merxcywritesthings

[merxcywritesthings]

Johnny who became ridiculously jealous of the giant seal plushie that took most of his space on the bed as you cuddled with it to sleep.

So he bought a seal onesie for himself, because of course the most logical solution to compete with the plushie, is to be the plushie

[merxcywritesthings]

imagine the task force 141 falsely accusing you of being a traitor to the team. knowing your biggest fear, they use it against you. water. water, where your feet can't touch the ground. water you can't see through. at first it started with waterboarding. then slowly but surely they threatened to drop you into the pool. into the dark, deep pool. even john, who was like a father to you before, didn't help you. no. not at all. actually, he was the one who stepped into the water fully clothed, dragging your crying and squirming form with him into the bloodcurling liquid. your tears blended in with it while you we're screaming, practically begging that you were the wrong one. that you'd never do something like that. but they just stood at the edge of the pool, watching their captain almost drowning your terrified self. how would they react, when they get the information that you really weren't the one...?

[merxcywritesthings]

Ghost: Luv, hurry up, we're gonna be late Y/N, coming out of the dressing room: How do I look? Ghost: Ghost, unbuttoning his shirt: Oh we're definitely going to be late

[merxcywritesthings]

Dad! Simon

You find him in the bedroom, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, legs stretched out, a shoebox balanced on his thigh. And, scattered around him—like fallen leaves—are photographs.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Planning a scrapbook?”

Simon doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Just recognition.

"He’s gotten so big now," he mutters, lifting a picture between his fingers. He turns it toward you—your son, a newborn, swaddled tight, impossibly small in his arms. "Look at this—head barely bigger than my palm."

You step inside, lowering yourself beside him. The photos form a mosaic across the carpet—a timeline of a life measured in firsts.

First ultrasound. First bath. First wobbly steps.

His first birthday, cake frosting, smeared across chubby cheeks, fingers reaching for Simon’s.

His first time on Simon’s shoulders, tiny hands gripping his head, giggling like he’d never known a world without laughter.

You pick up a more recent one—your son at five, sitting on Simon’s lap, eyes bright, smile wide. He looks just like him. Same sharp gaze, same shape of the mouth. It’s almost funny how undeniable it is.

Simon exhales, slow and steady, his thumb tracing over the glossy surface.

"Simon ...do you want me to - "

His jaw tightens, just for a second, before he lets out a quiet huff. “No, it’s fine. Thinkin’ of puttin’ some in an album.”

You don’t catch him on the lie.

Because what you don’t know—what you won’t know for a long time—is that there will be no album.

The photos will go back into the box. Just like they always do.

And later that night, after the house has settled into quiet, after you’ve both gone to bed, he’ll slip the box under his side of the nightstand—within reach, always.

And when it’s time—when the bags are packed, when his boots are laced, when the house is still dark with sleep—he’ll take the smallest, most recent one.

-- where your son is missing a front tooth, grinning wide, arms thrown around your neck like he never wants to let go.

He’ll fold it carefully, tuck it into the pocket of his gear.

Because the thought of not having it, of not carrying that proof of life with him, is unbearable.

So he keeps them.

And sometimes, when he’s halfway across the world, when the silence stretches too long and the weight in his chest feels too heavy to bear, he’ll take that photo out.

Run his thumb over the edges.

Remind himself of what’s waiting for him at home.

Just for a little while.

Just to hold on.

[merxcywritesthings]

I love this sm!! 🥹 @writeriguess did an absolute amazing job!! Please go check their work out, they are truly talented!! ❤️

Hi lovely! I’m not sure if you do this, but I would love to see poly!141 x reader! Preferably angsty or comfort (If not, then could I get one with Soap?)

Thank you my darling! ❤️❤️

Ghosts of the Past

The darkness felt suffocating.

Sweat clung to your skin, the thin fabric of your shirt damp and sticking to your back. Your chest rose and fell in quick, ragged breaths as you stared into the abyss of your room, trying to convince yourself that you were here, not there.

But the nightmare had been too real this time.

Gunfire. Smoke. The weight of blood-soaked earth beneath your knees.

