmons could not help but smile. “Of course it’s a yes. Now move your fat ass  to the tents or we’re gonna catch a cold.”

[stareiiez]

Absence

Dialogue Prompts

#28 “This song is so us.”

For all of my Grimmons shippers. Listen y’all don’t know how many songs I had to listen to so I could get this right. Fingers crossed this song will match the prompt.

For anyone curious its Breadcrumbs by Jacob Lee.

“I’ve been away a little while, and it don’t make sense to me.” 

Music filtered from that busted up puma radio while two silhouettes rest in the two front seats. Shades of red shine brightly against the sunlight of the three suns that hang high in the blue sky. Grif’s voice seems to mingle with the music lyrics, while the strum of guitar and violins hum in the background. His own personal symphony. Simmons had rested his head against the seat, his one brown eye and red robotic eye dart to Grif’s side profile. Goatee and scruffy thin beard outline his jaw, eyes scrutinize him for the longest time like he was remembering just how the male looked like. How long did a few days, weeks, or months actually feel to him? Words blur but Grif’s tenor voice drags him back to reality.

Hands beat out the calming beat on the side of the puma while his mouth whispers the lyrics in the distance. 

But do you ever wonder? Where I went.

“You know why I dragged you out here?” Simmons tilted his head in question while his words break the duo of voices, one quieter than the other, singing.

“Is it to hear about your theories about why there are actually three suns and why we’re not burning alive from the radiation from it?” A thick brow raises on tan and pale skin. Cracked lips tilt upwards in a dry smile.

“No. I dragged you here so we can talk about why you stayed behind.” Simmons groaned out before he squeezed his eyes shut from Grif's smart assed remark

Did you ever wonder where I’ve been? for so long.

“I told you, I’m so tired okay? I couldn’t handle chasing after a memory. We won’t be like Church chasing after Texas.” Grif groaned out while his head lolled to the side, catching Simmon’s gaze in his own.

“You never worried about me? or any of the others? You just stayed back and slept like you always did. Until Locus showed up didn’t you? You’re so fucking lazy Grif.” Robotic eye and normal brown orbs had squinted in irritation but that melted away into a passive-aggressive breath of air.

“You saw how deranged I was for contact Simmons. God, I was so crazy for anyone to talk to me, even you. I practically pounced on Locus when he said he was going after you guys.” Music aside the heated conversation had halted the dreamy piano interlude to replace calm with an equal amount of irritation. Both men were now facing each other with fire slowly burning in their eyes.

Keep calling out my name cause it helps me see your face. And if I could let you know.I’d let you know. I’m okay

“So the radios never worked for you? Real classy Grif.” 

“You guys were under water. I would have called, just to tell you guys that I was okay damnit!” Grif snapped before he drew in a heaving breath. Silence and the last reminscing notes of the song had only filtered through the air.

Simmons blinked before he had relaxed slightly in his chair. His gaze traveled over to the radio instead. 

“You do know you literally quoted this song while you were talking. Prepared yourself for this much?” His voice carried out while a dry chuckle was joined by another awkward one of Grif.

“I guess you can say that this song is so us in this situation right?” Grif nudged Simmons with one shoulder until his weight was settled comfortably against the frail frame of the pale-skinned man.

“Hell no, that's too depressing. We’re more like ‘To Love  & Die’ “ Simmons quipped back before his head rested comfortably against the fluffy mess of black coarse strands of hair.

“You’re a dork.”

“Right back at you, jackass.”

[sparrowchute]

You know what I really loved about the new episode?? There was a time where Simmons, without a doubt in his mind, would follow any given order from Sarge, even if he was on the other team. And there was a time where Simmons would kiss Sarge's ass, regardless of what team he was on. And there was also a time where Simmons would betray his team without a second guess, solely because it would make his Sargeant happy and would get him some praise. But now? This boy is outright telling Sarge that "orders can't be given if you're on the other side" and chose what was right over pleasing a superior. My boy?? He's grown and developed so much, and I'm so glad it was highlighted in the new episode. Also the moment where he came to terms with some complicated emotions involving Grif was beautiful, thank RT ily

[sroloc--elbisivni]

RvB: A Red Team Celebration

@redvsbluesecretsanta

Merry Christmas, @mercuryblacksleg! Hope you like your Secret Santa gift!

Summary: Red Team doesn’t exactly do holidays traditionally, or tastefully, but they never fail in their enthusiasm. Featuring Lopez the Christmas tree, lights on a Warthog, and a thirty-foot menorah made out of flamethrowers. Gen fluff. Light Grimmons, light sarge/grey.

“Uh. Excuse me, but what the fuck.”

Donut looked up from where he was stringing popcorn onto a needle to see Grif and Simmons staring from the doorway.

