outfor-v

[outfor-v]

LET ME AT HIM GIVE IT TO ME!!!!!

still obsessed with the sweet rancher down the way who tips his hat and offers to bring in your groceries turning into the biggest foul mouth werewolf

[outfor-v]

yo.... wait... WAIT

A CLIFF HANGER?! U CANT LEAVE ME LIKE THIS

YOU'RE JUST LIKE PAPA!!

cw: explicit canon violence. mw1-2 + black ops 2 characters mentioned. conviniences. explicit death and body horror. torture. harassment. mission "old comrades" in mw (a kid is involved. he's fine). styled text. read with caution.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

wc: 6k

spanish to english translations on the first reblog!

Part 16

It’s unexpected. The adrenaline running through your veins.

Your hands are steady, firm, aiming in front of you as you follow right behind Price. The focus of your eyes moves from the front sight of the Captain’s rifle to the doors Alejandro’s taking you through. The shuffle of the uniforms makes you uneasy, but it helps you focus all the same, especially when you can tell which ones walking behind you are them.

Gaz’ steps are heavy yet quick, as if he’s scared he will start rooting in place if he keeps his feet there for a moment too long. Johnny’s are loud and steady; despite him being the most ridiculous among you, the entire team knows not to piss him off —he can, and will, stab you as he yawns, bored and mildly upset he has to go through the problem of doing so.

And then, there’s Simon. 

If you can hear him, you’re dead —if you’re the enemy, and he’s doing it on purpose. For you, and the rest of the team, it’s easier to tell he’s close. Neither of you can tell precisely where he is standing unless he’s talking, but his presence is clear and oppressive when out of the base. When Simon’s in front of you, he seems to grow meters long and wide like a protective wall; and he only deflates when he’s looking at you, or Johnny, behind his mask.

Inside the buildings, the heat and the adrenaline make your pulse pick up, hyper aware of the amount of color in the walls and the framed paintings. The creaking of the wood under your boots is so shrill that you can feel it digging in your brain, your left cheek jumping with annoyance. And yet, you all follow Alejandro in silence. He seems unperturbed still, sweat running down his arms and nape, but he’s in his element, and you can’t help but feel admiration.

The thought of living under such situation, doing your best to change as much as you can and admit to yourself there’s little you can do anyway, it’s impressive. Alejandro did tell you, the times you’ve talked to him; he is aware how bad it is. To see it in person for the first time, hearing all the things the mafia’s doing to ‘protect’ their territory… It makes you wonder if it’s really any good at all. One can keep fighting, but if it’s easier for others to go with it and play a part instead of trying to take them down, they will. And that’s how it starts, after all.

Gunshots snap you out of your thoughts, eyes focusing on Alejandro and the rest of the team as they all rush to cover. Sinking to one knee as you cover behind a wall, your hands tighten to control the recoil of your rifle —besides the men outside shooting at you, you can’t hear anything else. One by one they drop, guns falling at their feet as your front sight follows them. Despite your shallow breath, you don’t miss a single mark; knees breaking in pieces, arms falling limp, chests exploding —when you shoot at the head, they drop, bodies convulsing until they stop moving. 

Only when they’re all dead, and Alejandro comes out from his cover, does the sound expand to your surroundings again —the far away screaming, the running of people around the buildings. It’s overwhelming for a moment, but you walk right behind them, Price in front of you and the rest on either side. Alejandro’s teams are scattered around the area, no doubt dealing with the same thing, but you can’t think of them, not when your eyes suddenly focus on the growing pool of blood on Alejandro’s arm.

“You’re bleeding.”

The team doesn’t stop, but they do turn to Alejandro for a moment. You walk past Price to reach him, but he only grins at you. “It’s fine, preciosa. Nothing I can’t handle.” Alejandro says, patting your shoulder before moving forward again.

There’s no time to stop. No time to worry, if he’s still standing.

Not even twenty seconds later, you nearly collide with Rodolfo, who steps back to avoid catching a bullet with his face. It all breaks loose again, clearing the place, looking for the leader of Las Sombras though you don’t even know what he looks like. If Alejandro showed the rest a photo, you have no idea —all you know is that his name is Salazar.

You can see people dropping dead on the floor in front of the buildings, both friends and sicarios, all your team inside trying to break through the tight circle they’ve been forced into. Simon has your back, and you can feel the sound of his rifle digging in your brain, your fingers twitching, but as soon as you start shooting as well, making sure Price and Alejandro don’t end up dead, it all goes silent.

It feels as if you’re underwater, everything moving in slow motion in front of you. Your helmet feels heavy and it’s weighting you down, your rifle only firm because you’re trained for this, for the adrenaline, for the shock. Every time the recoil hits against your uniform, you hold the rifle firm and shoot. Memories of other wars you’ve fought, of good times at the shooting range with Simon, with Johnny and Gaz —or even that time with Price. It all floods your mind, drowning you, mind spinning.

You move on automatic when the others start moving, Rodolfo’s gloved hand signaling the team to continue. Your rifle aimed just below Price’s hips, you follow after them, your heartbeat pounding in your ribcage. 

And it goes on, and on. 

Rodolfo and Alejandro show you the way. You all move. 

Aim. 

Gunshots. 

Death. 

On.

There are so many dead sicarios by the time they’re done, that he can’t help but feel satisfied. Since the last time he went solo for a while, Kyle hasn’t felt this content after a mission. After all, little people from their side died, and only two trucks filled with sicarios managed to leave —considering they were around twenty trucks to begin with, he’s okay with it. The teams moved like a tidal wave, swimming in blood as the bodies kept dropping; except for the fact that Rodolfo and Price nearly ate a bullet, everybody seems fine.

Once they’re all back in the Ocelots, Alejandro driving again, do his eyes finally focus on you. There’s a glint in your gaze that Kyle doesn’t like, but even though he calls your name twice, you don’t even blink. Your rifle rests between your legs, one of your hands gripping onto it and the other one tucked under your thigh. He knows that little habit of yours. Back when you were at the hospital and he was sleeping on the floor with you, you’d hide your hands from him. Since you couldn’t place them under your body because of the missing nails, you’d use the blanket, keeping it off his mind by talking.

To see you doing that, after the team talked —behind your back— about what could go wrong with you during this mission, is making his chest tighten. John had been adamant on leaving you back home, and he himself got into a fight with Simon and Johnny for admitting he was —and still is— actually with John this time. John had been surprised, but they both defended their point, until it reached a point where Johnny was one moment from snapping. It took Simon convincing them both to bring you, for the sergeant to calm down.

You’re not ready, and it’s not going well so far, for what he can see. Kyle can see your tense shoulders, the empty eyes and the subtle twitching of your left cheek. You weren’t ready, at all; frankly, he wonders if a punch from Johnny would’ve been a better idea than this, but it’s too late to change their mind now.

As Alejandro tells the team about the next place they’re checking, Simon makes eye contact with him, looking down at you and then Kyle’s rifle, before looking up at him again. Kyle nods, patting his rifle once. Satisfied, Simon looks away, back to talking to Johnny. If you happen to snap or freeze, Kyle will cover you and drag you away from danger; it’s all part of the plan they all came up with, in case you went a little crazy during the shooting.

Johnny wasn’t in for it, to nobody’s surprise, but he said he would go with you to keep you safe if it was necessary. Kyle didn’t take any offense, since he knows Johnny’s definitely the most experienced of them —and probably the only one who won’t hesitate to put you to sleep if you put up a fight. Kyle would rather get shot than to do that, and he knows it’s the same for Simon. That man was never the same since that day, even if he seems to be over the moon since you two made up.

When he calls your name a third time and you continue to look forward, he gently places a hand over your thigh, nearly flinching when your eyes snap at him. They’re bloodshot, bright with bloodlust; not at all what he was expecting. Maybe a ‘It’s too much, take me away’, but not this —he doesn’t know which one he prefers. “Are you okay?” Kyle questions, not removing his hand from your leg. 

Your pupils shake slightly before focusing on his again, and give him a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m good”.

It takes exactly forty minutes for Kyle and the rest of the team to know you’re not okay.

When Alejandro tells them he found Salazar’s family, and that his wife knows little of his sicario life but knows enough, he can see the heavy weight on John’s shoulders, and the light leaving Simon’s eyes. The most important thing is your reaction, so he turns to you. Expressionless. 

It’s almost as if you aren’t listening, as if somebody had dropped a bomb at your feet and you’d decided to accept fate instead of attempting to move away. 

The implication of what’s about to happen pins them to their seats, Rodolfo and Alejandro talking as if nothing’s happening. Of course, they wouldn’t know, since John’s embarrassed of the torture they put you through, and didn’t share it with anybody he holds dear, except for the team and those who heard them that day. Though nobody here agrees with it, sometimes you have to do things you don’t agree with. 

That’s how war works.

By the time they all make it to a safe house, Kyle can’t keep his eyes off you. You don’t seem to be yourself, hands tight on your gun and eyes misty; you’re only a soldier following orders —they all are. Alejandro and Rodolfo guide them, and as soon as the door opens, the begging screams of a woman send an intense shiver down Kyle’s back. 

He hadn’t been that day and didn’t have to hear you, but he can see the way John, Simon and Johnny react. Discreet shared gazes, bodies moving to slow you down, to stop you from walking too fast. Kyle joins on your right, one of his hands moving to hold yours. 

A snapping feeling of disappointment and raw hurt rips through his body when you pull away. Harsh.

Kyle doesn’t attempt to touch you again, his vision tunneling on Alejandro as he guides them further into the safe house. The screams are clear now, and Kyle’s head snaps to the door when the shaky voice of a kid reaches his ears. Disgust burns deep in his chest, but he keeps quiet. This is important, and it isn’t his place to stop it. There is no price they won’t pay.

Alejandro turns to them, head held high. “My brothers, you don’t have to do this.” Rodolfo is standing next to him, eyes kind and with no trace of judgment in them. Alejandro nods at John, who simply takes a step forward. “Are you in or are you out?”

The sergeant’s the first one to move. When he’s standing next to John, Kyle takes a deep breath in and nods firmly. Simon turns to you, but anything he says seems to be lost to you when you step forward —with tense shoulders, Simon nods. Seemingly satisfied with their answer, Alejandro opens the door for all of them.

A lady in her forties is seating on a chair in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around a kid —he seems at least ten, and his eyes are filled with so much fear that Kyle’s resolution wavers. Not enough to leave, however. Alejandro’s men are on the lady’s back, and Kyle and the rest settle in front of her, rifles ready but aiming nowhere near them.

Still shivering with hurt, Kyle looks at you, and his heart squeezes in his chest. He can see the way your gaze fixes on the lady and her son, hands trembling slightly as they seem to flex around your gun. There’s fire in your eyes, disgust and deep fear. The anger pulsing from within your body becomes like a black hole, the light dying around it —it makes Johnny take a step away, though Kyle can tell he didn’t really mean it.

