Chapter Text
Donut’s always been on the more… Feminine side, for lack of a better word. Or lack of creativity for one. He likes pretty pink bows in his hair, taking long bubble baths, owns far too much lingerie - the issue here, for him at least, is that no matter what he’s tried, he can’t seem to outgrow his roots.
You see, Donut was raised on a farm in Leggatt Plains, Iowa. Although Iowa is generally viewed as a swing state (the fucking googling I had to do good lord), the rural part he was from was pretty red. Although he loves red now, it wasn’t exactly his favorite growing up. Specifically because of the politics the color is unfortunately attached to. So in his youth, you can pretty well imagine how hard the princess dresses and mermaid dolls were smacked out of his hands. It took a lot of soul searching to feel as comfortable with himself as he does now. And he’s very proud of it. Hell, cowboy boots are a staple in his wardrobe again! Although they are pink.. But that’s beside the point.
The point is, Donut desperately wishes he could be a more traditional looking femboy. A twink. Throwable, truth be told. But growing up doing manual labor around the farm had strengthened not only his muscles, but his whole bone structure. Well, that and genetics, probably. Donut would think his body is attractive on someone else, but it isn’t who he wants to be, ya know?
And who exactly does he want to be, you may ask? One of the workers at the finally opening FemBoy Hooters. He’d done an obscene amount of research on its history. It had originated on a long dead social media website as a joke in 2019, and had managed to cause enough literal strikes against the regular Hooters in 2555 that they’d had no choice but to open the chain or face bankruptcy. Seemingly luckily for Donut, it’s close enough to their home on Iris that he just sauntered over and turned in an application.
Thing is, the damn strikers didn’t think to ask them to stop with the stupid body requirements they’ve managed to get away with since the 21st century. Which would be all fine and dandy if he’d fit the requirements. They’d had him try the outfit on in person. He’d barely managed to fit into their largest size - a surprisingly tight large. When they’d stamped his letter with a rejection marker, they’d also added “Wish we could have brought you on. Whatever lotion you’re wearing would make hella cash!” Which seems very unprofessional, but considering the extreme lack of professionalism so far, he didn’t really care.
He’d cried the whole flight back home. And had maybe stopped to pick up a bouquet of roses for himself and a pint of strawberry shortcake ice cream. Both of which he’d forgotten on the ship.
As he’d been trekking back to his room, posture all slumped, he’d passed Simmons sitting in the living room. And Grif, but he doesn’t care about him at the moment. Simmons would be perfect.
“Simmons!!” Donut enters the living room with far too much joy in his eyes considering how clear it is he’s been crying. “Simmons~” He does his whiny ‘I want something’ voice, attempting to dramatically lie across both Grif’s and Simmons’s laps, uncaring of the game the pair were attempting to play. The corner of Grif’s mouth twitches into a smirk before he shoves the man hard, causing him to fall off both of their laps, bumping the coffee table on the way down. “OW! Rude!” Donut exclaims. It’s fine. Simmons is his target anyways.
“If I asked you for something really nicely, would you at least consider the idea?” Donut asks in his best whiny voice, moving to sit leaned against Simmons’s legs, resting his head on the poor guy's knee.
Simmons, of course, just sighs. Doing his best to ignore the blush he can feel on the human part of his cheek, he grumbles a ‘what,’ doing his best to not let Grif earn more points than him. Gunfire rains from the TV. Donut doesn’t pay attention. In his opinion, they’ve all had enough of guns for a lifetime.
“Sooooo,” Donut’s stalling. Which makes Grif actually tune in. If it’s enough to make Donut bashful, it’s gotta be good. “I went by the new FemBoy Hooters-”
“No.” Simmons immediately cuts him off. “Nuh-huh, not doing it.” Grif snorts, the pair not even bothering to exchange a glance. Donut tries again “But you don’t-!”
“Nope.”
“Maybe if-”
“NO!”
That’s the end of that conversation for the afternoon.
But being a (former) simple farmers boy with a vision changes you. Mamma didn't raise no quitter. Mamma raised a macho boy scared to say pink, but she really emphasized the 'never give up’ thing.
What Simmons hadn’t accounted for is that Donut knows him a little too well. And that Donut really isn’t a bad tactician when he sets his mind to it. And it really hadn’t taken much for him to get Grif on his side. Donut had knocked on Grif and Simmons’s shared door when he knew Simmons was out. He’d written out a well thought out argument, fit with introductory and closing statements, a thesis, and bullet points. But he’d opened his mouth and Grif, not looking up from where he was playing a game on his laptop, had simply said “Yes.” They’ve been “friends” (or whatever they are) for long enough that Grif knew what was coming and, well, wanted to avoid the lecture. And it doesn't hurt that Grif ALSO wants to see Simmons in that silly outfit. Donut takes his leave, content that Grif will sort Simmons out. Or, at least, push the gullible guy directly into Donuts arms.