“What?” Donut said serenely, threading another piece of popcorn before holding up the string to eyeball it. “It’s traditional. Here, Lopez, hold this for me?”

”No.”

Donut sighed, sticking the end to Lopez’s head with a piece of tape instead, just below the star. “Hmm. Now I know size doesn’t matter, but this could really use a few more inches.”

Grif was still staring, but now his hand was creeping towards the popcorn bowl, so Donut had to smack him away. “Honestly, Grif, I know you love choking it down, but you can walk to the kitchen. I’m using that.”

Simmons, his head poking through the door from behind Grif, blinked. “Is—what happens when he walks away?”

“He won’t. After Sarge got done with him, it turns out he won’t be able to walk for days!”

Lopez rotated his head, disturbing the tinsel around his neck and sending a few pieces scattering on the floor. The ornaments Donut had taped on a few minutes ago jingled, but didn’t fall off. ”Help me. Please.”

“Oh, Lopez, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t add the lights yet. Sarge hasn’t finished painting them all red!”

Grif came back from the kitchen, holding popcorn. “Okay. I’m probably going to regret this, but one question: why.”

“I told you. It’s traditional.”

Simmons made a face. “No, trees are traditional. This—I don’t know what this is, I think it might be cruelty to robots.”

”Thank you.”

“Not that it really matters, since Lopez doesn’t care.”

“I will pour motor oil on the things you love.”

“Do you see any trees around here?” Donut waved one hand to indicate the room, as well as the general idea of ‘island in the middle of nowhere.’ “And aw, Lopez, that’s sweet!”

“What is?”

“He said he loves us.”

Simmons pulled off a dubious expression very well. Half of his face being metal really helped.

“Huh.” Grif stuffed a handful of popcorn in his mouth, looking thoughtful. “Got any more of those lights?” He moved the bowl out of Simmons’ reach before he could grab some.

“Sarge took all of ours, but I think Blue Team still has some from that whole Caboose debacle.”

“Cool. See you later.” Grif took the bowl of popcorn with him.

Donut went back to stringing on popcorn, humming Christmas music. That didn’t mean he missed Simmons’ hand sneaking towards the bowl.

“Ow! Donut!”

“Oh, stop whining. It wasn’t even anywhere tender.”

Carolina hadn’t really stopped for the holidays in a long time, before Chorus. There was always somewhere to be, things to do, people to hunt down, information to find, training. Always something.

And then she had stumbled into a corner of Armonia where someone had carefully framed a computer chip on the wall, a piece of masking tape stuck onto it reading “ תוֹרָה.” On the table beneath it had been a single lamp, powered by a jury-rigged battery.

Carolina remembered standing at the doorway of that little room for a long, long time.

Now she was standing at the doorway of the base, and had been for a long time, but for a very different reason.

“Sarge,” she said, finally. “That...I appreciate the offer, but I don’t--it doesn’t need to be that much fire.”

Sarge looked up from where he was using a sledgehammer and stakes to make sure the last flamethrower was secured completely to the welded-together scrap metal. Carolina could barely see him in the gathering dark. “What?”

Carolina sighed, and took a deep breath to raise her voice. “It doesn’t need that much fire!”

“WHAT?”

Carolina cupped her hands around her mouth. “IT--DOESN’T--NEED--” She stopped shouting and looked again.

Sarge was working on the last of nine upright, oversized flamethrowers he and Simmons had spent most of the day modifying after she had asked--naïvely--if the base had any candles laying around, because she wanted to put together a menorah. The answer had been no. Or, more accurately, the answer had been no, and then Sarge getting a very worrying glint in his eye.

And now there was a giant menorah of scrap metal and flamethrowers put together on the lawn in front of Red Base. She could just barely see where Simmons was hanging onto the far left one, hitting it with a wrench.

It was ridiculous. It was probably going to blow up in a few hours.

And it was...actually kind of sweet.

“YOU KNOW WHAT? NEVER MIND.”

Grif came up behind her, munching on something. “Has anything blown up yet?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Carolina tipped her head to the side, watching as Simmons almost fell off. He and Sarge shouted at each other for a few more minutes before Sarge climbed down.

“HEY!” Simmons squawked. “I’M STILL--NO NONONONONON--”

Simmons did fall off this time, as Sarge started cackling maniacally, and ended up rolling onto the ground. Carolina could admit that at least all the Reds and Blues knew how to fall properly.

“I’m okay!”

“Nerd,” Grif mumbled, around a mouthful of something. “Oh, hey. Here.”

Carolina looked down to see him offering an unopened bag of potato chips. “What’s this for?”

“Simmons said you eat fried potato things. Right?” He sounded a little bit uncertain.

