#cw: cucarachas | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pythonmoth · 3 months ago

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heard you want requests so here I come! Probably angst to fluff Imagine a black/asian/caucasian or a minority reader that has self esteem lower than Nanami 6 feet deep. So imagine one of the 141 being accidentally racist... Like just for a few times and the reader goes radio silent with them (may or may not be during a mission) Imagine them realizing how fucked they are... a wee lil inspiration by Fuck Tha Police by N.W.A

cw: homophobia. brief mention of physical harm. xenophobia towards mexican reader. crude language. soap and gaz are bullies for like… a bit. (valid) anger issues. anxiety. fuck and find out. reader has low self-esteem and is hot-headed. reader downplays how badly they're treating him. military inaccuracies. brief simon riley x m!reader. brief gaz x soap at the end. happy ending promise.

very vague insinuation of sa by soap (will mark this w red) it makes reader snap at him.

Molotov

Like a ghost, you move around the base. Chin up and eyes bored.

Rent is expensive, and it’s not like you can catch a flight to your country and come back by monday, so your days off are spent at the base. Soldiers come and go, those who live in the same city anyway, so it’s you and a few others who have nothing to go back to for the weekend. Like your entire team.

You’re not too close to the team, mostly because they know you were forcefully transferred, but you know it’s because you always rejected their conversation attempts during the first weeks; really, nothing like being a self-imposed outcast. A hermit. At least they don't bother you much. They know why you’re here, why John took you in. The real reason. They won’t go stirring the hornet’s nest just because, but they can avoid you like the pest and snicker behind your back. It’s not like you’re proud of it, not really. It just happened, like everything else did.

Your nickname callsign surprised you at first. You thought it was because you got angry very easily, and didn’t hesitate to jump and smash your teammates’ heads against the floor, especially because it happened once or twice before. Burning just as fast as a molotov. Alas, not everybody gets their callsigns over something remotely cool, and you heard the real reason when you were taking a piss, your back to Gaz and Soap, who were just coming in.

“Spreads just as easily”.

It was easy to admit it made your lips curl up in amusement.

They didn’t really go beyond putting some baked beans on your pillow, and those few-weeks old tacos under your bedsheets that got your room smelling awful for hours. Even when they suddenly started singing La Cucaracha, very lowly, whenever you walked near them was pretty much okay. You can handle that easily. Really, it’s mild compared to what your old mates did in México when they found out you were sleeping with your Captain. Most of the injuries healed, but some of the scars will forever be in your skin, reminding you of the reason why you’re here.

Back when the Captain —your lover then— found you, blood covering your face and uniform, skin nearly falling off your arms, but four men passed out around you and a fifth man pinned under your boot, he knew you couldn’t stay. He pulled on a hundred of favours, threatened the soldiers who hurt you, and kept on pushing until he managed to contact John Price, an old friend of his. John welcomed you in easily. And the team didn’t really mind it. You’re a good sniper, after all.

So really, having little, harmless pranks done to you isn’t so bad, and they even got you a cool callsign, even if their real reason was just homophobia. At least it wasn’t Arse Bandit or something worse. That one would be difficult to ignore.

You like the team, in a way. Ghost’s just as quiet as you are, mutual understanding of never bothering each other. Gaz’ very loud, just like Soap, but most of the time you can grin to yourself when the two of them are bickering or even making fun of you. Some of their “pranks” actually get to you, only sometimes, like when they purposely made you trip and fall face first into a bowl filled with baked beans, because of course they were beans, or the time when you woke up to a fake mustache super glued to your face.

John had snapped at them that day, genuinely angry, but you had told him to drop it. You always did. And still do.

They all accepted you in, and if they hadn’t, you would’ve been kicked out already. It’s too easy to make you angry, so it wouldn’t have been too difficult to make you snap so they could make you quit, or worse. There’s just no way in hell you’ll ruin that for yourself by being weak.

“They’re just pranks, John. ‘S fine” you insist, not facing the team, only focused on John as you tug the beans off your hair. When Soap and Gaz snicker and walk away, you clear your throat, meeting Ghost’s eyes for a moment, before turning back to John. “I cannot have the Captain protecting my ass, you know that”.

“I don’t care if they think we—”

“But I do” you cut him off, waving a hand to dismiss the conversation. “I just want peace, really. It’ll grow old at some point. ‘S fine”.

It does not grow old.

Not the first two months.

Not the first six either.

The pranks become bigger, more complicated, more humiliating.

It’s not just your nationality, it’s not just your accent. It’s becoming about your entire identity, far beyond your appearance or even the fact that you like men.

