Taboo and Liberation, Part 1/5
Title: Taboo and Liberation, Part 1/5
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: R
Word Count: 2650
Summary: Through a single drastic act, Simmons sets a new path for himself that he never knew existed, and he's not sure if he wants to take it.
Disclaimer/Warning: I am neither a Rooster nor a Teeth. ÜberEmo!Simmons is rampant in this one. Sorry if it's a touchy subject.
A/N: I was craving some sort of smutty darkfic but couldn't find any, so I decided to write one. This is inspired by the song I was listening to before I started writing -- Prostitution Is The World's Oldest Profession (And I, Dear Madame, Am A Professional) by Cobra Starship. It's a good song, you should look it up xD That was the very baseline inspiration, though. It does not in any way embody the feeling of this piece. >>;
Also, excuse to use one of my new Brian Molko icons! Yay!
---
The new base at Valhalla brought with it a lot of new things, and yet, it was like an odd copy of the world of Blood Gulch he had left behind. Grass, lots and lots of grass, and water, an actual river and a lake that glistened in the sun -- another sun that never set. Another base with cramped living quarters, despite being bigger, another place where Blue territory was only a sniper rifle's sights away. Another world millions of miles away from Simmons' home in New Jersey, a million miles away from the bad treatment from his father and only a few yards away from the bad treatment from his fellow soldiers.
...Which was actually new in and of itself in a way, Simmons realized. His ridiculer had somehow, inexplicably, switched from being Grif to being Sarge; Sarge paid no attention to his asskissing anymore, and Grif was acting nice. Much too nice for Simmons' taste. It was starting to freak him out a little.
He was tired of everyone, tired of seeing them every day, tired of having to share a room with Grif in the new base, tired of eating the same re-hydrated MREs, tired of Sarge's crackpot theories and schemes, tired of the military and the war altogether.
What was there for him in this life anymore? Would anyone truly notice if he ended it today? Would anyone truly care? The weapons in the armory called to him, as did the river, the drastic drop from the top of the base, the case of toxic pills to prevent heart disease and infection.
He thought about it a lot, committing suicide. The idea was drenched in a sickly sweet, viscous darkness that left his mouth dry with anticipation. Oh, to not have to feel anymore. To be nothing. It sent chills up and down Simmons' spine. He could almost feel the sharp beauty of the pain from a bullet to his head, the calm satisfaction of drowning in a crystal blue lake, the feel of the wind caressing his face as he fell down, down, down.
The only reason he was still alive, he told himself, was that he couldn't decide which exit he liked better. Each held its own mystery and curiosity, and it almost angered Simmons that he couldn't choose more than one.
And so he waited, debated, and dreamed.
---
"Simmons!"
The gruff southern accent bit into his daydream, and the visions of a sticky crimson pool around his broken body fled lazily, like ethereal smoke.
"What, Sarge?" He was past the use of honorifics. He'd give the man some respect as soon as he got some in return.
"Did ya hear a damn word Ah said, soldier?!"
His response was sarcastic and biting. "Oh, of course I did. It was about the blues, and how they're stupid. And how you're the best leader ever and we should give you all our time and affection so you can fucking feel better about yourself."
"Dude, are you alright?" Grif asked incredulously, turning to look at the other man.
Simmons imagined the expression behind Grif's gold visor: judging, condescending, mocking.
"Fuck off."
"...Geez, who pissed in your cheerios this morning?"
"Simmons," Sarge warned, "Don't ya start actin' traitorous again. Ah might have Grif here shoot ya fer it."
"Whatever. I'll be in my room," Simmons grumbled, leaving before either man could say anything else.
"Our room," Grif muttered a correction anyway, although his roommate couldn't hear him.
"He can't hear ya, dirtbag."
"I know, Sarge." He sighed. "I don't think he can hear any of us."
---
The way back to his room was just as complicated and just as simple as the other base's layout had been. He crept down the hallways slowly, savoring the slight metallic tang of the air filtered through his helmet. He pulled off a glove and dropped it carelessly on the floor to run a bare hand -- his human hand, the one that could actually feel properly -- across the roughly hewn granite of the wall. Every sensation was his, his before he took his life later tonight as the result of an angered decision under the starless sky and the discussion with teammates he knew didn't care. He unlatched his helmet, letting it fall beside his lost glove, breathing the heavy, smoky air deeply, synthetic lungs straining from the oxygen filling them completely, too full.