Carolina took the bag of chips, trying not to laugh. “Thank, Grif. It means a lot.”

“HEY! ARE WE GONNA LIGHT THIS THING OR WHAT?”

“Wait! I’m getting the cookies!” Donut rushed past with a dish of cookies that Carolina was reasonably sure--when she squinted--were frosted dreidels.

Well then.

Grif gestured with his own bag of chips. “After you.”

The remote starter Sarge had put together worked perfectly, so after Carolina had stumbled her way through the songs she could just barely remember, the buttons were pushed so first the center, then the far left spout went up in flames.

Donut clapped excitedly. Grif swiped a cookie. Sarge cackled.

“Wait,” Carolina said, as realization hit her. “Where’s Lopez?”

“I hate all of you.”

Dr. Grey made a thoughtful sound as she examined the setup. “Is that…comfortable?”

“No. This entire situation is despicable. If I had a nervous system, I would be ready to rip it out just to end the suffering.”

“Lopez says he’s snug as a bug in a rug, Dr. Grey!”

“If you’re sure,” she said, already moving on. “Ooh, Donut, those look lovely.”

“My aunt Agatha’s own recipe,” he replied, cheerfully. “And let me say again just how glad we are to have you here for the holidays, Dr. Grey.”

“Oh, just call me Emily. After all, I’m not here to patch you up!”

“Well I’d be happy to take a checkup from you anytime.”

Grif had already absconded with a plate of cookies to sit by the TV, where Simmons was arguing holiday movie selections with Caboose. No one was sure why Caboose was there. No one really knew how to get rid of him.

“No—Caboose, we’re not going to watch Love Actually. It doesn’t even count as a Christmas movie.”

“Yes it does. It is snowing. So it is Christmas.”

Carolina, from where she was watching the whole thing, snorted into her cocoa.

“It’s not—Grif, back me up here.”

“Hey, I said we should watch Die Hard.”

Simmons sputtered. “That’s even less of a Christmas movie.”

“Ooh! Stranger Things!”

“No!” Simmons put his head in his hands. “Look. Can’t we all agree on one terrible stop-motion animation Christmas special?”

“That shit is nightmare fuel,” Grif complained.

“We’ve almost died like, ten times in the past year, and that’s what you’re calling nightmare fuel?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I do not want the little elf to pull my teeth,” Caboose said seriously.

“I hate all of you,” Simmons said, flatly. “I mean it this time. I really do.”

Grif shrugged and ate another cookie.

The door to the base slammed open, heralding Sarge’s entrance. “Treason! Disaster! Subterfuge!”

The room looked up at him.

“Those filthy blues have covered our warthog—the great and mighty transportation of the Red Army—in lights! Of the worst color—blue!”

Grif quietly collected the plate of cookies and tried to sneak towards the door.

“Private Grif! What kind of desertion are you trying to pull?”

“Desertion?” Grif said, tone innocent as he could manage. “No desertion. Just going to investigate. Sir.”

“Hmph.” Sarge looked like he wanted to argue, but Grif figured the combined opportunity to get rid of him, plus the idea of figuring out what was going on, was too good to pass up. “Well. I suppose even you have to be useful sometimes, Private Grif. On accident. Barely.”

Grif rolled his eyes and grabbed another couple of cookies off of Donut’s tray before vanishing out the door.

It was quiet and dark out—aside from the five lit flamethrowers on the menorah. Carolina had pointed out that they only needed to burn for half an hour, but when they had all stared at her, she had added, “…but they can always go for longer, I guess.”

Grif took his cookies well away from the giant columns of fire, heading for the Warthog covered in Christmas lights.  

He hadn’t been the one who changed them all to blue. He would have done it, if he’d thought of it, but he hadn’t. So sue him.

Point was, Grif hadn’t done it. And the only one who’d been out here since they’d gone inside after lighting up the menorah had been Sarge. So either it was the Blues pulling a prank—which, Tucker and Wash were alone in their base with Caboose gone, so Grif would bet they were busy—or someone else.

Grif was betting on the someone else.

He put the plate of cookies on part of the frame while he climbed up into the back, legs dangling off the edge. His heels kicked, almost absent-mindedly, and Grif pulled a gingerbread cookie off the plate to bite the limbs off while he watched the dark.

It was almost easier watching for this without a helmet. Seeing the world through a visor, you got used to distortion, little ripples flickering around everything. It was harder to pick out what didn’t belong.

Bare-eyed, he could see the soft flicker of camouflaged armor moving towards the Warthog.

There were a few loud creaks, and the Warthog shifted as weight pressed on one side of its frame, but the air next to Grif still looked pretty empty.

“Dude,” Grif said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care what kind of superpowers you’ve got. If you want one of these, you’re gonna have to take the helmet off.”