You tried to hold it in, you really did. Insisting John that it’s okay. You've been closer to Simon lately. But, it made him protective. You caught Simon a few months ago in a heated discussion with Soap and Gaz, angrily telling them to stop it.

“But he says it’s okay. Besides, it’s just harmless fun!”

Until it wasn’t.

That night, you’re absolutely exhausted.

Rescuing frightened hostages when you’re wearing a scary gas mask, even if you’re also handing them out so they can fucking breathe, doesn’t really help. One of the teens was so scared, face a little bloody, that he ended up kicking your gun out of your hand. It had hit the ground too harshly, and it shoot on its own, the bullet barely missing another hostage’s leg, and it had been a fucking chaos.

You’re still jumpy, hands shaky, even hours later. John did scold you, giving you hell for not holding the gun properly, but he also reassured you, telling you that is wasn’t the first time, and probably not the last. They barely used the Sig P320, but it was an emergency.

“It was my fault for not telling you before hand. It was stressful, but it went well, and now you know you better hold your gun properly next time. Come on. Lets go eat”.

After dinner, it’s just worse. Your stomach is upset, and the food doesn’t help at all. It’s dry and disgusting and the tea is so watered down you wish you could bitch about it. But Simon’s already asleep and John is busy, so it only leaves Soap and Gaz. So you do the most intelligent thing, and go to your bed without talking to anybody.

Knowing you could’ve been the reason why a hostage got shot dead tonight makes you sick to your stomach. You were an entire mess the whole mission. Lagged behind, hands shaky, eye twitching and even the language seemed to leave your mind when you tried to calm the teen down, scaring him until he kicked out. It would’ve been fine, but the unintentional discharge was just… too much.

With your mind spinning, anxiety and self-hatred filling your lungs, you get up and walk to the common hall, needing some water. The sound of your bare feet against the floor barely reaches your ears, already used to moving mostly in silence.

Two bottles of water later and a little bit more of shakiness added to your movements, you turn to go back to your room, freezing when you see Soap standing there. Gaz is nowhere to be seen, so you guess he’s also asleep.

“Tsk, tsk. Our dear golden boy. Mate, you really screwed up big time” he sighs, shaking his head. Your eye twitches a bit, but you take it. You deserve that, honestly.

“I know. I’ve been a mess all day” you admit quietly, your nails digging into your palms. “I didn’t think—”

“Really, ask the Captain to dick you down already. You’ll end up getting someone killed”.

That makes your breath hitch, your vision tunneling on Soap. “What did you say?”

“I mean that you need to get boned. Besides, the Capt’n’s been on my ass lately. Maybe he needs it just as much as you do”. And then he’s laughing, crackling at his own comments. You made a mistake, nearly got someone killed, and he’s too busy, content with making you feel miserable.

“Like, who knows what your kind does when you’re not boned properly. We sleep here, you know, so—”

The bottle you’re holding falls from your grip. By the time it reaches the floor, bouncing once, twice, you’re already straddling Soap’s hips, your left fist connecting with his cheekbone, your right with his mouth, splitting his lip, breaking his nose with your left, and bruising his eye with your right again.

Over, and over.

He doesn’t even have the time to react, grunting as he tries to overcome his shock, punching your sides hard, lifting his hips to make you fall off, but you can’t feel it. The implication in his words is making your blood boil with months of repressed anger, jaw set and eyes focused solely on Soap’s face.

It’s only when two arms pull you up, off of Soap, that you let your hands fall to your sides. You know those arms, so you don’t fight them. Simon’s holding you still, as you watch John help Soap up, practically carrying him to the clinic.

Good thing is: you finally feel better. On the other hand, this might mean you’ll be kicked out of this team.

Simon doesn’t question you. Doesn’t tell you it was wrong, and doesn’t tell you it was right. He just gets to work. You tell him, however. You tell him how you’ve been feeling, and you admit Soap’s implication, and why you punched you. The malicious comment. It makes him pause briefly, eye twitching behind the mask, but he doesn’t say anything.

He helps you wash your hands, checks on the bruises Soap managed to get on your stomach and your sides. At some point, when Simon’s holding your hand in his palm to make sure you didn’t break a finger punching Soap, Gaz comes back from the clinic, yelling and demanding your head on a spike for him.

Only then, does Simon speak up.

“Go ask him why he got punched”.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he demands, eyebrows furrowing. Simon doesn’t reply, so you don’t bother saying anything either.

Gaz doesn’t come back that night.

The next day, Soap is standing right behind Simon’s door first thing in the morning.