“No es necesario que haya problemas aquí,” Alejandro’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, watching him grab a chair and sit in front of the lady, who only looks at him with clear disgust. “Nomás dinos dónde encontrar a tu marido, y los dejaremos ir.”

“Nosotros no tenemos nada qué ver. El problema es entre ustedes.” The kid’s shivering badly and doesn’t look away from you, just like the lady. “Quién sabe dónde se metería. Nosotros solo estábamos en la casa.”

Kyle doesn’t fully understand what she’s saying, but Rodolfo’s gaze moves to Alejandro when he gets up with his phone in hand. “Mira la cámara, Josefina.”

For a while, nothing happens. Alejandro guides them out of the room and sits down, motioning them all to do the same. The lady isn’t yelling anymore and the kid is out of Kyle’s sight, so he feels better.

You don’t look good at all. It’s subtle, but Kyle can see your heartbeat pulsing faster and faster on the side of your neck. Simon’s been trying to get your attention, but you won’t look away from John. The Captain is avoiding your eyes, keeping his focus on Alejandro and Rodolfo —they both look anxious, looking at their phones as if waiting for them to suddenly grow wings.

When Alejandro’s phone goes off, he nods at John and turns to the rest of them. “I’m picking up a package. We’ll be back.”

And so, they all wait. Your boots shuffle against the floor, pulling away from all of them, eyes firm on the door where Josefina and the kid are. He wants to reach out and sooth you because Johnny and Simon aren’t doing much at all, but Kyle gets it; they’re in no position to try and calm you down, when they’re taking part on holding someone innocent hostage. Again.

This time, they’re fully aware she has nothing to do with it, and they’re still doing it. And the kid… He hates it, he really does; it is the only way, though. Besides, they’re only here to help, and Alejandro is giving the orders this time. It doesn’t matter how much they hate it, they will help. And after all, you aren’t leaving either. 

Just like the rest of them, you hate it, but you didn’t back down when Alejandro gave them the chance before taking part of it. You’re as wrong as they are for being quiet about it, for not leaving. 

It is the way it is.

Faster than Simon can tell, things start happening.

First, it’s Josefina and the kid —who he can’t look at for longer than two seconds without wanting to kill himself—, and then it’s Alejandro and Price leaving. And you… You’re a mess. Simon wishes he could find the tallest building and jump, because you look devastated. Between the two of you, there has never been a need to overly explain each other, merely give reasons, and Simon certainly doesn’t need you to start going off on him for him to know you want to snap their legs in two.

The moment he understood what was happening, he wanted no part in it, but when he tried to take you away, to spare you from this situation, you just ignored him and made your way to Price. It’s… frustrating. He wants to help you, and you keep pulling away, again, and again. Simon knows it’s the trauma —hell, his eye’s been twitching like crazy, guilt and anger pooling in his chest; and yet, you keep silent. All the progress he’s seen, the parts you’ve allowed him to witness, all gone down the gutter in an instant.

Certainly, he doesn’t blame Alejandro one bit. Alejandro and the team are doing what works best for them, and Simon is nobody to tell them it isn’t right, and they don’t know this is a big trigger for you. But, still.

Still.

An hour later, Alejandro and Price are back, a man with a cloth bag over his head in their grip —going by the crazy glint in Alejandro’s eyes, that’s the man they were looking for. With a hidden clench of his jaw, he follows them inside of the room again, Gaz, Johnny and your silent shuffles right behind him. He doesn’t know how they found Salazar, and he doesn’t care at all; all he knows is that your hands are trembling enough for Josefina to notice. She gives Salazar a simple look and turns back to you. Deep in his mind, he can see Josefina’s brain working a plan.

Simon hears her speak, clearly begging, Alejandro’s team shuffling uncomfortably, but your face looks lost, neither of you truly understanding what she’s saying, but when Josefina gets up in a rush, a dozen rifles lift in her direction. She’s crawling towards you, your lips parting in surprise. Simon moves, trying to stop her and to keep you out of the rifles’ way.

“Por favor. ¿No puedes pedir que nos dejen ir? A mi niño y a mí. Nosotros no—”

“¿Cómo se atreven? ¡Ellos no tienen nada qué ver!” Salazar growls out.

It all happens too fast.

Between one blink and another, a harsh gunshot makes the metallic walls shake, and Salazar is screaming. Johnny has a pistol in his grip, Josefina’s trembling by your feet where she suddenly fell to her knees, covering her ears. Simon can’t look away as the kid throws himself against his mother, uselessly trying to protect her back; Salazar’s curses reach him, muffled by his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He completely missed Alejandro giving Johnny a look, and it all happened too fast.

When Simon manages to look at you, your lips are parted, glaring at Johnny. There’s unadulterated hate in your eyes. The sergeant’s jaw twitches but he doesn’t hesitate to grab Josefina’s arm roughly, dragging her back to the chair and away from you. The kid sobs and rushes to his mother’s side again. Price looks in your direction, and quickly makes his way towards you.

“You’ve two seconds to leave,” he grunts out lowly, hand tight right above your elbow. “Don’t make me say it again.”

No, his heart screams at him, bad idea, and Simon wants to punch Price, to snap at Johnny for doing such a thing. But something in your eyes goes colder than ever before and, without a word, you turn around. Your eyes are dark, face completely closed off as you side step him, and shake Gaz’ hand off of you with a sharp smack, hand trembling when you close the door behind you.

Gaz’ face falls, and only then does Simon realize he hasn’t heard him talk in a while, but he can’t care about that right now, not when Alejandro takes out a hammer. Rodolfo pointedly looks away, but his shoulders are relaxed.

The kid screams.

Their screams. The begging.

Words you can’t fully understand run in your mind like a mantra, and it’s sending your brain into shock because they didn’t leave. Soap moved like a robot, Ghost didn’t even blink an eye —you can swear there was satisfaction in his gaze—, and Garrick… The Ca pt ai n. No hesitation, not even a word spoken.

Was it like this with you, back then? Did they truly not know, when Ghost got rid of your na il s? When the disgusting, old rag was pressed into your face, s al t wa t er burning your lungs, did they not know? Did they not know, when your feet started ble edi ng? C ut, after cu t, after c u t. When your throat felt like you were swallowing burning charcoal, your s c r e a m s ringing against the walls, did they truly not know?

Un derw ate r.

Your lungs burn, your eyes can’t focus and all you can see it’s the sunlight reflected against the surface, and it’s so, so far away from your reach. Lungs collapsing, your throat constricts around the scream that you want to let out. 

Help. Please. Help. Why does nobody help me? I am alone. Again.

Help. Help.

Please.

Help.

Alone.

Help-

When you can finally focus, you’re surrounded by yellow trees that make your nose twitch. When you look down at yourself, you notice there’s a piece of cacti stuck on your leg, but you can barely feel it, mind foggy. It’s a clear sky; bright blue, no clouds, and the sunlight hitting your skin dead on. Your mouth tastes like dust, and your hands and arms are filled with cacti spines.

Suddenly alert —and in terrible pain—, you turn around, trying to find Alejandro’s safe house. You need help.

Trees. Sun. Burning ground everywhere.

You don’t recognize were you are.

Panting, you walk, walk and wal k, hoping to find wherever you came from. In shock, you see a big jumping cholla half destroyed. Considering your injuries, the spines embedded in your skin, you’re responsible for that. A broken whimper leaves your throat, bringing your hands to your mouth as you try to bite the spines off your skin. With a bloody taste in your mouth, you spit out the spines you manage to remove; when a spine roots itself in your tongue, a loud sob is ripped from your chest.

Loud voices calling your name reach your ears, and you can’t handle it. Everything hurts. It burns. It’s tearing you apart. Still sobbing, salty tears burning the spines on your cheek —the ones you hadn’t noticed before—, you fall onto your knees. “Please!”

The voices grow louder, and louder, until an startled ‘fuck!’ overwhelms the rest. You don’t know who they are, and you don’t care. Soft hands cradle your face, tears still falling, eyes tightly shut. Then it’s pain. Pain. P ain. P a i n.

So. Much. Pain.

Awareness comes to you slowly. You can hear frantic shouts, arguing, and then the pain is muffled. Finally. Your eyelids are heavy, so you don’t fight it, leaning on whoever is holding you, promising everything is going to be alright. Distantly, as your body relaxes, you recognize the accent, and your heart fluttering in approval. Rodolfo, was it? No ghosts haunting you this time. 

You’re not sure what time it is, but when the tiredness lifts from your shoulders and your eyes blink open, you’re in a dark room, and there’s little light coming from the window. You can’t feel pain anymore, so that’s a good thing. Standing up, you turn the lights on, fighting against the dread as your feet take you to the bathroom.

It… could’ve been worse.

The spines will definitely leave scars on your face, arms and palms, but not even one touched your eyes so you mark that as a win. There are no voices anymore around you, and you have no idea of where the team is, but Sim Ghost’s and Garrick’s bags are on the floor next to yours. The scent of lavender and vanilla fills your lungs, mixing with the chlorine coming from the toilet. If they truly left you in a hotel room alone, with no guns that you can see, you will snap their necks.

The panic from before slowly burns alive again as you go through your bags, trying to find your knives, but there’s nothing. It makes no sense. You may have panicked before, but it was reasonable! Your te a m was being stupid, and the Captain kicked you out, so of course you were upset. It’s not like you fell on the spines on purpose, and you wouldn’t do that with the knives. They know that. 

Angry with them —and it’s an emotion you think will never leave again—, you move the curtain from the window next to the door and look outside. It’s dark, but there’s nobody you know in there, not a single Ocelot on sight. It also makes no sense. If they left, they would’ve told somebody to stay in case you needed help. At least, that’s what they do whenever anybody in the team gets hurt. 

‘Ah, but that was before. Wasn’t it?’

‘A burden.’

Your eye twitches.

‘And they don’t want you.’

Your nails dig into your palms.

‘They would let you die just so they-’

A grumbling coming from your stomach interrupts your brain. 

Hunger. You’re hungry. 

Food. 

You decide to focus on that.

Since you couldn’t find your knives nor your guns, you grab a pen. It’s better than nothing, after all, and it’ll have to do while you go check if you can find food somewhere. It’s not entirely deserted, but you don’t know anybody, and because you’re wearing the uniform —and your face is covered in injuries—, the few people you can see jump out of your way.

Deep in thought as you walk to what seems to be the motel’s restaurant, you remember something Alejandro told you years ago. People here don’t respect the military; they hate soldiers, would beat them up in group if necessary, yet they’re equally terrified of them. So really, you’re not at all surprised it doesn’t change with you. You’ve no idea of what they have to go through for them to be glaring in your direction yet still hold onto each other like that. 

It’s not like you particularly care. As long as they don’t get too close, you keep your pen hidden.