There was a long pause, and then Locus’ familiar armor shimmered into view, and his hands reached up to pull off his helmet.

You look like shit, Grif kind of wanted to say, but he didn’t, because he knew that feeling. So instead, he grabbed another couple of cookies and shoved the plate over.

Locus took one, hesitantly, and turned it over to examine the sprinkles.

“Blue?” Grif asked, just to fill in the silence. “Really?”

“Green seemed…too obvious.” He glanced back at the Warthog in all its twinkling glory. “Your handiwork?”

“What, you’re gonna pretend you weren’t watching?”

The silence spoke for itself. Grif snorted.

“Yeah,” he said, running one hand over the lights. “It’s something…back home. It was this whole thing, when I was a kid. People would put lights all over their cars, and on Christmas day there’d be this big parade. One giant party on the beach.” It felt weird, admitting that, even though he knew he’d said more embarrassing shit when Locus was helping him recue the guys.

Locus didn’t say anything, just chewing on the cookie.

“Look,” Grif said, finally, after the silence had gone on way too long. “Do you want to come inside? We’re gonna argue about stop motion for probably ten more minutes and then put on the Muppets Christmas Carol. There’s popcorn and shit. It’ll be fine.”

“That seems…unwise.”

Grif shrugged. He hadn’t been sure it was going to work. “Suit yourself.”

But he didn’t make any move to go anywhere for another few long minutes.

When there was a faint scream from inside the base, though, he sighed and rolled forward, landing on his feet. “Anyway. I better go back in. Offer’s open if you get cold. And keep the cookies, Donut’s been baking like a nutcase.”

Locus looked up from the single cookie with a bite out he was still playing with, and nodded.

Grif made it five steps away before he heard his name called out, and turned back around to see Locus watching him, almost sheepish.

“I…thank you.”

Grif shrugged. “No problem, dude. Merry Christmas.”

When he made it back inside, the alien and the rat puppets were already up on screen, yammering about something or other, so it seemed things were right on schedule. Lopez was in the corner, muttering death threats, so whenever Sarge reactivated his leg servos Grif was going to go on a long walkabout. Donut had settled on the couch with Caboose, Sarge and Dr. Grey were cuddled up together in a chair (ew ew ew ew ew) and Carolina was resting her feet on an old engine and working her way through another cup of cocoa.

Simmons was on the far end of the couch, so Grif detoured to grab some cookies and a blanket before flopping down at his feet, leaning back against the couch and making Simmons jump.

“Dude, chill.”

“You chill,” Simmons muttered, darkly, but didn’t flinch away again.

Cookies. Cheesy movies. Giant flamethrowers and lurking reformed bad guy outside. Blanket and Simmons to lean against.

Not a bad setup, all things considered.

Grif gave it ten minutes before asking, “So, Die Hard?”

Simmons’ hand, where it had been creeping into Grif’s hair, yanked away to bring a pillow thumping down on his head.

[firingmaincannon]

feels good, feels good, feels good

Title: feels good, feels good, feels good

Rating: E (just to be safe)

Ao3 archive warnings: Underage

Characters: Dick Simmons, Dexter Grif, Male OC

Relationships: Dick Simmons/Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons/Male OC

Additional tags: gender dysphoria, dissociation, misgendering, repeated deadnaming, a bunch of anxiety mess, consent issues masquerading as “bad sex,” (the bad sex/misgendering stuff is in a non-grimmons relatinship), some if it takes place when simmons is a minor so that’s what the underage tag is for

Summary: A vent fic about pretending to be someone you aren't, and pretending to want things you don't, because you don't know anything else is possible; and the wonderful moment when someone finally lets you stop pretending. (PLEASE READ THE TAGS esp regarding consent issues, and also the dysphoria/misgendering--this could be triggering for trans folks. please tell me if I missed any tags/warnings)

Click here to read on Ao3!

Fic below the cut:

Ricky Simmons is a sophomore and he’s dating Tim. Tim is a junior and has nice hands and he likes to hold Ricky’s hands and stroke his knuckles. Ricky was cold while they were walking outside once and Tim gave him his coat. He really likes Tim.

He keeps telling himself that as Tim shoves his tongue into Ricky’s mouth. French kissing feels slimy. Tim’s tongue feels too big and he’s being too pushy with it. Ricky’s half-afraid he’s going to choke because he is a mouth-breather and with Tim’s tongue down his throat he can’t get any air in. He wants to sit back, to take a breath and regroup, but Tim is holding him tightly around the waist. It feels nice. Ricky keeps telling himself it feels nice.