He let his breath out in a slow, soft laugh. With nothing to lose anymore, everything was his, free for the taking.
He pulled the rest of his armor off to clatter to the hard floor, and the noise echoed down the hallway and through Simmons' mind. He continued his way to his room, pausing to observe every random object he came across: there, on the floor, was one of Donut's dirty socks. Pink -- excuse him, lightish red -- and covered with embroidered kittens. He let his gaze linger on the stitch work, the pattern and texture searing themselves onto his mind's eye. The stitched kittens floated harmlessly in his imagination as he moved onward, frozen in time even as they rolled and played with their balls of yarn and each other.
A hairbrush; an empty box that once held shotgun ammo; a pile of discarded twinkie wrappers; the science fiction book he'd thought he'd lost, buried under a pair of Grif's dirty pants; a slightly frayed but sturdy-looking rope, coiled in a corner; the other kitten sock, looking forlorn without its pair --
Wait. Back up.
Simmons stared down at the length of rope, eyeing it dubiously. His mind raced with forbidden ideas, formulating a plan scarcely before Simmons gave it permission to.
He'd hang himself. Simmons couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before now; it was a culmination of all the sensations he wanted to feel before he died. The soft rush of a fall, however short it may be, the sudden pain of a tightening rope and a broken neck, the struggling peace of suffocation.
He glanced around, knowing nobody would be watching him anyway. Bending over, blood pounding through his veins with the rush of adrenaline of being caught and fear for what he was about to do, he grasped the rope tightly in his hands, running his palm over the rough fibers a few times as if to feel its potential.
And suddenly, his face was slashed wide with a macabre grin. Finally, after so long, after so much waiting and second guessing, he knew how he would kill himself.
Liberation sent his heart soaring as he scrambled to get to his room to gather the rest of the things he'd need. He had absolutely no time to waste.
---
The wind beat against his back, pulling and twisting his hair into flailing spikes. The air was crisp and cool -- evening air, the only way to tell the time.
Simmons made his way slowly to the trees, bare feet crunching across the grass, green edges soft and caressing. Damp earth squished between his toes, and on a whim he pulled off his shirt to embrace nature even further.
He continued onward in only a pair of beaten-up sweats sagging low on his lithe form. A fitting way to die, really. Showcasing his sculpted body that way. If he wasn't meant to enjoy it, why not let someone else?
He remembered who that "someone else" would be in this situation, and he hastily put his t-shirt back on. If Donut, or Grif, or Caboose or even Sarge wanted to see his naked chest, they'd have to strip his dead body.
He tried not to think too much about that.
The trees stretched skyward ahead of him, the impossibly far-away tops swaying lightly in the breeze. It wasn't hard to pick a target: the tree furthest to the left had enough small branches to climb up high enough, and a sturdy-looking limb that would probably support his weight.
Slinging the length of rope around his neck like a deformed, surreal necklace, he started to climb. The rope thumped against his chest like the rhythm of a drum. Pa-rum, pa-rum. The soles of his feet screamed for mercy as they were carelessly scraped across sharp edges of bark and wood. His hands, his whole body, trembled with anticipation and adrenaline as he pushed and pulled his way up, up, up.
He was sitting on the branch, now. It felt a lot flimsier than it had looked from so far down. He could hear it creaking slightly at his weight, complaining about the size of this strange, giant, pale bird perched on its back.
Rope slipped from his neck, taken and tied in a sturdy knot he'd been taught in basic training. A loop on the other end, thrown haphazardly back around his neck before pulling the slack tight. His adam's apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the rope biting and so unbearably present, like a knife.
He double checked his work before he let himself fall off the branch. Face forward, eyes closed, arms outstretched.
The moments it took for the rope to reach its end stretched onward for eternity. Simmons, in that moment, found that people had lied: it wasn't his life he was seeing, it was his regrets. The things he wished he'd done, the things he'd left undone, the things he'd feel guilty about in the next life, if there even was one.
The air whipping his face wasn't soothing like he'd thought it would be; it was a whipping, driving force, stinging his cheeks. He welcomed the pain, despite the fact he hadn't expected it, despite the fact it was making his eyes water, making him leave this world with a face covered in tears.
His thoughts were abruptly cut short as the rope snapped tight. It cut against him harshly, torturously. Something snapped -- his neck?