As you’re reaching the —mostly empty— restaurant, you see a group of men coming in your direction. Despite the anxiety burning in your chest, you force yourself to think it’s just civilians who happen to walk in that direction. Still, you take a deep breath and quicken your pace.

“¿A dónde, preciosa?” a voice mocks behind you. A few snickers and huffed laugher follow right after. 

Your broken spanish is not enough, yet you know that tone exactly; you’ve been dreading to hear it, ever since that d a y. Your shoulders tense, turning around to face whoever is talking to you. Faster than you can understand what’s going on, cold metal makes contact with your chest, the back of your head and one even taps your breast with the flat side of his gun. Instincts kicking in, you take advantage of the pistols being pressed to you, and move quickly to take the gun from the man tapping the side of your breast.

It’s a sea of limbs as you try to kick them off, men laughing, until you’re fully unable to do anything, feet no longer touching the ground. And people are staring. They do nothing. No matter how much you scream, they turn their heads away from you.

Your lungs are collapsing. And yo u’r e 

unde

        r

          w

            a

              t

                e

                  r

The waves take you away from the shore, filthy hands holding you just below the surface, and you can’t breathe.

Ca n’t. B re a th e.

And they keep on laughing, but it’s muffled. It doesn’t matter what you do, everything goes black.

For nearly a year, you’ve been trying to forget it all. You’ve moved on. The team is back together, and your smile is genuine now. 

Crack. 

And you’ve been a good soldier. A good comrade. Price is your Captain, pretty much your father. Who doesn’t argue with their father?

Crack.

Simon. Simon’s been the best boyfriend you can think of. And Johnny, and Gaz too. They’ve been your support. They’ve helped you get through…

Crack.

What was it, again?

Cr ack.

Cra ck.

C r a c k.

On a chair in front of you sits a woman. You’ve no idea who it is. Why would it be important, anyway?

And, ah, it burns. Who would’ve thought matches could hurt this bad? But really, it could be worse. You should be thankful it’s only matches, and not a skull mask. Gods, no. Never a mask.

There’s a sound right behind you. It takes you back to when your family would go treasure hunting for the summer. That’s a shovel, isn’t it? One. Two. Maybe three. It’s hard to focus. Hard to count.

“Where are they?” the woman questions, tone bored. Her green boots are tainted bright red. They seem wet. Weird.

You’ve no idea of who she’s talking about, so the only sound that comes from your mouth is a gasp when a hammer hits right against another one of your toes. You barely react anymore, not even when one of the matches is so close to your left eye that you wince. The smell of burnt hair reaches your nose, suffocating and overwhelming, but your toes are throbbing, and nothing matters more than that. Then, you blink and can’t feel your eyelashes anymore. 

Well.

It’s not a skull mask.

The woman sitting in front of you says something you don’t understand. Maybe spanish. Maybe not. Your body is trembling too much for you to care. Hands hold you up, and distantly you think it’s finally over. They’ll kill you, and it’s gonna be alright. 

You’re floating, waves taking you away from the shore, and it’s over. It finally is.

You don’t know since when it’s been raining, but your pants are cold and sticky, and they smell. If it’s good or bad, you don’t know. Don’t care. It’s a relief, after the matches.

Your body falls, and falls, and then you’re drowning. Acid, and fire down your lungs. It burns, and it hurts. The scent of the gasoline makes you scream and choke, desperate to get away. Eyes tightly shut and in panic, you try to climb up the hole, bloody nails sending dirt right against your face. Rash forming in your scalp and your face, you keep on screaming. Begging. Crying.

And it burns.

It hurts.

So much.

Risking looking up, you see matches getting closer, and closer, and your heart is pounding in your ears. You can’t hear, you can’t think. Out. Out. Out. 

OutoutoutoutOUT O U T-

Gunshots manage to break through your panic and a loud, pleading scream is ripped from your chest as you keep trying to crawl out of the hole. Salty tears burn on your skin, fill your lungs, and everything, all of it hurts, but then hands are holding you again, fresh air hitting your face and it’s a sweet relief, because the gasoline is making your entire body tingle. 

Eyelashes gone, you can only keep your eyes tightly shut, sobbing as the pain becomes so extreme you can just scream, pulling away from whoever is holding you. Your heels dig on the hard ground, trying your best to keep your broken toes from getting on the way.

“It’s us! Stop fighting!”

“She won’t listen! Just hold her down!”

Dust fills your lungs, completely confused yet the pain of the gasoline on your skin is lighter. Manageable. When your eyes burst open, six different faces look down on you. You don’t know them. Strangers. Danger.

Pain.

With a jump, your hand sneaks to one of the men’s hip, stealing his knife and, with the strength you never knew you had, you hold one of them in a tight headlock, the cold blade of the knife pressed against his neck. “I’ll kill him. Drop it!” You scream at them when their rifles aim up at you.

“Johnny, don’t move.”

“I said drop it!”

“Captain, we have to-”

The man in your grip is completely still, but he’s shaking. You don’t care. 

It hurts. And it burns. And they’re waiting. They’re waiting. You can’t leave them alone!

“No! Simon, don’t-” the man chokes when your arm tightens around his neck, cutting off his air supply. Deep down, you’re wondering why he isn’t fighting you, but the man with the mask is staring at you.

And his rifle is aiming at your head.

One.

Two.

Nails.

S i x. 

Smack.

Nin e.

A rifle goes out.

It makes your hair blow away from your face. The shock is so intense you nearly let go of the man, your arms allowing him to breathe as you stumble back, vision going dark for a moment. 

Another gunshot.

The knife drops from your hand in slow motion. Your eyes are fixed on the way your hand is twisted in an unnatural angle, bloody and half-dangling from where it’s supposed to be. 

“What have you done?!” the man with a cap screams, rushing forward to tackle a snarling bearded man. 

Pain numbs you down to your toes.

The man that you had held in a headlock reaches for you. Tears roll down his face, gripping onto your arm to keep you still. “Please. Please, we have to-”

There’s a dark glint on his hip. Sweat rolling down your face, body shaking and your dominant hand completely fucked up, you manage to use your other hand to curl your fingers around the man’s pistol. His hands immediately go up, face contorted.

Multiple voices scream at you, some begging, some snarling in anger, yet the man you’re pointing the pistol at is crying. Defenseless and desperate, blue eyes filled with pain.

You know that feeling.

Not him.

Looking away from him, you finally focus on the other men. They’re still screaming, yet you can barely understand what they’re saying. It’s like you’re drowning again, a twisted sensation of calmness amongst the pain you’re feeling.

‘Ah, I’m exhausted.’

“Drop it!”

“You’re safe. It’s us. It’s us. Drop it!”

‘Who are they, anyway?’

“Look at me. Focus!”

The man with the mask is yelling, rifle shaking. As your eyes focus on him, your breath hitches. A skull mask.

No, not a skull mask.

It is.

How is it smiling? 

Why is it smiling?

Every single one of them is grinning. Names rush to your brain but you’re far too gone with pain, staggering too much to pay attention to the small part of your mind telling you to listen.

It h u  r t s. Sleep. Go s leep.

The mask is grinning, a face coming into view yet the lips are curled up, mocking. Laughing. It flashes red, and it hurts. It hurts.

You raise the pistol again, focusing on the man with the mask. He’s laughing. He’s crying, mask off. Mask on and laughing. Huh.

You shoot at him, watching him drop to his knees.

Something warm settles in your chest, and they’re all screaming again. 

“You fucking shot her!” 

The bearded man comes in sight, his mustache quivering with amusement as he looks down at you.

And it all goes black.

well, that was something. thank you all for being so patient and waiting a whole month for this. next chapter will be the last!

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

Masterlist | Part 17

Buy me a coffee

are Josefina and Menéndez siblings here? no. they're not the canon character, I just took their names bc i love them (I stand w Menéndez)

also, poor reader, passing out more than jason grace

take care of your mental health. don't ignore whatever your body is trying to tell you.

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @codeseven @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

[outfor-v]

It has already gone way too far...

Webtoon + Instagram + Patreon

[outfor-v]

I literally <3 Picrew 😋

ofc i gotta get that asian combo

thank you for the tag! @jae10velies !!! picrew here tagging: @iqxatlantic @isenkus @jenodigital @cheralith and anyone who wants to do this <3

[outfor-v]

WHY IS EVERYTHING SMUT WHY WHY WHY JS GIMME SOME HEARTWRENCHING ANGST OR TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF I DONT WANNA SEE THE WORD COCK FOR LIKE A WEEK STAAWWPPPPPUHHH

[outfor-v]

I love the romance between them all omg, THEY'RE ALL SO CUTEEE

cw: a bit self-indulgent. implied age gap. as a reminder, reader is in her early 30s. briefly suggestive price x simon. military inaccuracies. author cannot stand alejandro’s spanglish so they don’t even try. author is mexican. mexican mafia. slightly explicit descriptions of death and remains (a mafia special, if i may)

primary simon x f!reader. poly tf141

wc: 5.1k

First | Last | Next

Things have been rough. That’s probably the best way to put it. 

Back when you were still home and Simon took a few extra days to assure you they were okay after a mission, you’ve gotten so worried you couldn’t keep yourself from reaching out —truthfully, your suspicions were right, but that was it: worry. But now? To see Johnny coming back with a fucked arm, to see Gaz so exhausted and knowing that Simon’s helmet was the only thing that saved him from a bullet through his brain… it puts you back in perspective. It’s a painful reminder. War is real. Your missions are real. You all can die.

Deep down, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, your body knows you lost part of yourself these past months, and it’s impossible to get it back. Being sheltered at home for months made you forget, in a way, that this isn’t just waiting for a text. You thought you’d never forget all the bullets you’ve taken, all the times you’ve seen your friends and comrades nearly die in the battlefield —or those who didn’t make it, but you got too comfortable. You lied to yourself, and now you’re left with nothing but fear and regret.

In a way, you’ve already accepted Price wasn’t wrong when he said you should’ve changed teams, but you’re still pissed at him for encouraging you to do so. Who is he to even insinuate you’re too damaged to be with them, when it’s because of him that you are? He’s the one who didn’t believe you, the one who didn’t even try to ask you and just assumed that nearly ten years of working with them meant nothing to you.

Somehow, you get it. You are the new addition, from nine years ago. Even though you know now that he followed orders and tried his best to understand what was going on, who can blame you for resenting him? Even if just a little.

Simon shifting in his sleep has you snapping out of your thoughts, the blooming anger slowly diminishing as his arm curls around you. His breathing is slow, too controlled, and it pulls a soft huff from deep in your chest. “Why are you awake? It’s like three in the morning.”