Tim is warm, that’s good. There’s actually parts of him that are a little too warm--his face against Ricky’s, his tongue, and the place where their waists keep touching. Ricky can feel himself shrink back a little from the contact, but Tim’s arms are still there around him. Ricky thinks about Tim’s nice hands and how much more he liked them when they weren’t wandering. Especially now that they’re wandering forward, away from his waist and up, and under his shirt.

“Um,” Ricky says, finally pulling away from Ricky’s mouth, but he’s not sure where to go from there. Stop, he thinks he wants to say. Or, wait. Or maybe, please don’t touch my breasts, if you do then I can’t pretend they aren’t there, please don’t remind me.

He can’t figure out how to articulate that, though. He says nothing, squeezes his eyes shut as Tim’s hands brush the swell of his chest.

It feels good. It’s supposed to feel good. It feels good. It feels good.

(It feels wrong)

It feels good.

Part of Ricky is morbidly curious about where this is going to go. It’s the part of him that sits in the back of his brain with popcorn and a sneer, the part that has to comment on every single thing Ricky does or says or thinks. The part that makes him think about everything else while Tim is kissing him. The part that doesn’t let him fall into the moment, keeps reminding him that he’s in the wrong place, his brain is three inches to the left of where it should be, but his body keeps going without it--

That part is curious what will happen when Ricky, who is so bad at telling Tim not to touch his chest, is even worse at telling him not to touch anywhere else.

It’s coming soon, that part of his brain says, and Ricky knows it’s true because Tim has him up against a wall now, his hands insistent all over Ricky’s chest, where he’s (too) sensitive and it feels (wrong, stop) good. It feels good. Tim is pressing him into the bricks and it’s hurting the back of Ricky’s head and it feels good. It feels good. It feels good.

“You’re a cool girl,” Tim says against Ricky’s neck. Ricky knows what he means. Ricky has short hair and is aloof (shy, too shy) and wears baggy clothes like a skater (he doesn’t know how to skate, but he can bury himself in baggy clothes and forget his own shape) and he can’t believe that Tim thinks he’s cool. It almost makes it worthwhile for Tim to think Ricky is a girl, that the name is short for Erica instead of Richard. And of course he thinks that, because that’s Ricky’s real name, after all. He’s Erica.

He’s Erica and this feels good.

No one has ever called him cool before. No one has ever wanted him before.

(Years later--hours later--he’ll wonder if it’s because Tim could put his hands up Ricky’s oversized polo, and other girls didn’t do that. Other girls didn’t freeze and break off inside their own heads and let hands roam around their bodies. Maybe that makes him cool. Or maybe it makes him desperate.)

Tim thinks Ricky is Erica, but he thinks Erica is cool, so Ricky tells himself he can be Erica for a few hours.

He’s Erica, and Tim’s hands are inside his jeans, against his briefs (girls in the locker room tease him because girls don’t wear briefs, Erica shouldn’t wear briefs), pressing against him, and it hurts a little, and he’s Erica, and this feels good.

It feels good because if it didn’t he would cry, and Erica doesn’t cry. Erica is a cool girl.

He closes his eyes. Tim keeps touching Erica and Ricky floats away.

The mean part of him in the back of his head keeps watching.

This feels good.

/////////

Dick Simmons is grown now, is a captain in an army for a planet he’d never heard of until a year ago. He’s taller now, and his hair is receding way too early, and he’s glad for it. Half his body is metal but the rest of it is his, really his, and he thinks it’s a fair trade.

Dick Simmons hasn’t thought about Erica since he changed his name, finally, for real. He has forgotten about Erica. It feels good.

He tells himself every day that he doesn’t remember Erica. Every day it feels good. It feels good.

Dick Simmons thinks too much. He knows this. Usually it’s not a bad thing. No one else on Red Team is inclined to think things through, and sometimes the thing they need most is a killjoy. And he’s good at that. He’s always been a nerd, but being cerebral isn’t a bad thing, usually. For a long time it meant he could think he was better than other people. (He tells himself he doesn’t need the validation of feeling superior. He needs the validation.)

But right now he is going to have sex with Dexter Grif and he is thinking too much.

At least, he figures they’re going to have sex. It’s what happens every time he kisses someone like this. The other guy pushes, kisses, gets bored, puts his hands all over Simmons, touches him where he isn’t Simmons but is still Erica, and suddenly Simmons is in high school again, and it’s Tim pushing into him, Tim panting in his ear, Tim telling him he’s a cool girl, Tim making him feel good. It has to feel good, he thinks, but it’s like he never quite remembers. Like he’s never quite there.

(He hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time.)

That part of the back of his brain won’t shut up, hasn’t shut up since Simmons was Ricky, was Erica. Grif’s lips are on Simmons’ and the mean voice keeps telling him that Simmons still isn’t good at kissing. That he’s not responding enough. That maybe he kisses like a girl because he’s only ever been kissed as one. That maybe no one will ever kiss him like a boy, like a man.