After the fight, Simon insisted you slept in his room. You really needed the comfort, so you didn’t hesitate. Honestly, it just makes you wish you had punched the man earlier.

When you look up at Soap, you see him flinch. He’s a huge mess. His face is clean but all bruised up. Split lip, black eye and purple cheeks, nose crooked.

“That’s what I'd call an improvement. You back for more?”

Soap’s eyes shift from you to Simon, who’s coming behind you. You don’t look away from Soap, however, lips pursed.

“No, mate. Hold on” he huffs, wincing when he speaks. It’s obvious his mouth is swollen in the inside as well.

Good.

“I came to apologize. I’ve been an arse since you got here” Soap starts, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes firm on you once again. “I didn’t dimension the bloody things I said, and did, to you, and I regret it. Now, I’m not a stupid and you obviously don’t have to forgive my arse or anything, but I can promise you I’ll stop and it won’t happen again. What I said last night was disgusting and…”

“Go on”. Simon places a hand on your waist. You can feel the anger behind that tone, and it genuinely feels comforting.

“And I was a dickhead. A bloody idiot who very much deserved to be punched like that” he grunts, looking down, embarrassed.

Simon makes no comment. He knows you’re the only one who says if that apology is enough, so he only let’s go of your waist, fingers lingering for a moment.

Honestly, you never really minded, up until yesterday. It had been an awful day and his stupid comment was just too much. You don’t want to make him feel that good, however, so you cross your arms, in silence. Soap’s eyes widen, his shoulders slumping.

“Wait, I mean it! I’m not expecting us to suddenly become mates, but what I mean is… I’m sorry. I’ll even stop calling you Molotov, promise”.

That makes your face crack just a bit.

With a deep sigh, you hold your hand out. Soap doesn’t hesitate to shake it, eyes twinkling.

“Next time I’m cutting off your balls”.

“Wha— fine. Fine. Okay, fair”.

An hour later when you see Gaz, he doesn’t say much, apologizing and holding out his hand, face embarrassed. You shake it, only giving him a nod.

John is pleased, nodding in your direction. You can read the pride in his eyes when he looks at you.

After that, Soap doesn’t become overly protective, but he’s a little too eager to learn about you, your country, and then, the question.

Soon enough, you catch him making out with Gaz.

You don’t mention that to anybody, even to Simon.

It’s more than enough when you see them holding hands, shoulders relaxed. Simon’s lips twitch behind the mask, but nobody says anything, just like they didn’t say anything about you and Simon.

It’s not half bad to stay at the base after that.

im SO sorry soap lovers. it had to be him 😔🙏🏻 he's all good I promise. that was his internalized homophobia

the comment about nanami was sooo unnecessary /lh i giggled

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rcselavie · 3 years ago

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( ♡ ) recopilación de datos ! nueva información desbloqueada.

el usuario roselavie ha compartido sobre su miedo a [ ratas y/u otros insectos ] puedes leer más a continuación...

#𝟎𝟎𝟏 —— el primer accidente.

aquella resultaba una de las peculiares oportunidades en que familia pasaría la velada como cinco con intenciones de ocio. no una cena en un pomposo restaurante con los socios del matrimonio, tampoco una elegante gala. no, no. más bien una ordinaria noche viendo una película en el cine, eso era. el hijo del medio había insistido, pataleado, llorado una infinidad de veces con que quería ir... el problema recayó en que secretario reservó tickets para ratatouille ¡ y el niño deseaba ver autos transformándose en robots gigantes mientras peleaban para salvar el mundo, no esa tontera ! ante la mirada severa del mayor de los tres, quien siempre se supo responsable por la actitud de los menores, es que aguas se calmaron y todos ocuparon sus respectivos asientos.

una vie, de cinco años por aquel entonces, movía inocentemente sus piernitas que lejos estaban de alcanzar el suelo en la butaca mientras masticaba las dulces palomitas de maíz, aguardando a que film comenzase a correr ¡consternación no figuraba en los planes!

sin embargo, siempre hay un pero.

el cómo se movía la colita de esa rata... la nariz... los ojitos... ¿cómo el señor podía aguantar que le estuviese tironeando del pelo? en un punto debió dejar de comer, pues se le retorcía el estómago ¿en serio estaba en la cocina cuando salió de la basura...? la gota que derramó el vaso fue ver el centenar de ratas en la alcantarilla, ¿era la familia...?

¡ewwwwwwwww!

¡asco, asco, asco! estaba disgustada a más no poder. familia tuvo que abandonar la sala a mitad de función ante las fuertes arcadas y llanto de la pequeña, por más que uno de los hermanos protestó porque no quería irse sin terminar lo que empezó.