“I can hear you thinking,” he mumbles, lips brushing your bare shoulder. “Why are you awake?” Simon’s strong arm tightens, guiding you onto your side so he can look at you. With the little light in the room, his eyes look like those of an attentive cat; if he had a tail, you’re sure he would be curling it behind him —stalking. The image is forever sealed in your mind just thinking of it and it makes your lips twitch in amusement. Despite everything that happened, Simon hasn’t changed. He’s a good lover, and an even better friend to those around him. “Hm?”

“Nothing. Come on, let’s just sleep.” Your hand pushes on his shoulder, gently forcing him to shift until he’s facing the door. Not wasting a single moment, your arms wrap around his middle, your cold nose buried deep in his warm back, inhaling the faint traces of his body wash there. “Perfect.”

Simon’s chest rumbles with a low chuckle, fingers interlocking with yours as your hands rest right over his stomach. He’s soft and warm, and it feels perfect to be the one holding him; Simon’s the one who’s presenting himself to you like this —like a puppy on his back, belly up and vulnerable. The trust you two used to share is slowly building up, but the days he spent at your home helping you and simply being there filled your heart, making you comfortable enough to accept him back into your life.

You’re not sure when you actually fall asleep, but Price’s long gone from your mind by the time you’re awaken by the alarm in the morning. Simon’s half-ready before you get up from the bed, eyes alert and ready for the day. The bed is warm and cozy, limbs begging you to take another five minutes, but you’re used to this, so it takes you little to no effort to leave the comfortable bedsheets.

Training. So. Much. Training.

It’s not a surprise that the world doesn’t stop while Kate is getting things ready, but it’s a little jarring not to be out there helping Alejandro already. Being forced to wait has never been your strongest quality. For now, training will have to do; training, and more training. Bags are almost always at the ready, so there’s not much to do but to wait for Kate to be back and take you all with her.

Gaz and Johnny are nowhere to be seen, so you spend most of the day laying on the training mat, Simon’s weight is heavy on you as he reminds you how easy it is to lose to his strength. You’ve always put up a good fight, but he’s still too strong for you, too heavy. Truth be told, you’ve taken soldiers heavier than him, than the whole team, but it’s the adrenaline of the battle. With the boys, before, it was just… trust. Your body couldn’t force itself to pretend you were genuinely in danger, because you were sure they wouldn’t hurt you. Now, with him holding you down like this? You’re not sure. A little bug in your mind tells you you’re scared he’s being serious, that he genuinely wants to hurt you again, but you only push it away.

It’s been months since you last seriously trained, so Simon takes it upon himself to make sure your reflexes are good for what’s to come. The sicarios will definitely shoot on sight, but it’s always a good thing to know how to physically restrain them if put on the spot.

Your legs bounce on the mat everytime Simon manages to make you trip, his clear eyes mischievous and observant behind the mask. He’s walking in circles around you even before you stand back up, making sure you can’t read him properly —and it’s getting on your nerves. It’s hard to focus, the dragging of his feet on the rough mat and your harsh panting keeping your mind on edge.

Despite your gaze being firm on his face, you’re too aware of his feet, the flexing of his fingers, and the ridiculous tilt of his head. Johnny pointed it out once, and you’ve never forgotten. Neither of you told Simon you noticed it, because he would’ve gone out of his way to correct his little habit, but it’s there, clear as day. 

Tilt to the left, he’s moving right. Tilt to the right, he’s moving left. He’s cocky with it, too. Simon doesn’t even notice, but it’s pretty much useless, anyway. Doesn’t really matter you can prepare a moment before, when you end up falling on the mat not even ten seconds later.

Only when your arms and legs are sore and shaking like jelly, does Simon lift his hand, signaling you it’s time for a break. He sits next to you as you nearly choke on your water. “Not bad. Nearly a minute before I beat you this last time.”

With a huff, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Worst is, you can tell he means it, and isn’t just teasing. Simon is worried you won’t be able to defend yourself and only rely on your knives —even if they do work—, so you take it. Still, you steal his bottle, standing up. “You’ll bite the dust next time. For now, I really need a shower.”

As soon as you leave his sight, Simon quickly grabs his phone, expecting a complete mess from his chat with Garrick and Johnny.

He’s been planning this since he knew you’d be back on duty by the time your birthday came around, and couldn’t leave the rest out, so he decided to be unwise and let them help. Even though there are urgent things they have to take care of, Simon would be damned if he didn’t at least get you a cake for your day. He’s been keeping your mind off the fact that it’s your birthday, going as far as to delete the notification from both your phone and his, and ordered everyone to not even mention it.

Really, it isn’t so hard, since Garrick and Johnny are busy baking and they aren’t here to fuck it up for him. Now, he’s fully aware they should be training properly and getting ready to depart, but it’s you, and he knows that even Price is avoiding you like the plague because Simon will not have you thinking they forgot if the Captain can’t hold the secret in. He finds it ridiculous; Price can commit war crimes without batting an eye, keep major secrets from the military and even give orders he doesn’t like, but Gods forbid he has to keep his mouth shut around you.

Of course, the only real problem is that Simon doesn’t trust Garrick in the kitchen, and Johnny… he loves Johnny, but that man’s walking danger if he’s near the stove. There’s a reason why him and Price are the only ones allowed to cook if they have the luxury to choose —you don’t suck that much, but it’s easier for them to cook anyway; so, he isn’t surprised to see so many texts and pictures from Johnny. 

Garrick messed up the food coloring, and now the frosting of your cake is mold green for whatever reason, and somehow they got the wrong flavor and it’s gonna be a bloody carrot cake instead of vanilla. Simon knows there’s no time and they will have to work with that, so he only tells Johnny to hurry up and go to the common area.

Usually, if this were anybody else, they would’ve probably gotten some beers and cake in the room and called it a day, but the lasses refused to make it so simple, so Simon let them do whatever they wanted with the common area. He’s gonna have clean it up anyway and they know what they’re doing, so he’s not gonna be a dickhead about it. Besides, the lasses made sure to remind them that they use 3n1 shampoos, own two t-shirts each, and know nothing about decoration. 

Fair, Simon thinks. He doesn’t understand what the 3n1 shampoos have to do with it, because they just work, but he’s not going to question that. “I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be fine”, is all he thinks to himself.

Not even two minutes later, Simon’s in the common area, and things go south thanks to Garrick.

The cake is already mess enough, but when Garrick tries to connect his phone to the speaker to surprise you with your favorite songs, music ends up blasting through the entire base. The girliest pop Simon’s ever listened to suddenly makes his ears hurt, though he only grimaces under his mask. Even the lasses flinch as Garrick tries his absolute best to stop the music, his phone slipping from his fingers in embarrassment and only turning the volume up by mistake —because of course he does. What Simon isn’t expecting is that you suddenly walk over, hair still damp over your shoulders. Everybody freezes, wide eyes looking in your direction. Garrick manages to stop the song, pursing his lips as he stares up at you with big puppy eyes.

“Was that Twice?” 

“Likey is a bop” Johnny quickly retorts on the other side of the couch. The rest, mostly Simon, can only stare as you walk to the middle of the room, half of the balloons on the floor and confetti bags on the table.

“Knock Knock is better, but you’re not ready for that conversation. And… What the hell is this?” You raise an eyebrow, head tilting. Before anybody can say a word, you yelp, looking scandalized. “Shit, whose birthday is it? It’s not Price’s, is it? I didn’t get him anything.”

Deep down in his mind, Simon is incredibly worried you don’t remember your own birthday, but the way your eyes light up when it finally clicks for you, makes the entire day worth it. Hell, he doesn’t even think you’ll mind the ugly mud cake the two idiots set up for you, nor the fact that the beer isn’t cold anymore. Garrick beats them all, grabbing you in his arms and nearly judo flipping you in a loud, smacking kiss.

“Harry birthday, darling.”

Price arrives a few minutes later after Simon sends him a thumbs up on the phone, arms packed with gifts; a new sleeping bag, a box of tampons wrapped with a little ribbon, face masks, and an otter plush that reaches down below his knees. It takes no time for Johnny to let everybody know he got the big stuffed otter for you, and Simon’s heart mends itself the moment your arms wrap around the sergeant’s neck so suddenly that he stumbles back to the table. Johnny’s entire palm makes contact with the cake in his haste to hold you both up and, even if Garrick yells at him for fucking up their hard work, you’re laughing. 

It’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t care the party he was planning pretty much got ruined. If you’re laughing, if you’re happy, that’s all he genuinely cares about.

And, for a while, nothing else matters. Simon has you on his side, Johnny still licking his fingers clean instead of washing his hands like a normal person, and Price and Garrick are deep in conversation. He can’t really tell what they’re talking about, but Simon’s eyebrows raise up to his hairline under the mask when Garrick grins and pats Price’s thigh, leaving his hand there. 

Well, then.

Despite you being next to Simon, your full attention is on the lasses, your voices drowning out his thoughts, but he doesn’t feel like talking anyway —not when he finally feels like his life is coming back to what it used to be. You no longer flinch around him, or Johnny, and even if he can tell you two aren’t exactly back together, the bond seems to be growing back. He’s willing to cling to anything he can at this point.

The thing is, Simon is happy. And he’s absolutely terrified because of it.

The thought of you being in danger, of him fucking up and making you panic and rightfully hate him again keeps in on edge, petrified. There’s little he can do to keep you from freaking out, except whatever he can control directly, but there’s no way to tell if they’ll somehow make you so upset it sends you into spiraling down the hole. They dug it up themselves, that’s true, but he’s really trying so, so hard to fill it and make it up to you in ways you can see and feel. Mostly, he’s putting effort in becoming a better version of himself for you, for Johnny and the team. And for himself, too.

Following orders is something he always keeps in mind —his body reacts to a direct order without a second thought sometimes, he can’t change that, and fuck, Simon did try that day. He really did. Despite that, he’s been considering retiring so he can stop that configuration in his brain. He’s not so far from being able to do so anyway, and if it doesn’t work, well… He can just accidentally step on a bomb, or fall on his knife with his knee a few times.

Simon doesn’t think you’ll follow him, but maybe, deep down, he is hoping you would be willing. Never in his life did he consider asking you to step down, but taking you away from all of this, safely, is an idea that’s been clouding his mind for a while now. The problem is, Johnny, Gaz and Price are here too. It’s not just him you care about, and even if he tried to deny it for years, he has killed and would die for everyone in the team. 

The lasses love making fun of him, and have never been scared of his reactions. Simon finds it ridiculously amusing, and he likes them; they’re the little sisters he never had. Distantly, he makes a mental note of spending more time with them at some point, because they’re usually at base, or out /committing war crimes/ in secret missions, and they barely speak. All he knows is that two of them are dating, and that Johnny got slapped by one of them once.

Simon gets so lost in his thoughts that he only realizes you’re talking to him when you gently pat his knee, meeting his eyes. The lasses are sitting on the couch, all surrounding Gaz; they seem to be adding songs to the playlist, and he wishes he could zone out again. Johnny and Price are sitting on the table, eating the smashed cake with plastic forks.