Grif’s lips aren’t on Simmons’ anymore. Simmons isn’t not sure how long it took him to notice. He reels his brain back in from the distant, gray place it goes when people kiss him (when the mean voice is the only one really aware of what’s going on), but it’s hard to come back into focus. Grif doesn’t look happy.

“Are you okay?” Simmons stares at Grif’s mouth saying the words. It’s a pointless question. Sometimes people asked him that when they kissed him, and every time he said--

“Yeah.”

And they would shrug and go back in, continue what they were doing (sometimes he had to try so hard not to notice what they were doing) and they didn’t--

(They didn’t care that he was lying)

“You’re a goddamn liar.” Grif squints at him. No one has caught Simmons before. (Usually he convinces even himself that it’s the truth.) “What’s wrong?”

Simmons wants to say…

He’s not sure.

He’s never been able to put into words what isn’t right here, why Grif’s hands feel like every pair of hands that ever touched him, why his lips feel like every pair of lips that didn’t notice Simmons’ lips unresponsive against them. Why every breath pulls him back into his own head, back into high school, into Erica.

He’s always figured that if he can’t put it in words, it’s not worth saying. So he lets people touch him, doesn’t say anything, tells himself it

feels

good.

He knows Grif is going to lose patience soon. He’ll hear Simmons’ silence and understand that it means everything is fine, everything is okay, Simmons wants this, he will put up with this, he will live with it like he always has. He knows Grif will do this even though he has never kissed Grif before, even though he’s lived with Grif for years and Grif has never shown any sign. Grif will do this because everyone else has done this. Simmons knows the pattern, feels it beating against his ribcage with his frantic heart, feels it in his mouth clenched between his teeth. This is what always happens to Erica, and Erica is what always happens to Simmons.

Grif pulls back.

(Grif is going to push forward, like Tim, like the others, tongue in Simmons’ mouth, in Ricky’s, in Erica’s--)

Grif takes Simmons’ hands in his own.

(Tim had nice hands and he liked to hold Simmons’, until they kissed, and fucked, and then he forgot about Simmons’ hands, it seemed)

Grif is saying something, asking a question, staring at Simmons. Grif looks scared.

(Simmons always told himself he wasn’t scared because he was pretending to be Erica and Erica was a cool girl and cool girls don’t get scared. He told himself he wasn’t scared through jelly legs and numb fingers and moments he doesn’t seem to remember and it’s true, he wasn’t scared, he isn’t scared, he won’t be scared)

Grif is asking again. Simmons hears it this time, he thinks. “What can I do?”

(Grif can keep going, if he wants to, he can keep kissing Simmons because it means someone wants to, and Simmons isn’t scared and this feels good so he will let Grif keep going)

Grif will keep going any second now, he’ll lose patience, he will.

(Who wouldn’t lose patience with Simmons, who can’t even kiss or have sex, who no one believed when he said he wasn’t a girl, wasn’t Erica, who wouldn’t lose patience with someone who isn’t worth the time it takes to ask if he’s okay so they don’t)

He is leaning against Grif’s shoulder, and Grif’s arms are around him--

(Tim’s arms, too warm, too close--)

But

But.

Grif’s hands don’t travel anywhere. They stay in the same place on Simmons’ back, stroking through his tee shirt (still oversized, even now, even now that his body is his and not Erica’s, because old habits die hard)

(why isn’t Grif touching him like the others did?)

and Grif isn’t trying to put his mouth on Simmons’, he’s muttering nonsense into Simmons’ receding hair, he’s rocking them back and forth (maybe this is how he used to rock Kaikaina when they were children)

(but that’s ridiculous, why would Grif take care of him like he took care of Kai)

and his hands

(bigger than Tim’s hands, less elegantly shaped, but gentler, more gentle than Simmons can believe)

stay exactly where he put them.

“Do you want to have sex,” Simmons says. It’s not a question because the answer has always been yes, even when he hasn’t asked, even when he was trapped in his head begging them to say no.

Grif pulls back (they aren’t rocking anymore, and Simmons hates himself for missing it when he shouldn’t have had it in the first place) and he’s going to say yes, he’s going to kiss Simmons again and it’s going to start all over and he will be Erica again and he never escaped her, he never will--

“Maybe another time,” Grif says slowly, quietly, and he pulls Simmons against his chest again so softly, and his hands finally move

(here it comes, here it always comes)

and they come to rest, one against Simmons’ skull, brushing through his coarse short hair, and the other resting on his cheek, warm

(for once not too warm, even though Grif’s hand is sweaty)

and they rock together again, and it is warm

(not too warm, just warm enough)

and Simmons didn’t know he could ever feel safe with another person until now.