¿y por qué de tan fuerte reacción? no había un porqué, simplemente le resultó lo más asqueroso que vio jamás a esa altura de su vida, tan acostumbrada a lo impecable de hogar y ambiente en que creció, donde nada estaba fuera de lugar.

#𝟎𝟎𝟐 —— el segundo accidente.

¡una pijamada para celebrar un cumpleaños! realidad es que a vie, quien ya contaba con diez años, no le agradaba idea. no le gustaba para nada esa niña que la organizaba ¡ es que estaba obsesionada con ella !

¿las dos coletas con lazos rosados? empezó a peinar su cabello de la misma manera ¿la lapicera rosada con gel y brillitos? apareció con la misma al otro día ¿los stickers con los que decoraba sus hojas? ¡ hasta eso consiguió cuando no le había dicho a absolutamente nadie donde los compró ! ¿sus amigas? se infiltró en selecto grupo de tres (que no necesitaba más cuando fuera de horario escolar prefería pasar su tiempo con mejor amigo), persiguiéndolas a todos lados y pretendiendo estar al tanto de sus planes.

aún así decidió asistir. porque mamá le enseñó que, en una guerra de apariencias, una debe quedar bien ( y que siempre hay que mantener cerca a tus enemigos hasta poder quitártelos de encima, lección número uno, vital, súper importante ).

noche casi transcurre sin problemas. pastel como cena, limonada bien fresca y una comedia romántica con la que podrían reírse, en teoría ¿luego? vie puso el grito en el cielo. fue en corrida al baño que encendió la luz, encontrándose con la ( nueva ) imagen más asquerosa que había visto hasta el momento en su prístina vida ¡ esta vez era en vida real !

cucarachas.

no una, ni dos. mínimo media docena de esos insectos parecían infestar el baño de esa casa. quizá más. no se quedó lo suficiente para verlo ¡ casi se desmayó en el acto del asco ! bueno, quizá exageró un poco y pretendió otro tanto, pero llamó de urgencia a su padre para que fuera a buscarla de inmediato ¡ no pasaría un segundo más en esa casa tan sucia ! ¿qué si hasta la comida estaba infestada por esos bichos? ¿se bañarían ahí mismo...? asco. al llegar a casa, se metió a la ducha de inmediato para quitarse sensación de suciedad y picor que le quedó.

al otro día, no demoró nada en esparcir sus terribles vivencias noche anterior, exponiendo a aquella chica y humillándola en el proceso, hasta le dejó una tarjeta de control de plagas sobre su escritorio. consiguió que el resto de la clase le mirase por encima del hombro y dejasen de hablarle. los niños a veces pueden ser crueles.

#𝟎𝟎𝟑 — — el tercer accidente.

con un avance rápido, nos encontramos con una vie de ya diecinueve años, graduada de secundaria e instalada en la gran manzana tras abandonar el nido familiar ¡ debía estar experimentando la vida de serena van der woodsen !

en cambio, vida en el upper east side supone una tortura ¡una vez pidió una ensalada que llegó con moscas! obviamente no compró jamás en tal establecimiento, denunció e insistió hasta que un inspector de salud fue a clausurarlo ( o algo ). y, ¿hola? ¿ratas en central park? ¡¿es que son una plaga?! ¡está bien que en medio de la dificultad reside la oportunidad, o un dicho similar, pero no quería que saliese una rata de entre las patas del banco cuando estaba en medio de una cita! útil porque por entonces muchachito que tenía por cita la consoló cuando exageró a pleno disgusto y no se separó de ella por el resto de la tarde ¡pero que asco! detesta el chillar de estos animalitos, como corretean con las patitas, le da asco. y ni hablar del subte... uf, ¡sucio! jura que casi muere cuando tuvo que tomar apestoso transporte. lo odió.

¡ y su otra mitad no hacía más que enviarle fotografías de los grotescos insectos que se cruzaba o de la temporada de arañas ! a propósito, porque sabe conseguiría que le llame para pelear y acabarían hablando por horas de cualquier otra cosa ¡ pero seguía sin entender cómo es que decidió irse hacia australia ! ugh, ¿cómo podían vivir rodeados de tantos bichos llenos de infecciones y posibles picaduras venenosas? imposible.

ah, sabía debía irse a parís. le arrastraría allí como sea el próximo verano.

#⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ @𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚 ⠀ （　💕　） ⠀ extra.#cw mención de ratas y cucarachas #cw basic bitch problems #ahre no #take a shot cada vez q dice asco #fjdskfsd #mejor no perciban esto ; es todo por los 100 puntos

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