And you? You’re raising an eyebrow at him, cuddled up against him with your hand still on his knee. Simon doesn’t know what you said and he doesn’t hide it, only staring at you with all the love he’s been reining in for the past months. Whatever little retort was about to leave your lips dies in your throat when he leans forward, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead over his mask, too lazy to move more than that.

“Hm?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“No.”

Your pretty hand slides from his knee to his thigh, face completely calm. He keeps very still, only raising an eyebrow —there’s no way you’re about to do that in public, and he knows it—, but then your fingers squeeze his thigh, making him curl up on himself, leg jumping. The yelp that leaves Simon’s chest is so unlike him that everybody fucking turns to the two of you as you tickle him.

“You little shit.” Simon’s not fast enough, and doesn’t manage to grip your wrist as you spring up from the chair, running over to Johnny to seek protection from him.

The sergeant doesn’t disappoint, all too content with letting you sink in his arms, one of his big legs covering yours so you’re in a little cocoon, only your forehead visible over his biceps. Simon’s heart trembles, meeting Johnny’s eyes. He looks relieved, satisfied and smug at the same time —it’s been really a long time since he saw Johnny so content. Price chuckles next to them, still munching on the ruined, muddy cake. 

As Simon leans down, grabbing some of the mold green frosting with his finger —the intention of wiping it across your forehead just to make you squeal forming in his mind—, another person joins them. The music comes to a stop and Price is on his feet in just a second. The newcomer has her eyes firm on Price, shoulders tense. The lasses stare at each other, hesitating for a moment before they grab their stuff, nodding at Laswell as they silently move to leave the common area. Part of him wishes he could tell them to stay, trying to delay this.

Kate walks in, giving the lasses a nod as they walk past her, and then places a big, heavy file in Price’s hands. Her expression is so severe that Simon’s gut fills with dread, his instinct screaming at him not to go. “Everything’s ready. You leave at dawn.”

“Do we have a name for the other cartel yet?” Price questions her as the rest of the team gets closer. “Alejandro only mentioned Las Sombras.”

“Las Sombras is a faction of El Cartel de Sonora,” Kate explains. The rest stand around Price, staring at the big file in his hands as he slowly checks through the pages. Simon’s eyes are on Laswell’s, encouraging her to continue. “They have inside problems, which is not unusual. Factions are common.”

“Too many people. It gets stuffy,” Gaz huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Johnny nods next to him, the tension in his shoulders and his jaw painfully obvious. As Kate continues talking, they all pay attention to her.

Las Sombras have been killing and making members of Los Menéndez, another faction of the Cartel, disappear —definitely dead already, too. They’re clearing the border, monopolizing the secret entries to the U.S and shooting the immigrants who come with the coyotes who refuse to work with them. Over two hundred deaths within the cartel in a single week, not counting the innocent citizens getting caught in the crossfire.

Considering the corruption, Alejandro’s only real choice is getting in contact with the U.S, but they all know better than that. After that time with Valeria in Las Almas and Graves, he wants nothing to do with the U.S if he can help it; though the orders aren’t always what they all want to hear. Still, he decided to contact them directly, so Simon is ready to assist.

Apparently, from what Alejandro gathered thanks to the people he has inside, the leader of Los Menéndez, Raúl Menéndez, isn’t in bad terms with the Mexican Special Forces, cooperating in many things, but there are traitors everywhere and they’ve been an easy target with some of the soldiers pointing fingers to save their own heads. It’s been a massacre; firepits filled with human remains found deep in the desert, semi-public executions every other day and a lot of shootings within the towns. People have been fleeting their homes, rushing to get to safety. The U.S government even decided to open its doors to mexican citizens who seek refuge from the situation, though they’re only allowed in a specific town.

Capture and secure the leader of Las Sombras, and leave. That’s all Alejandro is asking from them, and they’d be damned if they didn’t respond.

Needless to say, the celebration is cut short. 

Since the day didn’t go as planned and the lasses couldn’t decorate as they wanted at first, Simon makes a quick work of cleaning up. He turns down offered help, sending the rest to finish packing as he tries to distract himself.

The anxiety is killing him. There’s a ball of pure fear in his throat and he can’t seem to swallow it down. Even if his fingers are careful taking down the balloons to make sure there’s no tape on the walls, his mind is racing, stumbling with the possibilities. He could fuck up. Johnny could fuck up, or Gaz, or Price. His mask could be a problem. Maybe it’s better now, because you control when the skull mask is over his face, but in the middle of the battlefield… There’s no telling. And so, Simon makes a decision. 

Back in his room, finding you asleep on his bed, he takes the skull mask out of his backpack, folding it and stuffing it to the back of his drawers with the rest of the old clothes he never wears. He won’t risk it, and if he can help by bringing just a plain black mask instead of the one that gives you goosebumps, he will do it. Simon has no plans on putting it back on, even if he’s gotten used to your little help. Your distress is just not worth it.

Content with his decision, Simon joins you in bed, one of his arms wrapping around you, his left hand tucked between your body and the mattress. He makes sure the hour of his alarm is correct at least five times before he’s satisfied and buries his face in your back, hoping the anxiety eases like this. 

Against all of his expectations, it isn’t the alarm waking him up, but your hand on his shoulder. Simon jumps up from the bed, disoriented and sweat rolling down his nape. “What time is it?”

“We’ve time. I woke up a bit earlier than the alarm,” you chuckle, running your gentle fingers through his blonde hair. You decide not to tell him, but he has pillow wrinkles all over his cheek, and he’s left to just stare at you in confusion at the softness in your eyes. “We leave in twenty.”

Sleep hangs heavy on him, rooting him in place despite himself. His anxiety is growing deeper, panic setting in his bones, and it doesn’t matter how hard he tries, it doesn’t stop. There’s no logical explanation, but his head’s been in full alert, overthinking ever since the day Laswell came to tell them about the mission, even if Simon didn’t share his worries with the rest.

He doesn’t share them as they get on the plane, all of them looking grim.

He doesn’t share them when he ends up between you and Johnny, both of you passing out on his shoulders. They’re all used to the snoring, and they have a long flight to go, so nobody says anything, focusing on their own things.

He doesn’t share it twelve hours later as they walk out of the plane.

Nor does he share it when Price personally comes over, hand firm on his shoulder as the rest walk to the vehicles. They go way back, so Simon isn’t at all surprised the Captain is the first one to ask about his silent anxiety. “It shouldn’t take long. Are you worried?” 

“I’m fine.” Simon’s hand is trembling, but he manages to hide it by adjusting his mask over his face, fidgeting. Price nods, patting his back —he doesn’t believe him at all, and Simon’s aware, but he doesn’t explain himself, knowing the Captain understands him regardless.

“Care to join me tonight?”

Tempted, Simon considers it. You did mention you’d be staying with Gaz and Johnny for the night, so why not? He turns to Price and nods, humming. There’s little in Simon’s life that’s easy, but his relationship with Price is; he’s safe and comforting, both in the battlefield and the warmth of his bedsheets. He doesn’t think he can pinpoint the moment it started, the little flirting, lingering touches that changed one night, but Simon does remember Price gave him one of his best.

Hell, the Captain had his legs shaking —not that he’s ever gonna admit that if asked. 

Price did know, of course. He had been so smug the next morning that the bastard didn’t even bother putting on clothes after getting out of the shower, smirking behind his coffee mug. Simon did try to keep his groans to himself, but Price had to help him get up.

From then on, it just kept going, and it didn’t change even when you came into the picture, already aware of the little tension in the team —and so, he would end up showing up at Price’s door more often than not. 

Now, nine years later, everything aches, so they had to adjust, but he likes it that way. Even if things change, it doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. 

In the morning, both of them wake up with the beeping of John’s alarm, taking a small moment to sigh before they get up from the bed. Simon realizes just then that the anxiety hasn’t left but it’s easier to breathe now, and the panic that was so stubbornly settled in his throat has disappeared. John made sure to make him talk last night, to let go of whatever was happening in his mind, and then took it away from his body like it was nothing. 

There’s no need for ‘thank you’ between them, not when it comes to this. Simon rarely seeks physical comfort from the rest, usually content with being everybody’s comforting shoulder, but John really is just that person for him. It’s not that he’s better than you, or than Johnny, he’s just different, and it works for him, and for everybody.

And so, the flight to the north of México doesn’t take long; Johnny has less than an extra hour of good snoring before they start getting ready to descend. 

The base is just like Simon remembered: big and scorching hot. The sun is so harsh it has the entire team grimacing, but Alejandro greets them with a bright smile, hugging them all tightly. He doesn’t seem one bit bothered. 

“Welcome back, brothers.” Alejandro’s smile is bright when he hugs you, his hand less rough when he pats your head. “A sight for sore eyes, preciosa. Come on, let’s get moving.”

You’ve never been to México before, but the sweat rolling down your spine doesn’t make you all too happy. The moment you saw trucks packed with armed people in the back, you instinctively reach for the gun, only to be stopped by Gaz’ hand. “It’s normal here.”

“Guns on the street are jurisdiction of the police,” Alejandro calls from the front seat, his eyes twinkling. Price lets out a soft chuckle from where he sits next to him at the front, as if that was funny for some reason.

“So where’s the police?” you ask, letting go of your gun, not minding when Gaz interlocks your fingers, smirking down at you. They all seem all too calm about this, and it’s creeping you out a bit.

“Hard to say,” Alejandro shrugs, reaching out to adjust the mirror so he can look directly into your eyes for a moment. “If they’re not corrupted, dead on a ditch.”

“What about the military then?” You frown, completely confused as to why they all look amused at your questions, but nobody interrupts you both.

“We’re all well trained, so many are recruited by the narcos,” Alejandro explains calmly. “Don’t worry your pretty head about that. It hasn’t changed since I was a kid, and it probably won’t change even when we’re all dead.” 

The conversation comes to an end when he turns left, leaving town. It’s quiet for a while, Alejandro and Price talking among themselves. It gives you some time to look out of the window, taking in the amount of cacti and big mezquites running along the path. As Alejandro drives, another five Ocelots join, informing the Colonel of the leader of Las Sombras; he was seen arriving to the town they’re driving to a few hours ago, no more movement after that. 

Only when you meet Simon’s eyes, who’s sitting in front of you, all of your loved ones holding rifles tightly, prepared for battle, does it hit you. Again.

If you don’t make it, if you screw anything up, they’ll die.

And it’s gonna be your fault.

There’s no coming back.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

all information written above is fictional and/or of public knowledge. 

toda la información escrita anteriormente es ficción y/o de conocimiento público.

just in case y'all didn't see my post, we have two chapters to go :) im honestly excited!

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

[outfor-v]

love these Pinterest idea haha ty for tagging me

animal — hobby — tattoo — celebrity crush

W tat?