Peace found him, and everything was dark.
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Pairing: Grif/Simmons
Rating: R
Word Count: 2650
Summary: Through a single drastic act, Simmons sets a new path for himself that he never knew existed, and he's not sure if he wants to take it.
Disclaimer/Warning: I am neither a Rooster nor a Teeth. ÜberEmo!Simmons is rampant in this one. Sorry if it's a touchy subject.
A/N: I was craving some sort of smutty darkfic but couldn't find any, so I decided to write one. This is inspired by the song I was listening to before I started writing -- Prostitution Is The World's Oldest Profession (And I, Dear Madame, Am A Professional) by Cobra Starship. It's a good song, you should look it up xD That was the very baseline inspiration, though. It does not in any way embody the feeling of this piece. >>;
Also, excuse to use one of my new Brian Molko icons! Yay!
---
The new base at Valhalla brought with it a lot of new things, and yet, it was like an odd copy of the world of Blood Gulch he had left behind. Grass, lots and lots of grass, and water, an actual river and a lake that glistened in the sun -- another sun that never set. Another base with cramped living quarters, despite being bigger, another place where Blue territory was only a sniper rifle's sights away. Another world millions of miles away from Simmons' home in New Jersey, a million miles away from the bad treatment from his father and only a few yards away from the bad treatment from his fellow soldiers.
...Which was actually new in and of itself in a way, Simmons realized. His ridiculer had somehow, inexplicably, switched from being Grif to being Sarge; Sarge paid no attention to his asskissing anymore, and Grif was acting nice. Much too nice for Simmons' taste. It was starting to freak him out a little.
He was tired of everyone, tired of seeing them every day, tired of having to share a room with Grif in the new base, tired of eating the same re-hydrated MREs, tired of Sarge's crackpot theories and schemes, tired of the military and the war altogether.
What was there for him in this life anymore? Would anyone truly notice if he ended it today? Would anyone truly care? The weapons in the armory called to him, as did the river, the drastic drop from the top of the base, the case of toxic pills to prevent heart disease and infection.
He thought about it a lot, committing suicide. The idea was drenched in a sickly sweet, viscous darkness that left his mouth dry with anticipation. Oh, to not have to feel anymore. To be nothing. It sent chills up and down Simmons' spine. He could almost feel the sharp beauty of the pain from a bullet to his head, the calm satisfaction of drowning in a crystal blue lake, the feel of the wind caressing his face as he fell down, down, down.
The only reason he was still alive, he told himself, was that he couldn't decide which exit he liked better. Each held its own mystery and curiosity, and it almost angered Simmons that he couldn't choose more than one.
And so he waited, debated, and dreamed.
---
"Simmons!"
The gruff southern accent bit into his daydream, and the visions of a sticky crimson pool around his broken body fled lazily, like ethereal smoke.
"What, Sarge?" He was past the use of honorifics. He'd give the man some respect as soon as he got some in return.
"Did ya hear a damn word Ah said, soldier?!"
His response was sarcastic and biting. "Oh, of course I did. It was about the blues, and how they're stupid. And how you're the best leader ever and we should give you all our time and affection so you can fucking feel better about yourself."
"Dude, are you alright?" Grif asked incredulously, turning to look at the other man.
Simmons imagined the expression behind Grif's gold visor: judging, condescending, mocking.
"Fuck off."
"...Geez, who pissed in your cheerios this morning?"
"Simmons," Sarge warned, "Don't ya start actin' traitorous again. Ah might have Grif here shoot ya fer it."
"Whatever. I'll be in my room," Simmons grumbled, leaving before either man could say anything else.
"Our room," Grif muttered a correction anyway, although his roommate couldn't hear him.
"He can't hear ya, dirtbag."
"I know, Sarge." He sighed. "I don't think he can hear any of us."
---
The way back to his room was just as complicated and just as simple as the other base's layout had been. He crept down the hallways slowly, savoring the slight metallic tang of the air filtered through his helmet. He pulled off a glove and dropped it carelessly on the floor to run a bare hand -- his human hand, the one that could actually feel properly -- across the roughly hewn granite of the wall. Every sensation was his, his before he took his life later tonight as the result of an angered decision under the starless sky and the discussion with teammates he knew didn't care. He unlatched his helmet, letting it fall beside his lost glove, breathing the heavy, smoky air deeply, synthetic lungs straining from the oxygen filling them completely, too full.