It had been all around you, swallowing you whole, dragging you back into the worst moments of your past. The smell of burning flesh still clung to your senses, making your stomach churn. You swore you could feel the phantom sting of a bullet grazing your ribs, the echo of a comrade’s last breath filling your ears.

Your throat locked up, and a choked sob broke free before you could swallow it down.

That was all it took.

Price stirred first. He was always the first to wake up, his instincts sharper than the rest of them. There was a heavy exhale, the rustling of fabric as he shifted beside you, and then the familiar weight of his hand on your arm.

"Love? You alright?"

You couldn’t answer. Your breathing was still erratic, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts as you clenched the sheets in tight fists. You knew where you were, knew you were safe, but your body wasn’t listening.

Soap was next. You felt him move before you heard his voice, his warmth pressing closer as he propped himself up on one elbow. His voice was softer than usual, still tinged with sleep, but laced with worry.

"Another nightmare?"

You barely managed a nod, body trembling as you struggled to regain control of your breathing.

A large, warm hand slid over yours, squeezing gently. Gaz. He didn’t say anything right away, just offered the grounding pressure you needed. His touch was solid, real—something to tether you to the present.

Ghost moved last, but when he did, it was with quiet purpose. You barely heard him shift until his voice rumbled through the dark, thick with sleep but firm in its concern.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Slow it down."

You sucked in a shaky inhale but couldn’t seem to hold onto it. Your heart was still racing, your body still trapped in the ghost of a past that wouldn’t let you go.

A second squeeze from Gaz. A reassuring rub along your back from Price. The weight of Soap pressing his forehead to yours, his presence humming with quiet strength.

"You’re safe," Soap murmured. "It’s just us, bonnie. We got you."

The weight of their presence surrounded you, warm and steady. Slowly—painfully slow—your breathing began to even out.

"Can you tell us what it was about?" Gaz asked gently.

You hesitated.

How could you put it into words? How could you tell them that the nightmare wasn’t just a nightmare—that it was real, that it had happened? That it wasn’t just your subconscious playing tricks on you but a memory etched so deep into your bones that you doubted it would ever fade?

Your silence stretched, but Ghost didn’t push. Instead, he shifted closer, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and pulling you against his solid chest. His warmth seeped into you, pressing down the last remnants of the nightmare like an anchor.

"You don’t have to talk about it," he murmured. "Just let us hold you."

Your fingers clenched the fabric of Soap’s shirt, body still trembling as you finally let yourself sink into them.

Price was still rubbing slow, steady circles against your back. "You're not alone, love," he said quietly. "We’re right here. Always."

You squeezed your eyes shut as Soap’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face slightly toward him. His forehead pressed against yours again, a silent comfort, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

"You’re ours, bonnie. Nothing’s gonna get you, not while we’re here."

Gaz’s fingers brushed through your hair, slow and deliberate. "You should get some rest," he murmured, voice gentle. "We’ll stay awake if you need us to."

You shook your head. You didn’t want them to watch you, to stay awake just because your mind refused to cooperate. "You don’t have to—"

Ghost cut you off with a quiet, firm whisper. "We will."

It wasn’t up for debate.

You sighed, exhaustion tugging at your limbs now that the initial adrenaline had faded. You still felt raw, frayed at the edges, but the worst of the panic had passed.

Soap let out a soft chuckle, but there was no teasing in his tone. "Gotta be honest, love, you’re not getting rid of us that easy."

Price hummed in agreement. "You need rest. You’re safe here. Just close your eyes."

They weren’t leaving.

You should’ve known better than to think they would.

As if sensing the last of your resistance, they all settled closer. Ghost’s arm remained firm around your waist, anchoring you. Soap nuzzled against your temple, his warmth a silent reassurance. Gaz’s hand traced absent patterns along your arm, soothing, steady. And Price’s slow, methodical rubs against your back never wavered.

Soap murmured something in Gaelic—something quiet and familiar. You barely understood it, but it was enough to lull you, the cadence of his voice washing over you like a lullaby.