I also may or may not be in my Norman Reedus era..

Game: share the first pin that shows up on your pinterest when you search: animal, hobby, tattoo, celebrity crush.

❤🫶🏻

[outfor-v]

holy fuck sorry just thought of something and I had to write it before it flew away.

you work at a men’s department store. unusual, next to the large mannequins and suit sets- dressed in heels and tight skirts with a measuring tape to tie it together in a centimeter marked bow.

but the pay is nice, and for the most part you’re a service for gentleman. heavy wallets. wandering eyes, but hands that stay in the pockets you alter.

it’s summer, a slow season for cotton suit jackets. but on your evening shift, you get an appointment notification. he’s polite over the phone, if not a little curt. normal.

the first thing you register is his size. tank of an individual. swings his shoulders when he walks due to their weight. a height that slouches his neck. wide arms.

the second is his suit is extremely worn.

tattered, ripped seams, thinning fabric. criticism tears it to bits when he reveals the event is a wedding. you send him a gentle look from behind your lashes.

“are you…sure you don’t want to buy a new suit?”

he scoffs, but doesn’t respond. you sigh.

“at least look at some of the options.”

and then you’re measuring him, and bless your soul it’s hard to keep yourself professional. hands following the thick ropes of muscle to get his wing span, around his arms to get his shoulder. realizing when you kneel in front of him to get his thighs, just how fucking large he is.

and then the bastard adjusts his pants.

hands pulling at the trouser waist band, thick fingers in the belt loops. and horrifically, just as you look up, you catch the imprint of his fat cock settling between his legs.

swells behind the fly zipper. you feel light headed when he lets go, and it bounces before disappearing. teased. you swallow thickly.

the corner of his mouth twitches.

“what do you think, sweet’eart. need a different size?”

[outfor-v]

why does everyone look lowkey normal compare to whatever this is...

guys let’s start a reblog chain. Share your strange search history. No shame only vibes.

@chronophobiaclown @defronix @pubbipawz @almostholynerd @av-the-art1st @k1kimiki @s0apsuds @massivescissorsthingperson

@graygreenfemboyenjoyer @cosmo-lives-here @shadowreaps44 @3gobsmacked33

@10-cats-in-a-trench-coat @royaltystudios

no pressure if you don’t want to tho, im just bored and thought it would be fun

[outfor-v]

To people who are desperately asking for fundz/donations on tumblr.

USE THESE REDDIT SUBS INSTEAD PLEASE FOR GOODNESS SAKE!!!!!!!!!

Hate Reddit if you want, but using these subs are your best chance. People gather in these subs because they have charity to spare:

/r/Assistance /r/legaladvice /r/RandomKindness /r/Charity /r/care /r/Random_Acts_Of_Pizza /r/Food_Pantry https://www.reddit.com/r/RandomActsOfPetFood/ https://www.reddit.com/r/RandomActsOfChristmas/ https://www.reddit.com/r/almosthomeless/ https://www.reddit.com/r/homeless

/r/freelance  /r/povertyfinance /r/thrifty /r/borrow /r/gofundme

/r/depression /r/familysupport /r/transitions 

I never see anyone actually getting any significant donations on tumblr and to be honest, tumblr is the worst place to ask for assistance. Use it as your last resort, it frustrates me to no end seeing people begging for help, reblogging the same post over and over, the same types of posts over and over, to no avail, when people are waiting to help you on a different part of the web  GO TO WHERE THE HELP IS. IF YOU WANT DIRECT ACTION TO WORK STOP WITH TUMBLR AND USE REDDIT.

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF SATAN REBLOG THIS SO WE CAN START REDUCING THE AMOUNT OF DONATION POSTS THAT GET STUCK FLOATING AROUND THIS WEBSITE

[outfor-v]

i wish tiktok emoji is useable everywhere im so obsessed with them.

list five emojis you associate with yourself

🎀🖤🎨🌿🌙

feel free to join the chain if u see this pooks

list five emojis you associate with yourself

🫶🏻🌷🐇🧚🏻‍♀️🩷

tags .ᐟ @your-mommy-ems @glowydiaries @binibby @jjsblueberry @lovethornes @midiosaamor @maybxlle @daystarpoet @auntiejohn @sororygilmore @haeerizm @inmyheaddd @gentlehue @xoxoivy13 @sweetreveriee @sweetnnaivete @catchmeonyourceiling @calamaroo @hers-underwraps @mooshie-blue @lost-in-reveriie @xoxoivy13 @xoxochb @caramelmiacchiato

[outfor-v]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

Continuation

[outfor-v]

Thinking thoughts about fae!Reader who looks just like a normal person, not a trace of magic in their appearances, not a smidge of glamour the rest of their folk use routinely.

Fae!Reader who crosses paths with 141, their eyes warm when they sell a handsome man with Mohawk a sketchbook in a tiny town somewhere in the middle of nowhere, when the lads are out there.

Fae!Reader who follows the taste of their bonds, who feeds off the “thank you, bonnie!” from a friendly Scot, their eyes shining for a single moment before they are normal again. Regular. Human.

Fae!Reader who meets the even friendlier sergeant right after, their fingers itching to trace the smooth expanse of his dark skin, to sink in teeth into the muscular forearm.

To see if the man bleeds as pretty as he looks.

It’s a different city and a different time now, their hook sinking into the soft underbelly of man’s genuine gratitude when they help him to pick up spilled groceries.

Fae!Reader who hunts Price down, two steps up on the ladder, their excitement vibrating so hard that part of their human, regular appearance start to melt off.

They meet him in a different place again, they get a short “thank you, love” — off-handed and hardly warm, for a cup of coffee they serve him.

But it’s still a thanks, it’s still another hook.

It’s still a debt.

Fae!Reader who comes to Price in dreams, their face always murky, their appearances ever changing, their weight on his hips making him ache for things he shouldn’t. Coaxing out a plea from him, getting their fill of his desperation, kissing the man stupid and leaving before sunrise.

Fae!Reader who now is three steps up, leaving them with the last one.

With Ghost’s heavy presence, with Ghost’s watchful eyes and iron all over the body. This one could be tricky.

Ghost, who knows that they will come — who have seen the dazed look in his captain’s eyes, the way Johnny itches for something and doesn’t remember what for, the way Kyle develops strange hungers he can never sate.

Ghost who bumps into you himself, ‘accidentally’ dropping your coat off the back of their chair in a bustling cafe, murmuring “here ya go, luv” when he picks it up and gives it back.

Fae!Reader who tilt their head to the side and murmur “thank you”, Ghost’s fingers lingering on your shoulders when he puts the coat back on them.

Cold outside, luv, wouldn’t want you to freeze when you are so far away from your court. Following them to the edge of the world.

Bond snaps in place like a tight golden lace, when fae blinks at him astounded, their eyes shining for a second too long, their human face starting to melt just above their left brow before they pull themselves together.

Simon knows he needs to be careful. Simon knows that fae are petty, that fae are dangerous, that fae hold grudges for as long as they live.

And they live forever.

But Ghost hums under his breath and pulls away finally, turning his back to the creature that haunted his whole team for the last three years, weaving themselves inside them.

When pretty fae comes back Ghost is already waiting for them — tugging them out of their shadows, biting down on their neck and holding them down.

You hiss at him, shadows curling around Simon’s ankles, threatening to break them in half. But Simon has the shadows of his own.

Ghost tuts at you like you are unruly pet being ridiculous, leaning in to lick your blood off, low growl rumbling in his chest. Fuck, that’s even better than he thought it’s going to be.

You are half dazed and half mad, when he pushes your back to his captain’s chest. John’s smoke curling like a live thing, John’s fingers angling your head up, thumb prying your mouth open.

Bad bad idea it was to come to them yourself, to make them want and yearn and wait.

Soap smiles, light bending around him, his eyes impossible blue of mountain springs, his teeth just a little too sharp.

His fingers getting into your hair, getting himself just a strand, just enough to tide him over while L.T. and captain take their fill.

Didn’t you know you need to be careful, bonnie?

Fae are petty, after all.

Fae are vicious.

Fae are dangerous.

Kyle’s fingers tug your shirt off, big palms of his coming up to your chest, stars dancing on the edge of his irises, his smile stretching a little too wide to be human.

Fae hold grudges for as long as they live, darling.

And they live forever.

[outfor-v]

CHAT! IS THAT MY FAV WRITER COMING OUT WITH AN UPDATE FOR MY FAV SERIES

cw: mention of mexican mafia and cartels. violence. military inaccuracies. a hostage situation. reader is unprofessional and insubordinate (nothing new). price plays favorites. brief mention of a boner (one sentence), nothing explicit nor serious. primary simon x f!reader. poly tf141.

cw: 4.3k

for @outfor-v because your support has been insane and it means a lot to me. thank you 💙

First | Last | Next

It’s been a couple of days since everybody’s been back, and only a few weeks since Simon saw you for the last time at your house. He’s surprised how much better you look; full cheeks, a healthy glow on them, and your eyes alert. With you on his right, Johnny on his left, he feels like he could take over the world. 

He will start with the mission, though. It takes a few days for Kate to get to base, and as soon as they all gather to greet her, her serious face makes everyone sit down. He’s known her for a long time, and Simon’s sure she will outlive every single person in this room, including Price himself. She never takes unnecessary risks but, when she does, Kate always makes it. It doesn’t matter if the team has to rescue her at some point, it’s as if it was part of her plan all along.

Inside of Price’s office, as Kate shuts the blinds, Garrick and Price mutter to each other, legs pressed together. Bickering, as always. To this day, Simon wonders why they even  broke up, if they’re very obviously gone for each other still. “Kyle, John, be quiet. I need to give you all the information because there will be no paperwork on this, and that means no info gets written down. Pay attention.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am,” Garrick calls, his posture becoming mockingly impossibly straight. Simon sighs internally. Garrick and Price are a pain in his ass, but adding Kate… well. He’s sure she has them eating from the palm of her hand.

“Don’t you ma’am me.”

“Very well, Laswell. This is unlike you, coming to us like this for a secretive mission. What is it?” Price interrupts their little banter, eyes focused on her. “What happened?”

The atmosphere in the room changes as she starts talking. Years ago, they had to deal with Hassan, and the mexican narcos. It had been bad, corrupt and tiring, so Kate doesn’t dwell much on the past, but the way she meets Price’s eyes, Simon knows she remembers very well the day she was taken. Despite being taken hostage that day, Price told them she killed one of them herself, and snapped at him for apologizing. A fierce lady.

Price’s fingers curl on his knee but he nods at her, asking Kate to continue.

“Alejandro is asking for your help. The new cartel is taking control over the immigrants who cross the border, killing those who won’t go with them, and it’s stirring up problems for the Mexican Army, and the Special Forces.” Kate stops for a moment, briefly meeting Price’s eyes again. “Because of the cartels crossfire, innocent citizens are dying. I don’t have much information on them, but Alejandro has people inside and has found information that links the leader to a few politicians, and Valeria’s old cartel as well.”