“We won’t do anything you don’t want to,” Grif says. “Not ever.”

(the mean voice in Simmons’ head has nothing to say--

It’s never had nothing to say--)

“I’m okay just being with you.”

(Maybe--

Maybe he really--)

“Like, if you ever want to make out or anything, I’m up for it,” Grif’s voice is shaking, he’s talking too fast, he doesn’t know what he’s saying and Simmons is not the only one losing his mind right now, “but I’m happy without that too, you know?”

(No one is ever happy with just that, with just Simmons, they always want something else, but.)

(But maybe Grif isn’t like everybody else.)

(They were together for years and years and Grif stayed, Grif follows him everywhere, Grif has been his best friend without ever once kissing him until now, and--)

(Tim never wanted to be friends, never wanted to talk--)

(Grif always wants to talk, they stay up all night talking, they keep each other out of nightmares talking--)

(Grif has half of Simmons’ body and he has never once talked about it like it belonged to Erica--)

(Grif has seen Simmons in the locker room and changing in his bunk and he knows, he knows what Simmons’ body is and has been, and he has never wavered or acted differently--)

(He has always seen Simmons as just Simmons, just a guy he can tease and bully and be honest with and spend the rest of his life with.)

“I just--”

Simmons doesn’t feel like Erica right now, doesn’t feel like Ricky. He feels like Simmons. Like he’s never quite been Simmons before because he never let himself be.

“--want to be with you.”

Simmons has never actually wanted to kiss someone before. He wants to kiss Grif now. He wants to kiss him like he’ll suffocate if he doesn’t, like he’s drowning. The voice in the back of his head is gone, the overthinking is gone, Erica is gone, Tim and the others are gone, and all that’s left is Grif’s voice, and his mouth, and his hands--

All that, and Simmons himself, finally in his own head, not three inches sideways but belonging here in his body like he never has.

He wants to kiss Grif. He doesn’t.

He waits, and closes his eyes, and breathes against Grif’s shirt, and memorizes the feel of Grif’s fingers in his hair, and daydreams about the next time they do this, when they kiss and Simmons is there for the whole thing. He makes himself wait because he wants to be excited about it, to think about it for days, to smile at Grif every time he sees him. He knows Grif will kiss Simmons the way he holds him, will wait for Simmons to make the first move. He wants to make the first move.

(It’ll be his first kiss as Simmons, after all.)

[renaroo]

Wash and Tucker with 5 or Grif and Simmons with 24?

The Things I’ll Do For Love

Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth.Warnings: Canon-typical language, Sexual contentRating: M

A/N: It’s been far too long since I wrote Grimmons so thank you for the prompt lol

If Grif turned his head any further, his shoulder would have broke through to his eardrum.

Simmons nervously shifted his feet, feeling a little more awkward than he usually cared to feel. Which was a shame considering the eternal awkwardness that he found himself in. Especially after joining the military. Especially after meeting Grif.

And that was the way they stood in the driveway for nearly a minute. Simmons altered how much weight he shifted between his leg and the prosthetic, worrying a loose string on his sweater. Grif with his head nearly parallel to the ground as his eyes squinted further and further until Simmons wasn’t even sure he was looking at the garage anymore. Really, knowing Grif, it was just as likely that he was sleeping instead.

The agonizing seconds ticked by, the freshly fallen snow in the yard blowing up with each passing hover car. The silence almost seemed to echo along the other identical houses in the neighborhood, all two story and sloped to a porch roof that only went as far out as the garage door to make the front lines of the house a perfect rectangle. Ideal size. Ideal shape. Conformity.

Of course, their house wasn’t exactly matching the cookie cutter like the rest anymore due to the giant tree which had ripped free from the frozen earth of their side yard and landed promptly onto the tin roof of the garage. Which caved in to the attic. Which caved into floor of said attic. Which knocked the unused kayak from the roof of the garage. Which screeched rudder first into the electric car which had been charging in the garage. Which had caused the power to go out when the fuse blew. Which caused the heater to stop working. Which was why, even in only their sweaters and rashly slung on goulashes, Simmons was just as warm as he had been five minutes beforehand in the bedroom.

“Yeah,” Grif finally announced, turning his head just enough to glare Simmons’ way. “This is absolutely your fault.”

Later, Simmons would blame his delayed response on the frostbite to his brain, but instead he was actually just sputtering for words.

Of course, it wasn’t like he had anything all the original on the tip of his tongue dying to get free either.

“My fault? How the hell can this be my fault?” Simmons demanded. For additional benefit, he made large motions toward the tree which was hanging out in their garage. “Did I knock down the tree? Did I break the car? Did I overload the fusebox on purpose?”