The last thing you felt before slipping into sleep was the weight of Price pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead, his voice a low whisper in the dark.

"Sleep, love. We’ve got you."

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

[merxcywritesthings]

(even more designationless!reader…)

The idea had clung to you like a ghost, silent and persistent. A whisper of possibility, a gnawing what if that refused to let go, lurking in the quiet spaces between your thoughts.

It started as an offhanded remark- just a passing suggestion from an Omega medic flipping through your file, his frown deepening at the blank space where a designation should be. He’d leaned in closer, like he was sharing a deep secret even though you’d heard of it before.

“You know, there’s a new procedure. A way to synthesize a scent, balance your hormones. Might help you fit in better.”

At the time, you’d laughed it off, a dry, hollow sound. You were fine. You had learned to live without instincts, without scent cues. You had a pack now- wasn’t that such a wonderful thought? You, of all people, with a pack- and they never made you feel lesser for it.

But still…

Still, you would never stop noticing the way strangers hesitated when they got too close, noses twitching as they tried to find something that wasn’t there. The way some looked at you like you were an anomaly, a hollow space where something vital should be.

The pack never made you feel wrong. But the rest of the world did before and after them.

So, you started actually looking into it. Quietly; and what you found was terrifying.

The procedure wasn’t just some simple injection or pill, wasn’t like the time you got yourself a pheromone perfume. It was invasive- gene therapy, hormone treatments, scent gland augmentation. Synthetic pheromones would be forced into your system, rewriting the very foundation of your body’s chemistry. The risks of rejection and infections were high. The list of potential side effects was even higher- neurological damage, sensory overload, organ stress. Death.

It wasn’t just expensive. It wasn’t just painful. It was dangerous.

And yet, the thought had taken a root far too deep to be simply pulled out.

What would it be like to walk into a room and be known? To have a scent that soothed your pack, something that would mark them the way they marked you with touches and borrowed clothes and lingering words? The pheromone perfume had been temporary, but this- it could be permanent. A cure.

It took weeks before you built up the courage to bring it up to your pack; weeks of staring at catalogues and brochures, google searches all on the costs, the risks, the very, very few who had tried it.

Sitting in the nest one evening, curled between them, you hesitated before you gathered enough courage and spoke. “I found a way to get a scent.”

The reaction was immediate, though you weren’t surprised. They’ve likely heard of the procedure before.

Johnny turned his head sharply from where he had been sprawled beside you, brow furrowing. Kyle, who had been playing absently with your fingers, froze. John, seated at the edge of the nest with a book in his lap, went still. And Simon- Simon growled. A low, rumbling thing that vibrated through your ribs, curling up inside your chest like a warning.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Your throat went dry. “You know about that procedure, right?” your words were careful, hesitant. “It’s… expensive. But it can create a scent for me. A real one.”

Silence. Then-

“No.”

John’s voice was sharp, absolute. Not angry, not yet. But firm in a way that brooked no argument. A command all on its own.

Your stomach twisted, and a deep frown etched itself onto your face. “I just thought-”

“No,” Simon repeated, harsher this time, sitting up straight. His eyes burned into yours, dark and furious. “Who the fuck put that idea in your head?”

You faltered, the hesitant hope in your chest slowly fanning out. “It’s not- I wasn’t—”

“You dinnae need fixing, hen.”

“It’s not about fixing,” you argued, pulse quickening. Why weren’t they giving you a chance to explain? “It’s about- I don’t know, being normal? Being able to-”

“You are normal,” Kyle interrupted, his voice thick, pain threaded around each word. “Christ, love, what made you think you weren’t?”

Frustration bubbled up, clogging your thoughts. “You don’t get it,” you snapped, and the words poured out, raw and aching. “None of you do. You’ve never had to live without it. Never had to wonder if you belonged because you don’t have the one thing that ties you to everyone else!”

John’s exhale was sharp, scrubbing a hand over his face and beard. He looked at you- really looked at you, and his face tensed even further. “And you think putting yourself through hell to force a scent into your system is the answer?”

You hesitated, exposed under their scrutiny, laid bare even in spite of the layers you were wearing.