“Are you asking us to meddle in mexican politics?” Johnny questions, straightening up on the chair, his face twisting. Simon isn’t sure he’s liking this any better. “If anything goes wrong, videos of our severed heads will be rolling online, and not just from the narcos’ phones.”

“You never sent me your email, by the way.” Simon mumbles, a grin spreading under his mask when Johnny nudges his shoulder.

“No, no politics. Alejandro is requesting our help to capture the leader of the cartel, and nothing else, just like what happened with Valeria back in the day. Whatever happens after that, it’s not our business.” Kate shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “No paperwork, no assistance. Just your weapons and Alejandro’s team.”

It is true that it’s not the first time this team has done things under the radar, and it probably won’t be the last either. Just like Farah, Alejandro has been there for them over the years, so not only Simon knows they would do this for them and more, but also the rest of the team, bickering forgotten as Kate explains the situation.

Capture the leader alive, assist Los Vaqueros and get the hell out of there. It’s not gonna take long, if everything goes according to plan. And so, it’s Johnny who stands up first, nodding. “What are we waiting for? Let’s catch the fucker.”

“This could be messy,” Price hums, rubbing his thumb over his chin. “Not legal at all. We have no jurisdiction, and we won’t have any protection.”

“It’s what you do, John,” Kate huffs. “What’s another war crime? These are our friends. We can’t give them an army, but a couple hands is all they’re asking for.”

“Ready when you are, Kate,” you declare, your hands steady over the table. Simon’s chest puffs a little bit with pride at the determination in your voice. It’s comforting, knowing you aren’t hesitating even though you don’t know the full situation with Alejandro and the mission back in México. He’s a friend, and that’s enough.

It’s not that they didn’t want to tell you, it was just so long ago that they couldn’t be arsed to mention it in full detail anymore. Alejandro has been in contact from time to time so you do know him well —hell, Johnny had been pissed about it for a few weeks—, but the rest of it will have to wait for now.

“What’s the name of the cartel?” Price questions, moving to light up a cigar. Simon can tell his mind is starting to spin, to plan. “Who are we dealing with?”

“Las Sombras.”

Despite being forced to wait a full week while Kate gets everything in order for them to finally travel to México and aid Alejandro, they aren’t lazy at all. With the info of a group of innocent people being held hostages by terrorists a few states away, they all move quickly. 

Simon’s ears are as sharp as his eyes are, and he doesn’t miss the tension in Price’s tone when he orders you to stay back, and provide help from base. To nobody’s surprise, your eyebrows shoot up, your lips curling in anger but you still nod, taking his orders without much obvious reluctance. You turn your back on Price, moving to grab Simon’s arm to take him away, needing a moment. You drag him to his room, no words coming from you as your fingers reach for the skull mask sitting over his desk.

The first time that happened, was the night you got here. 

He had been wearing a black mask because he knew you were coming that night, and because it was something you two discussed a while ago when he was at your home. Seeing you again made him smile, removing the mask once you were alone in his room, and the hug he received from you… heaven on earth, really.

“Where is it?” you mumbled against his neck, your lips brushing just slightly against his skin. Your breath was warm, and it was making him sleepy in your arms.

“Hm?” Simon had hummed, his fingers running along your skin, caressing and feeling. He could feel your goosebumps, and he’d never been happier. He pulled you even closer, pretending like he didn’t understand what you wanted. Delaying the conversation was the only thing he could do.

“The mask.”

“What mask?”

“Simon.”

He sighed, sitting up from where he was laying with you to dig into the drawers. The balaclava was coarse to the touch, even more so after that day, even if he had washed it until the skull started to fall off —if he tried to bite it off, that’s his business—, but nothing could erase what he did. What they all did to you.

“Why? I can buy another one. A different one.”

“No. Just… let me.” With a shaky hand, you reached out for it. You were quiet for a moment, staring at the mask, weighting it, your thumbs brushing against the fibers. It was only after ten whole minutes, which Simon did count in his mind, that you looked up at him. “Okay. Come here.”

“What? No. You’re insane. You’re doing well. I can’t, and you shouldn’t.” He protested, shaking his head in disbelief, and your wobbly smile did little to reassure him, but when you got on your knees, sitting between his legs, he just froze. He was terrified. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m fine.” Despite your reassurance, Simon kept a gentle hand on your left hip, grounding you, and grounding himself, half-prepared for a fight, or for you to freak out.

Sitting very still, Simon didn’t look away from you as you gently slid down the skull balaclava over his face. Your hands shook, body recoiling slightly, but as soon as his eyes were visible again, you tried to find them, focusing on them. It was nerve cracking, staring at you in silence, expecting you to shoot him or kick his balls —and with zero plans on avoiding it. 

When you said nothing for whole ten heartbeats of his, he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “You’re safe, lovie. It’s me.” For a painful moment, you were radio silent, kneeling in front of him as if your thoughts were far, far away from inside the walls of his room. “Sweetheart? You with me?”

A deep huff left his chest as you tackled him to the bed, your body shaking, refusing to look at the balaclava, but also not letting go of his neck. That first night you slept right against him, the skull mask forgotten at some point of the night, tugged off just so he could feel your skin against his cheeks.

After that, everytime he has to do something, train the recruits, scold somebody, or just go to work out, you’re the one putting the mask on and then taking it off at night. He doesn’t bother questioning it, because he knows why you find it necessary; and in all honesty, if you said it would be better if he didn’t use a mask at all anymore, he would drop it. His face is plenty scary anyways.

Now with the skull balaclava resting over his face, he lifts it just enough to kiss your forehead, hoping it eases your nerves. “Stay in touch. We’re a team, it doesn’t matter if you have to stay back this time.”

“It matters. Price is doing this on purpose.”

“He is. But take it easy, he’s already pushing it by letting you be part of the mission from here, and you know it.” Meeting your eyes, he fears you’ll get mad at him, but you only nod, biting your tongue.

Watching you say goodbye to Garrick, full lips on lips and a soft smile, makes his heart give a warm tug —and squeeze with envy too. Johnny has it worse than him, though, getting a side hug and a little pat on his cheek. Simon’s aware of the lack of intent from Johnny’s part to fix things directly, including the times the sergeant has cried in front of him and not in front of you, but he can also see the improvement between the two of you. You’re less worried, less scared of him. Of them. And Johnny seems happier.

Price’s not so lucky, however. You barely knowledge his presence, but he takes it with grace, giving you a cheeky nod, before walking away with the rest of them. He finds it amusing, the way you never hesitate to jump on their faces, call them out; even before that day, he never knew peace when it came to you. Only when you were in his arms away from the battlefield did he know what true happiness was, and when Johnny joined right next to you… his little piece of heaven.

Right in his heart, he still burns with shame, regret, and disgust for himself —it’s forever rooted in his soul. Hell, Simon’s never been good taking orders, unless they came directly from Price, but that day his instinct, his heart, everything in him, was screaming, begging him to realize it was wrong. Now, he doesn’t know what to expect. It doesn’t matter if it’s been nearly a year since then, he will never forgive himself for screwing up, for becoming the reason for you to shut down into yourself from time to time. Still, that’s for him to carry and to deal with. You’re the one struggling with it.

Their orders were pretty much easy, if he’s honest. Shoot people with guns on sight, rescue the hostages, protect them, and take them back to base. It was easy. Soap’s not one to shy away from a good fighting, and he will put a bullet through anybody’s brain to do his job with no hesitation, especially if it’s to save people, but he wasn’t expecting the twist in their mission. The minute they got the hostages out, seven of them, he kept wondering why they were so… strangely quiet. Ghost clocked on it instantly as well, but they couldn’t be held back because more people could still come, so they moved quickly.

Sergeant Garrick behind them, keeping their backs secure, and the Capt’n up front making sure it was clear for them to move the refugees out to the van, Soap and Ghost moved quickly, keeping the group safe in the middle like a flock of sheep —just as jumpy as the real thing, too. With heavy steps, hesitant looks, and a whole lot of dragging bare feet along the rough floor, they manage to advance. It was easy. Until it wasn’t.

The first bullet went through his own arm. Everybody panicked, rushing to take cover, and Ghost was first thing next to him, his masked face turned to the refugees as he ordered them to stay down. The next bullet, not even a heartbeat later, made Ghost fall on his back, his helmet steaming. Soap didn’t miss where the shot was coming from this time. Right in the middle of the flock of sheep, one of them had a shit-eating grin plastered on their face, a pistol raised.

The L.T laying on the ground, Gaz and Price moving to take the rest away, Soap raised his gun and made an organic strainer right out of the refugee. No hesitation, his instinct roaring. He only came to his senses when Ghost groaned and stood up, grabbing his arm. Soap had forgotten he got shot as well, but that didn’t matter when he could breathe. Simon was okay.

It didn’t matter as they got to the vans, the refugees telling them what happened; a whole lot more talkative now. Apparently, the man had been with them when the shooting started, and pretended to be one of them to save his ass. That’s why they were so hesitant to speak, why they moved so slowly. Didn’t want to be caught in the middle and didn’t want to get killed if they opened their mouths.

That also didn’t matter when Gaz checked on both of them. The bullet went through his arm, but he was alright for the most part, and the adrenaline didn’t let him feel it, anyway. Simon, however, was fucking annoyed. He got shot because he was careless, because he focused on Johnny instead of the mission, and now they all had to go back to the base after not asking for your help, after the Capt’n didn’t let you come, and hurt.

“She’s gon’ have our heads.” Johnny sighs, staring as the refugees sleep, snoring their fear away. According to them, they’ve been prisoners for a month, so Johnny wasn’t sure when was the last time they slept. Didn’t really want to tell them much, however. “And I’m coming back with a fucked arm.”

“She’ll rip my bloody head off,” Price huffs from behind the wheel, eyes looking forward. Johnny can tell he’s already preparing himself, and they all know it’s not gonna be pretty. “Fucking hell.”

The fact that you could’ve genuinely helped them makes him feel extremely guilty. He’s one of the reasons why you can’t come with them, and he’s here, while you’re forced to stay back. And it’s slowly becoming part of himself, is the thing; he can’t go to sleep and expect a good night, because he’s haunted by it, the guilt chasing away his happy memories and replacing them with shame and regret. Johnny’s stained. Worthless.

“Could’ve been useful here. Another pair of eyes on them. That’s why we’re always together, John.” Gaz isn’t one bit happy, arms crossed and his gaze never fully leaving Johnny.

“Bite me, Kyle. You know damn well why she couldn’t come today.” 

“Well, if you’d told her that, maybe she would’ve understood.” Gaz snaps back, the rumbling in his chest painfully obvious. Johnny and Simon share a look, choosing to stay quiet during their lovers’ spat. “If you didn’t want her to be back yet, you should’ve ignored her petition. You’re the fucking Captain.”