“Hey, Simmons…” Grif starts in a tone that Simmons recognizes, hardly waiting for the other guy to get in the door. It’s always that Grif wants him to do something he really isn’t gonna wanna. Simmons scoffs, but doesn’t react one way or the other. After shutting - and locking, as Caboose has a bad ‘barge right on in’ habit - the door behind him, Simmons busies himself with grabbing his own laptop and trying to find his headphones, which Grif had stolen and promptly lost in his blivit side of the room.
“I think Donut has a good point.” Simmons was expecting something stupid. Like, ‘maybe we should kill Sarge before he cuts our throats in our sleep.’ Or ‘let’s put turmeric in Donut’s sheets,’ which even Simmons had to admit was a good one. But the last thing he’d expected is for Grif to touch on that tentative ‘we’re probably gay but also best bros and there’s no good way to initiate that’ thing they’ve had going on for years. And goddamnit is he easily convinced. Especially when Grif looks over his laptop, raising an eyebrow at Simmons. He can’t see more than Grif’s eyes but he’s convinced the cockbite is smirking back there.
In lieu of an actually intelligent, well thought out response, he simply replies “Yeah?” As he sits down at the technically “shared” desk that really only he uses. His original plan for the evening was to plug in and try to get some coding done, but this is arguably more interesting. Albeit flustering. He really doesn’t know what to say. So, Grif, being a merciful god, gives him an out.
Just kidding
“I think.. If you really cared about Donut,” Grif lays the manipulation on thick, “You’d at least consider it.” It’s not nearly as good of an argument as what Grif is sure Donut had written down in his dumbass presentation, but the important thing is it came from him, his best (and most annoying) friend in the universe. Simmons snorts.
“Jeez, dude, straight to a guilt trip? You must really want those blackmail photos.” Simmons tries to joke, but his voice is just the littlest bit strained. So slightly that it’d take knowing him for over a decade to hear it. He doesn't look up from his computer, typing a line of gibberish into an empty text box just to look nonchalant.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Grif huffs, not looking up from his video, either. They have a silent agreement that these kinds of conversations are easier without having to make eye contact.
Grif follows up. “I just think it’d make Donut really happy. Ya know he could use the win. With all the nightmares and whatnot.” Back to the guilt tripping. Praise tends to work better with Simmons but Grif knows it’d take literally saying he'd get pleasure from seeing Simmons like that to get him on his side. Which, he doesn't even know if Simmons likes men, so, bad option. Not worth the risk. Otherwise it’d take a damn big bribe to get Simmons’s shy ass in on this, and he really doesn't have that kinda cash in his account. Lil Debbie made sure of that.
Simmons doesn't respond. They fall into silence for a few minutes. Simmons actually manages to get a little bit of work done in that time. And Grif manages to shove a whole roll of mini donuts into his mouth and eat them all in one bite. So accomplishments on both sides.
“Fine. But you owe me.” Simmons finally breaks the silence, still not looking over at Grif. Which is both because it'd be awkward, AND he’s sure the crumbs all over Grif’s bed are gonna attract mice and the last thing he needs right now is more anxiety.
“Oh, you know I hate that shit,” Grif groans, lazily lolling his head over to look at the scrawny man sitting up weirdly straight at the desk. Last time the ‘you owe me’ card was played, he ended up forced into a bat watching tour with the group. Which was exclusively picked because of his severe bat phobia. Even he had to admit the scared photos taken of him were totally worth the trauma of the event but still. His pride can't take another hit of that genre for at least… Hm, maybe another decade.
“Fine. A thousand dollars,” Simmons shoots back quickly, not willing to look at Grif though he can feel the man's eyes. He can feel that his cheeks are a little pink but shockingly not bad considering the current subject matter. “And you can't steal it from anyone!” Simmons quickly adds, finally looking at Grif and immediately regretting it. The light blush on his cheeks immediately darkens a shade, the warmth causing him to jerk his head back to his work. Stupid fucking flesh… Last time he’d gotten money from Grif, it turned out he’d just gotten Sarge’s bank information (“Shotgun” shouldn't be a sufficient password but somehow Sarge found a bank that’d accept it) and had taken the cash from there.
“Fine, fine, no identity theft,” Grif lies easily (of course he’s gonna steal it), “Cash or check?” He grins, still looking at Simmons despite his refusal to look back.