“You’d risk your life for this?”

“People go through hormone therapy all the time-”

“Not like this,” Kyle shook his head, immediately cutting that line of thought off. “This isn’t just hormone theraph. This is gene-altering shit. You read the side effects, love? The risks?”

You had. And now, under their gazes, the weight of it pressed heavy on your chest.

Ghost shifted closer, holding your arm, face tight. “You’re not doing this.”

“You can’t just tell me what I can and can’t do with my own body!”

Price’s jaw tightened, eyes dark with something unreadable, something heavy. When he finally spoke, it was rough, edged with the kind of steel that only came from deep, unwavering conviction.

“You’re right.”

For a second, your breath caught, because you hadn’t expected him to say that. Did you-?

“We can’t tell you what to do with your body,” he continued, low but firm. “But we can stop you from hurting yourself. I will not allow you to go through that damn procedure.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut.

Simon exhaled sharply, tilting his head like he couldn’t believe you had even considered it. “You’d put yourself through that- all that danger, all that risk- just to what? Smell a little different?”

You swallowed, and then, after a heavy moment, nodded.

Kyle leaned in, wrapping himself around you, protective. “You,” he hissed. “You think some synthetic, lab-made scent could ever be worth you getting hurt?”

Your throat felt tight, and you looked away, only for Johnny to let out a rough, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, lass. You think we’d ever want some artificial shite over you?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. “I just thought… maybe it would make things easier.” You admitted eventually, voice small and weak, avoiding their eyes. You’d thought… it might even make your family care.

Gaz inhaled sharply, like your words had hurt. “Easier for who?”

The question left you hollow, because you knew the answer.

Not for them.

Never for them.

John sighed, rubbing his temples before reaching out, cupping your cheek with one calloused hand and forcing you to look at him. “Love,” he murmured, and his voice had softened now, rough edges worn down to something gentler, something aching. “We don’t need you to smell like us to know you’re ours. We don’t need a scent to claim you, or to carry your scent.” His thumb brushed against your cheek, touch warm. “You’re already part of this pack.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, curling around your ribs, something painful and good all at once.

For so long, you had felt other. Like something was missing. But here, surrounded by them, their warmth pressing into you, their hands grounding you-

You could almost convince yourself you were whole.

Simon let out a slow breath and reached for you, pulling you into his lap with a kind of desperate, hungry care, his arms curling around you like he could somehow shield you from your own thoughts. Johnny pressed against your side, warm and solid, his grip firm where he held onto your wrist. Kyle leaned in, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, and Price wrapped an arm around all of you, anchoring you to them.

And you let yourself believe them.

Omegaverse masterlist

[merxcywritesthings]

Please send more requests?

Hi, lovelies! 💖

My department is going on a work trip next month, so I won’t be able to write during that time. I usually receive about one request per day, but lately, it’s been slow—none in the past two days. To keep the queue flowing and possibly start posting twice a day before the trip, I’d love it if you could send in more requests! 💖

Feel free to send multiple requests! If I don’t get enough, I’ll fill it with my own ideas, but I’d rather prioritize your requests! Right now, I only have 7 requests queued, which isn’t enough to maintain a steady pace.

I’ll be back on Sunday morning to answer any questions! Thank you so much for your help. 🥰

As a reminder, here’s my fandom list:

Anime

Attack on Titan (Shingeki no Kyojin)

My Hero Academia (Boku no Hero Academia)

Demon Slayer (Kimetsu no Yaiba)

Jujutsu Kaisen

Tokyo Revengers

Naruto / Boruto

One Piece

Haikyuu!!