“Yes, I am, Sergeant. Anything else you wanna add? Another decision you wanna question?”

“... No, sir.”

“Thought so.”

At first, it goes well. Simon helps the sleepy refugees out, the lasses guide them to the choppers, and Garrick and Price aren’t talking, but they’re not fighting anymore. Johnny’s next to him, ignoring the wound in his arm, but they’re both calmly walking to the clinic to get treated quickly. This spotless place gives him flashbacks of that day. The beeping of the machines bite at his brain, his eye twitching as the guilt floods him again, and again. It’s ridiculous, really, because he’s been here multiple times, half-dead and filled with grief from his lost mates… but nothing compares to that day. 

Spending time with you made a difference. Your kindness, your understanding, and the lack of anger from your part when you were alone with him helped a lot. Wave after wave of happiness made their way into his heart again, and he could see it again. Your love. 

Inside of Price’s office and with his back to you, Simon doesn’t see you coming down the hall, but he can hear hurried steps and he just knows. Could recognize your footsteps anywhere, even in his sleep. And so they all turn, Simon’s blonde eyelashes fluttering at the sight of you. Safe. 

There’s no love in your eyes this time, however, when your gaze falls on them. Bloody, ragged, Simon’s slightly fucked helmet in his hand, Johnny’s bandaged arm and Garrick’s angry expression in full display. “What the hell happened?” you demand, your entire body shifting to face Price, who’s taking his gear off from behind his desk, pointedly not staring at you. “Johnny— why didn’t you idiots ask for help? I was right here!”

“We tried to, but—” Garrick tries, bullshiting right through his teeth. Simon clenches his jaw, meeting his dark eyes. Wrong move.

“I tried connecting with all of you, and I got nothing but radio silence back, so don’t give me that bullshit.”

“Things go wrong,” Price huffs, the defensiveness rolling off of him. He turns his back on them, shouldering off his vest. “This went wrong, but we’re all fine. Soap’s alright, too.”

“You’re all in one piece, aye, but you know what?” With a single stride you’re standing in front of Price, your left hip sending his desk flying in the other direction. Instinctively, they all shift, turning to you and taking a step closer, except for Price, who’s staring down at you with a cold expression. “You could’ve been killed. We know how to operate together, and I could’ve been useful. I can’t just sit down on my arse and let you guys go out like that!”

“You’re more useful here.”

“Doing nothing? Don’t give me that,” you snap at Price. For a moment, Simon is scared Price is about to smack you down, but he only rubs his face, looking painfully old. “You don’t want me out there? Alright, but at least make use of me from here, goddamnit! I could’ve helped. The lasses were in position, just waiting to be called in, and what do you do? You go in blind!”

“They couldn’t have helped. One of the hostages—”

“I know that, one of them told me already!” Your voice is raising, your entire body shaking badly with anger. Simon can see the repressed emotions in your expression, the way you’re letting it all out on Price. He’s never seen you this angry before; maybe only when Johnny smacked your ass that one time years ago —pretty sure he still remembers the taste of your boots—. “Not because they were there themselves. What, we can’t go now? That’s what this is about?”

“What are you even talking about?” Price’s face twitches, offense clear in it.

“I think maybe we should…” Johnny tries to meddle, taking a step towards you, but that’s another wrong move. Your head turns just a bit, your eyes never fully leaving Price, and Johnny and Garrick take a step back at the same time, looking away. Simon, however, only stares, silent. —If his pants are a little tighter now, that’s his business—.

“Us. Women. What, you fucked up with me and now you can’t trust yourself not to fuck up again? Scared you’re gonna get a new reputation for that?”

“That has nothing to do with it, that’s absurd! What’s gotten into you? Since when do you believe I think such things?” Price jabs his finger in your forehead, forcing you to take a step back. Simon sees the mistake clear as day, the anger burning deep in your eyes, the cracking of your wrist when your right hand lifts.

A hard finger jabs into Price’s chest, your curved fingernail stabbing into his chest. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. If you didn’t want me back, you should’ve said so!”

At that point, Garrick steps away, leaving them there as he removes himself from the situation. Johnny follows right after him, meeting Simon’s eyes to urge him to leave as well. In the end, he also turns on his heels, and closes the door behind him. Your loud voice and Price’s raising tone ring in the air until he’s back in his room.

The music coming from his headphones bounce from one ear to the other, resonating in his brain now that he’s in his bed. Honestly, the last time he saw anybody go off on Price like that was so, so long ago, he doesn’t even think you were there to see it. Who knows, maybe his mind is playing tricks and you were that person too.

The soft pillows help his mind drift away, not wanting to think of you probably stabbing the captain as he just lays here, but… you wouldn’t. You two argue like real father and daughter, and he knows the care and love is just as real. Simon knows you’re pissed, and he knows its valid, but he also fully understands Price, even if he wouldn’t do the same. Hell, he wouldn’t have let you come back, but he can’t make that call, after all.

Simon’s eyes fall shut, Chad Kroeger’s voice filling the void of emotions settling in his stomach. Only his thumb moving against his stomach to the rhythm of the drums gives away that he’s awake, because he barely makes noise —unless he’s snoring. He’s one loud snorer. He’s proud of it. Good lungs.

He would’ve fallen asleep, if not for the dip in the bed that makes him open his eyes. Your face is a bit puffy, your hair slightly messy and curled from the tight bun you were wearing before, black hair tie now around your wrist. Simon’s hand lifts to your cheek on pure instinct, the momentary peace barely letting him think and process the fact that you’re leaning down. 

“Do you recall how long it must have been since any room held only you and me?

And every song that sings about it, says that we can't live without it. 

Now I know just what that really means”

Your lips feel soft on his, salty, and the sliding of your warm tongue on his is so slow, so perfect that the blood rushes to his chest, leaving him breathless. Simon wasn’t expecting anything like this, not when you were so busy fighting Price just a few minutes ago, but it’s… everything.

And it’s bloody perfect. 

Simon manages to breathe through it, deep fear of you pulling away from him eats at his heart, his brain screaming at him to hold you against him, to never let you leave, but his hands can only cup your cheek, hold your forearm. He’s on cloud nine, his heart pounding so forcefully against his chest that he’s half afraid he’ll break his ribcage.

But nothing, absolutely nothing matters when your arms wrap around his neck, both of you shifting until you’re on your back on his bed, headphones forgotten on the floor as he can only look at you. You’re messy, and there are tear streaks on your cheeks, but he can’t think of any day you’ve looked more beautiful than today.

“You could’ve died.”

That makes Simon take a shaky breath. He couldn’t care less if he died right now, if he got to hold you in his arms just a moment longer. Not planning on dying, he only nods his head softly, not wanting to remind you that that is literally your jobs. “I know.” 

“And I wasn’t there.”

“I’m back. And you’re here.”

“I should’ve been there. It’s stupid that I’m just…” You trail off, your fingers curling on his nape, fingernails brushing on his skin. Simon lifts an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue, knowing you’re not done yet. After a moment, your arms tighten around his neck, fingers lost in his hair and then your lips are on his again.

Simon wouldn’t mind dying like this.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

todo lo escrito anteriormente es ficción y de ninguna forma intenta aludir a algún tipo de organización de la vida real. es ficción y entretenimiento. ☝️🤓

buy me a coffee!

well! we've come so far. we have... six chapters left so don't be so happy yet. but hey, progress!! so exciting.

we're a little over 1k now, you guys. i can't thank you enough~ hope i can keep making fics we all enjoy. special shotout to @sheepispink because I wouldn't be here without her amazing sergeant reader series (and her friendship). best thing ever, forever thankful!

also, I hope it didnt come off as Laswell being into Gaz and Price 💔 she's just v cool!

the whole thing w the mexican mafia... ;) surely nothing bad will happen and nothing in this chapter is foreshadowing for anything!

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @codeseven @babydoll-143 @viennakarma @exitingmusic @lockofspades

[outfor-v]

oooo thanks pookie

Decode — Sabrina Carpenter

Malas Decisiones — Kenia OS

So Beautiful — DPR IAN

@kittygonap @sheepispink yall got tag already but teehee

MUSIC LOVERS ASSEMBLE!!

i feel like starting a tag chain so i hope this works out :)

reblog this with 3 songs:

the song your listening to right now (or last one you listened to)

your current favourite song

a song of your choice

______________________________________________________________

mine:

its now or never - elvis presley/love in the dark - adele

trastevere - måneskin

nevermore - queen

______________________________________________________________

tagggzzzz: (np ofc) @heartstopper-lover123 @s0lit4ir3 @ali-da-demon @vicwritesfic @skeelly @charliethinks @tori-my-love @chronic-skeptic @toulouseradiosilence @stewpid-soup @nine-frogs-in-a-trenchcoat @pessimistic-gh0st @theshyqueergirl @crowleybrekkers @a-bowl-of-soop @frogfairy444 @robinheaney12 @fairyghostgirlgaming @thatsawesomedontyouthink @venusplanetoflove2 @thelovelyvie @abookishshade @spir4nts-lun4r @i-have-no-idea-111 @kit-the-queer @a-wondering-thought @scatteredraysofhope @coco6420 @softlyunbreakable @givennnnnn @far-beyond-saving @darling-im-wonderstruck @heartstoppernerdsstuff @nonbinary-idiot-obviously @rebelrobinrules1984 @daydream-of-a-wallflower @leonine-elizer @angel-devil-star and anyone else who wants to join!!

[outfor-v]

chat, my commission with @kewrd is done OMGGG

literally amazing, perfect, and so much more i wish i could put into word but take this reaction image for it

please, please, PLEASE!! check out their work! they're so amazing and I cant wait to do more commission with them when possible!!

they have so much patient working with my thousands reference i kept throwing out 😭

thank you so much again for accepting my comms, it was my first professional commission done and im so HAPPY SNSJSJSBD!!

[outfor-v]

simon’s lover calls him bub.

“love you, bub.”

“s’okay, bub. don’t worry about it.”

“how was your day, bub?”

and he grumbles. says pet names are corny but at least it’s not baby or babe.

but the second you call him simon, he’s on alert. back straightening, ears going hot, hands clamming, and going into a panic.

his brows furrowed as he approached you, looking almost nervous.

“can you get me a water, please?”

and he does it, goes through the motions but he’s so in his head. why the fuck did you call him by his name?

downright pouting and petulant when he plunks down next to you. his confusion so palpable you feel it. even turn to him and ask what’s wrong but all he does is shrug. “s’nothin’.”

your eyes narrow but you nod nonetheless. turning back to what you were doing. but before you know it, he’s huffing.

“s’alright for you to keep callin’ me bub. or whatever shite you want.”

and you have to stifle your laugh because of course, of course!

“thanks for the water, bub.”