He let his breath out in a slow, soft laugh. With nothing to lose anymore, everything was his, free for the taking.
He pulled the rest of his armor off to clatter to the hard floor, and the noise echoed down the hallway and through Simmons' mind. He continued his way to his room, pausing to observe every random object he came across: there, on the floor, was one of Donut's dirty socks. Pink -- excuse him, lightish red -- and covered with embroidered kittens. He let his gaze linger on the stitch work, the pattern and texture searing themselves onto his mind's eye. The stitched kittens floated harmlessly in his imagination as he moved onward, frozen in time even as they rolled and played with their balls of yarn and each other.
A hairbrush; an empty box that once held shotgun ammo; a pile of discarded twinkie wrappers; the science fiction book he'd thought he'd lost, buried under a pair of Grif's dirty pants; a slightly frayed but sturdy-looking rope, coiled in a corner; the other kitten sock, looking forlorn without its pair --
Wait. Back up.
Simmons stared down at the length of rope, eyeing it dubiously. His mind raced with forbidden ideas, formulating a plan scarcely before Simmons gave it permission to.
He'd hang himself. Simmons couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before now; it was a culmination of all the sensations he wanted to feel before he died. The soft rush of a fall, however short it may be, the sudden pain of a tightening rope and a broken neck, the struggling peace of suffocation.
He glanced around, knowing nobody would be watching him anyway. Bending over, blood pounding through his veins with the rush of adrenaline of being caught and fear for what he was about to do, he grasped the rope tightly in his hands, running his palm over the rough fibers a few times as if to feel its potential.
And suddenly, his face was slashed wide with a macabre grin. Finally, after so long, after so much waiting and second guessing, he knew how he would kill himself.
Liberation sent his heart soaring as he scrambled to get to his room to gather the rest of the things he'd need. He had absolutely no time to waste.
---
The wind beat against his back, pulling and twisting his hair into flailing spikes. The air was crisp and cool -- evening air, the only way to tell the time.
Simmons made his way slowly to the trees, bare feet crunching across the grass, green edges soft and caressing. Damp earth squished between his toes, and on a whim he pulled off his shirt to embrace nature even further.
He continued onward in only a pair of beaten-up sweats sagging low on his lithe form. A fitting way to die, really. Showcasing his sculpted body that way. If he wasn't meant to enjoy it, why not let someone else?
He remembered who that "someone else" would be in this situation, and he hastily put his t-shirt back on. If Donut, or Grif, or Caboose or even Sarge wanted to see his naked chest, they'd have to strip his dead body.
He tried not to think too much about that.
The trees stretched skyward ahead of him, the impossibly far-away tops swaying lightly in the breeze. It wasn't hard to pick a target: the tree furthest to the left had enough small branches to climb up high enough, and a sturdy-looking limb that would probably support his weight.
Slinging the length of rope around his neck like a deformed, surreal necklace, he started to climb. The rope thumped against his chest like the rhythm of a drum. Pa-rum, pa-rum. The soles of his feet screamed for mercy as they were carelessly scraped across sharp edges of bark and wood. His hands, his whole body, trembled with anticipation and adrenaline as he pushed and pulled his way up, up, up.
He was sitting on the branch, now. It felt a lot flimsier than it had looked from so far down. He could hear it creaking slightly at his weight, complaining about the size of this strange, giant, pale bird perched on its back.
Rope slipped from his neck, taken and tied in a sturdy knot he'd been taught in basic training. A loop on the other end, thrown haphazardly back around his neck before pulling the slack tight. His adam's apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the rope biting and so unbearably present, like a knife.
He double checked his work before he let himself fall off the branch. Face forward, eyes closed, arms outstretched.
The moments it took for the rope to reach its end stretched onward for eternity. Simmons, in that moment, found that people had lied: it wasn't his life he was seeing, it was his regrets. The things he wished he'd done, the things he'd left undone, the things he'd feel guilty about in the next life, if there even was one.
The air whipping his face wasn't soothing like he'd thought it would be; it was a whipping, driving force, stinging his cheeks. He welcomed the pain, despite the fact he hadn't expected it, despite the fact it was making his eyes water, making him leave this world with a face covered in tears.
His thoughts were abruptly cut short as the rope snapped tight. It cut against him harshly, torturously. Something snapped -- his neck?
Peace found him, and everything was dark.