Chainsaw Man

Spy x Family

Bleach

TV

Supernatural

The Witcher

Stranger Things

The Mandalorian

Sherlock (BBC)

Percy Jackson & the Olympians

BBC Merlin

Doctor Who

Star Trek

Good Omens

Bridgerton

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon

The Boys

ATLA/Avatar The Last Airbender

Arcane

Criminal Minds

Movies

Harry Potter/Fantastic Beasts

Twilight

The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU)

The Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit

Star Wars

Video games

The Legend of Zelda

The Last of Us

Resident Evil

Call of Duty

Baldur's Gate

Genshin Impact

Love and Deepspace

Books

Percy Jackson & the Olympians

The Witcher

A Court of Thorns and Roses

Throne of Glass

The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air)

Thanks so much for your support—you’re all amazing! 💕

[merxcywritesthings]

WAIT WAIT WAIT but what if in the angst duchess au, she reaches her breaking point but instead of crying she gets angry, really angry? she did nothing but be kind (JUSTICE FOR DUCHESS)

What would happen if she threatened to reveal their secret if they didn't at least start treating her with respect? Would they accept or threaten her back? (i can see simon protect his man and and their relationship) I NEED ANSWER

(really really love your blog, even if i'm still busy with university i Always find time to read It <3 <3 <3)

I’m more focused on the idea of her threatening them and them threatening her back- that must cause sooo much tension omg?? Especially if you adapt a very frosty, very cold attitude towards everyone in the duchy after that disastrous day of threats. There’s an awful pressure surrounding everyone, and even the staff take to silently doing their jobs to not risk anyone’s ire- especially after you fire several maids who had been whispering about you, and John didn’t put up a fuss and neither did Kyle.

They become used to feeling your glares, your chilling silence, the downright crude way you tell them how much you hate them, the constant threats- they become used to it. Or at least, they think they are becoming used to it until they notice you one day, a smile on your face while reading a letter that came with a big bouquet of red roses.

An admirer.

[merxcywritesthings]

*Simon following up behind y/n* Y/n: So...me and Simon are dating *Simon nodding* Price: ha! We already knew Soap: like why were you even hiding it from us this long Y/n and Simon: *confused* Y/n:We only started dating today Price: Soap: Then what the fuck was happening for the last three years ?! Simon: :)

[merxcywritesthings]

OMGMGMGMGMGM THE @beloveds-embrace NOTICED ME, MY HEART IS SO FULL!!! 😫❤️

Hi love! I was wondering how does the reader in your Roomates AU fall in love with each of the boys? Does the reader see something in them or the boys do something that makes the reader just stop and internally panic (in love ofc <3).

p.s. I love your writing, keep up the amazing work! ❤️

First of all, thank you so much!! 💕🫶🏻

In all honesty I am a huge sucker of that one trope where Reader has no idea she’s even fallen into a sort of relationship with them until one of her friends keeps giving her a weird, far too teasing smile when they drop by to visit her.

“It’s like- they are your boyfriends! Multiple!”

And you brush them aside at first, not believing them but their words just keep repeating in your head until you really think about it and realize: yes… they do act like your boyfriends, don’t they?

(And you don’t seem to mind it all. Shocker.)

[merxcywritesthings]

Thinking about designationless!reader au, how the boys would spend HOURS searching for candles that properly represented their scents so reader would feel included in the nest

Anyway just wanted to say I LOVE your writing and you've got me inspired to write my own little designationless!reader au (which if I ever do post, I will tag you for credits ❤️❤️), its just has so many possibilities

Every time I see you post, blog, wtver this website wants to call it, my day gets a little brighter :)

-👽

omg thank you so so so much anon?? you are so very sweet!! i am very happy to know you like my stuff and felt inspired by it!! i hope you enjoy this, your idea was wonderful! <33 omegaverse masterlist

The idea had started innocently enough.

Gaz had mentioned it one night while they were snuggled in the nest, you nestled warm and comfy between them all. You’d fallen asleep on Price’s chest, Soap’s arm thrown over your waist, Ghost’s steady breathing brushing your temple, and Gaz quietly watching from the edge.

“She can’t smell us,” Gaz had murmured, musing and cutting through the peaceful silence. “But… what if she could? Just a little? For the nest.”

It was a seed of an idea that quickly took root in all of them.

The next day, they found themselves walking through shops they’d normally never step foot in- boutiques, candle stores, even a few farmers’ markets. Price looked utterly out of place amongst rows of colorful jars, his gruff demeanor clashing with the delicate scents wafting around him. Soap, on the other hand, took to it with a determination that made the staff wary as he sniffed candle after candle, holding them up to Gaz and Ghost for confirmation.