“Might as well have,” Grif shrugged, his breath lingering between them as if just to add extra sting to Simmons’ badly bruised ego.

“How?” Simmons’ voice peaked.

“Because you—“

“Oh my god,” Simmons groaned, already knowing what Grif was getting at. He turned from Grif and glared at the damn garage and the damn tree and the damn everything because this fight was not happening again.

“—were the one—“

“Grif, this is going to make me kick your ass,” Simmons warned. “If you say one more time that—“

“—that wanted to move to the suburbs!”

Without hesitation, Simmons turned and landed a heavy punch right for Grif’s shoulder that didn’t even make the other man flinch as he just stared expectantly back at Simmons.

“No more city life for good ol’ Simmons. Why would we still be renting an apartment where the takeout’s delivered to your door or where the movies are around the block. Why would we want to live like civilized human beings and not where fucking trees can come flying like a bat out of hell and destroy a mortgage,” Grif mocked, shoving his fists into the pockets of his robe. “Good call, fuckface.”

Despite himself, Simmons felt what was left warm of his blood swarm his cheeks, no doubt causing him to light up redder than the mittens Donut gave him for Christmas. “Grif! You can’t just call me that in public,” Simmons decreed, looking around nervously to the other houses. “We have neighbors.”

“You know what we had in the city? In our apartment? Closer neighbors. Neighbors who shared a bedroom wall with us. And you still handcuffed me to the radiator that one time and put a freshly baked cake a foot out of my reach,” Grif reminded him. “What you should say is that you don’t give a damn about neighbors, you care about suburbanites who don’t want to know that the reason we didn’t immediately put the fire in our garage out was because you were determined to suck—“

“I hate you,” Simmons hissed.

“And I hate the suburbs,” Grif stated flatly.

They continued to stand, in underwear and sweatshirts and a robe and mild other adornments respectively, with their hot breath hanging between them.

The cold was starting to get to Simmons, but not as much as his irritation with Grif was.

“It’s your kayak,” he said lowly.

Grif didn’t react for a moment before finally twitching a bit and looking Simmons’ way. “What?”

“It’s your kayak,” Simmons reminded him. “I didn’t want it. You were the one who thought we had room for it—“

“We did have room for it!” Grif cried out defensively.

“Where? Through the windshield of my car?” Simmons cried back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dick, how did I not anticipate that a goddamn tree would be taking up some space on the ceiling!” Grif responded in kind.

They fell silent at each other’s points, the air between them filled nearly as much with steam as it was thickening breath. The anger was palpable. Which made what needed to be said next that much less inviting to say but, well, Simmons knew it needed to be said.

“You know you’ve got to call Sarge, right? He’s got an electrician’s license and there’s no way anyone else is crazy enough to drive through this weather out to—“

“The suburbs and risk getting crushed by a tree,” Grif finished sourly. “And abso-fucking-lutely not. You will call the old asshole and tell him to get out here. I’m going back to bed and finishing where we left off with or — preferably — without you.”

“Oh, please, after coming out here with no layers? You’ve got nothing to work with,” Simmons spat out before he even realized what he was saying. He stiffened up immediately and glanced sheepishly around to the other houses. They were definitely being watched by neighbors at that point.

“Neighbors,” Grif said in mock warning.

“Oh, shut up,” Simmons scoffed in return. “And no, you know I can’t call Sarge and tell him that things are wrong! I’ll get nervous and say the opposite and hang up because I can’t deal with disappointment!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty disappointing that you dropped that fucking tree on our house on the coldest goddamn day of the year,” Grif snarked. “I am not calling Sarge.” he glanced back to the other houses as well, running his thick fingers through his hair. “Aren’t savages out in the suburbs always bitching about city people not being nice? Not a single one of these fuckers have offered to hook us up with some space heaters or an extension cord while we’ve been out here entertaining them.”

“Maybe because we keep talking about dicks and sex while standing outside our house half naked,” Simmons muttered, face heating up impossibly more.

“Ugh, fine. Fuck. Man. I hate everything,” Grif groaned. “I’ll call Sarge, but you know that we’re still in the suburbs and he’s gonna be, like, at least an hour away.”

“Yeah. We’ll have to figure out a way to keep warm until then,” Simmons sighed.

They stood together for a few moments longer. Then, almost at the same time, they looked instead to each other

“Well… you know what they say about body heat,” Simmons laughed awkwardly.

“Oh my god, I know it’s your turn don’t try to make some kind of setup that your delivery is gonna epically fail here,” Grif groaned. “C’non. Let’s get in and… you know. Some sort of suburbanite safe euphemism for a blow job.”

“Yup. Good job, you nailed it, very PC,” Simmons groaned.