“This one’s close, isn’t it?” he asked, holding up a jar labeled Amber Woods. He shoved it under Ghost’s nose, earning an irritated growl.

“Too sweet,” Ghost muttered then, shaking his head. “Try again.”

Gaz was off in another aisle, holding up a candle labeled Vanilla Bourbon and frowning. “This isn’t right either. It’s too… fake.” He sighed, setting it down with a heavy thunk. “How’s it this hard to find something that fits?”

Price stood in the corner, his brow furrowed as he examined the names on the candles. He knew and had been told many times his cedarwood scent was sharp and earthy, grounding in a way that none of these synthetic imitations could capture. He picked one up- Smoked Cedar- and took a deep inhale.

“Not bad." He said after a moment, setting it aside in their “maybe” pile.

They spent hours combing through the store, moving from candle jars to wax melts to essential oil blends. They argued with each other quietly, then with the amused store employees, their tones growing increasingly frustrated with each other as they tried to find scents that truly represented themselves.

“It’s just a candle, sirs,” One employee, clearly annoyed with them, chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Does it really matter this much?”

Ghost’s dark eyes snapped to him, his voice low and dangerous, not helped by the balaclava and cap he wore. “It’s not just a candle. It’s for someone.”

That shut the employee up quickly.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity and much sniffing, they settled on a few options.

When they brought the candles back to the nest (oh, how they loved that you were beginning to spend more and more of your free time there), you blinked up at them, confused by their triumphant expressions and the little bag Price held in his hand. They looked a little too proud of themselves.

“What’s all this?” You asked, sitting up from your spot. I

“Something for you.” Price said simply, his voice soft as he placed candles on the table.

Soap grinned, almost vibrating with excitement and pride as he gestured for you to come closer. “Go on, lass. Smell ‘em.”

You leaned forward, hesitantly uncapping the first candle. The cedarwood hit you first, earthy and grounding, and your eyes fluttered shut as you hummed in delight. You glanced up at Price when you heard a deep rumble you've come to understand as prideful.

“This is.... you, isn't it?” you realized, earning a small nod from him.

You went through each one, inhaling the soft citrus of Soap’s, the richness of Ghost’s smoky scent, the soothing vanilla of Gaz’s. By the time you finished, you stared at them with something akin to more awe than the sun has for its orbiting planets.

“You did this... for me?”

“Of course,” Gaz pressed a kiss to your temple. “Wanted you to feel like you’re part of us. Always.”

You didn’t know what to say, but as they lit the candles and pulled you back into the nest, you felt surrounded by them in a way you never had before.

And for the first time, you felt as if you could... be like them. For once, you understood what their scents were like- a part of their world for just a moment.

You will be keeping those candles.

[merxcywritesthings]

The sheer, unadulterated joy i get whenever i check the poly 141 tag and there is new stuff to read

[merxcywritesthings]

tatted! simon motorcycle shenanigans

TATTED UP! Simon Riley who lets you turn him into a colouring book. He doesn’t care how you colour his tattoos, he just wants to see the scrunched up look of concentration on your cute face.

“What colour do you want?” You murmur as you glance at your numerous eyeshadow palettes. Simon wants to say black or grey but he sees the way you eye the pink palette for a moment too long.

“… Pink.” He finally answers, his gaze focused solely on your bright smile.

You find joy in colouring his arm with various shades of pink and purple as he watches. “Look, so cute.” You murmur, eliciting a low laugh from Simon.

“Yeah.” His voice rumbles, “You wanna colour the rest in?”

BONUS

“Aye, LT, you got your tattoo redone or what?” Jonny can barely hold back his laughter as he looks at Simon’s arm. The previously edgy tattoos were now adorned with feminine colours and glitter.

“No. Just making the misses happy.” Simon doesn’t really care for his teammates’ reactions because the memory of your smile is enough to block out Jonny’s cackles.

[merxcywritesthings]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[merxcywritesthings]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

Summary: In the command center, you navigate chaos as the task force tackles a high-stakes mission to stop Makarov’s sinister plan. With tension thick and comms crackling with urgency, everything spirals when a trap is sprung. As you desperately try to piece together what’s happening, silence falls—fractured by a single, devastating revelation. Now, the weight of loss presses in, and a heartfelt letter reveals truths you never dared to hope for. In the aftermath of heroism and heartbreak, you’re left to grapple with a question: how do you move forward when your heart is still on the battlefield?

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Female Reader

The hum of the command center buzzed in your ears as you hunched over your console, fingers flying across the keyboard. The task force was out in the field, and as always, you stayed behind, monitoring feeds, guiding them through the chaos. You weren’t a soldier, not like them. Your battlefield was the screens in front of you, and your weapon was information.

But your heart was out there, with him.

You’d been in love with Johnny MacTavish—Soap—since the day you first met him. His humor, his energy, the way he could light up even the darkest situations. Over the years, you’d become close. You weren’t sure if he knew how you felt, but you carried it quietly, content to be near him, to hear his voice over comms, to know he was safe.

Until now.

The team had been deployed after intercepting intel about Makarov’s latest scheme: a plot to take the London Underground hostage and destroy the tunnels with explosives. The weight of the mission pressed on you as you worked tirelessly to support them from afar.

The comms were chaotic. “We’ve got eyes on the first device,” Price barked, his voice steady despite the urgency.

“Copy that,” you replied, checking the schematics. “Disarm sequence is live. Watch for a second fail-safe—Makarov doesn’t make it easy.”

Through the comms, you could hear Soap’s familiar voice, calm but focused. “Aye, lass, we’ll handle it. Keep the coffee warm for me, yeah?”

Your lips twitched into a small smile despite the tension. “Just don’t blow yourself up, MacTavish.”

Minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an hour as you listened to their progress. Then came the first sign something was wrong.

“Bloody hell, it’s a trap!” Gaz’s voice was sharp, panic lacing his words.

“What’s going on?” you asked, leaning closer to the console. Static crackled in response, and your stomach twisted.

“We’ve got company,” Price growled. “Makarov’s here. He—”

The line cut out momentarily, and when it returned, chaos erupted. Gunfire, shouting, and the unmistakable sound of a struggle filled your headset.

“Soap, disarm the bomb!” Price ordered, his voice strained.

“I’m trying, Captain, but—” Soap’s words were interrupted by a sharp crack, followed by a muffled cry.

“Soap!” you shouted, but there was no response.

More shouting. Then a single gunshot rang out, deafening in the silence that followed.

“MacTavish!” Price’s voice was raw with anguish.

Your heart stopped. The comms descended into fragmented phrases, ringing with panic. You clutched the edge of your desk, trying to piece together what was happening, but no one was answering your calls.

Minutes dragged by like an eternity before Price’s voice came through again, quieter, broken. “We’re en route back to base.”

“Is everyone...?” You couldn’t finish the question.

No response.

You bolted from the command center, racing to the front of the base. The rain was relentless, soaking through your clothes as you stood on the tarmac, watching the aircraft approach. Anxiety clawed at your chest as the ramp lowered and the team emerged.

Price. Gaz. Ghost.

Your eyes searched desperately for Soap, but he wasn’t there. Confused, you stepped forward. “Where’s Johnny?”

The silence that followed was louder than any answer. Price’s face was pale, his eyes hollow. Ghost looked away, his hands clenched into fists.

“Where is he?” you repeated, your voice trembling.

Price stopped in front of you, his expression crumbling. “He’s gone, (Y/N).”

“No,” you said, stepping back, your head shaking violently. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t—he promised me!”

“He died protecting us,” Price said, his voice thick. “Makarov shot him. Threw me to the ground. Soap—he got back up. Fought to stop him. He saved my life.”

Your knees buckled, and you sank to the ground, the cold rain mixing with the tears streaming down your face. “No,” you whispered. “Not Johnny. He can’t be—”

“He was a hero,” Ghost said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

A hero. That word echoed in your mind, but it did nothing to dull the pain. Johnny was more than a hero. He was your light, your reason to smile even when the world seemed bleak.

In the hours that followed, you learned the details: how Makarov had ambushed them, how Johnny had been disarming the bomb when Makarov appeared. How he’d been shot protecting Price and fought to his last breath to stop the madman.

The weight of his sacrifice crushed you, and yet, through your grief, you couldn’t help but feel proud. He had always been brave, always selfless.

Later, sitting in the barracks, you clutched his dog tags in your hand, the cold metal biting into your palm. A letter rested on your lap, one Price had handed you with trembling hands. It was written in Johnny’s messy scrawl.

“ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ’ꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ. ɪ’ᴍ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ, ʟᴀꜱꜱ. ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ… ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ. ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ.

ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ? ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ. ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, (ʏ/ɴ). ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ. ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ. ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ. ʙᴇ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ.”

The tears came hard and fast as you read his words, clutching the letter to your chest. Your hands shook as you held the letter close, his words cutting deeper than any wound. He’d been everything to you, and now he was gone, leaving only memories and a hollow ache in his place.

As you sat in the quiet, the rain still tapping against the window, you whispered, “You never know a good thing until it’s gone.”

You hadn’t just lost a good thing. You’d lost the best. And now, all you could do was carry his legacy and make sure the world never forgot the man who had been your everything.

The rain continued to fall as you sat there, clutching the letter. You didn’t know how to move forward, but you knew you had to try. For him. For Johnny.

A/N: crying because I love Johnny so much, I will never forgive Activision for killing him off. I hope this feeds you guys, I’ve been sick and haven’t been writing as much.. Remember to stay hydrated and eat plenty of food, you are loved. ❤️

Dividers by the lovely @𝑒𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠-𝑎

[merxcywritesthings]

Okay, So I'm the only girl on my team at work. And I'm telling y’all, regardless of age or relationship status, guys absolutely get excited when you give them stuff. Even if they act like they don't. All I can do is imagine how this would work with the 141.

Like imagine you make Gaz a bracelet. It's nothing too crazy, just a single strand of green pony beads. It didn't even take a lot to make it. Just some small, homemade thing that you give to him while you've got some down time between tasks.

He absolutely lights up, smiling wide, eyes bright. He thanks you with a side hug and a kiss to your temple. It's more than what you were expecting, but you're not gonna complain.

You don't think much of it, and move on with your business, nearly forgetting about the bracelet… until Soap interrupts you at the gym, demanding to know why Gaz got one and not him.

You didn't think he wanted one, and you certainly didn't think he'd be so distraught over something so silly. So, you promise him a bracelet, and you deliver it to him the next day. A single strand blue bracelet.

Johnny's ecstatic, grinning like a kid on Christmas. He gives you a bear hug, and a messy kiss to your cheek, practically singing your praise as he leaves.

Price is next. But thankfully you don't give him a chance to ask. You had noticed the way his gaze lingers on the bracelets that Gaz and Soap have, the small frown he's got after talking to them.

You make him a yellow one, and drop it off on his desk with some paperwork. No need for all the fanfare or even the chance he might reject it. He doesn't. He does bring you your favorite drink, his way of saying thanks. And the yellow bracelet is on his wrist the whole time.

Ghost is last, only because you didn't think he'd want one. But ever since Price got his, Ghost has been waiting with baited breath for one. He's not going to outright ask, will even scoff if Soap or Gaz brag about it. But he wants one!

It's late, when he drops by your barrack, quiet when you open the door. It takes him a moment to gather the courage. But eventually, he holds his hand out, asking where his bracelet is.

When you admit you hadn't made him one, he's a little hurt. You're teammates. Why wouldn't he want one? But you invite him into your barrack, letting him sit with you as you make the bracelet. It's just black, his color of course, but he leaves, smiling under the mask.

Oh, and when you show up for the next briefing with your own bracelet, a repeating pattern of green, blue, yellow and black, no one comments on it. But it's hard to ignore the way they all smile at you, a soft look in their eyes.