#soap mw2

[hurrraaid]

Okay... I'll admit this got away from me but just... GOD I love them so much.

[druap]

funny enough i hated this one back then but looking back damn..it was good

happy valentines day :]

[ghouljams]

Literally cannot go to the gym without thinking about Johnny scrambling to take the machine right after you. No chance to wipe it down, still warm and damp from your sweat, man is just absolutely basking in it. Can't get banned from another gym for sniffing the bench so he just follows you around the gym and sits in your sweat so he can small his shorts later and imagine that the mixed musk is something more than it is.

Also he watches you do hip thrusts waaaaay too closely. Staring down the barrel of a gun that one.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Being with Johnny MacTavish felt like stepping into something bigger than you. He was older, more grounded, had seen things that gave his smile that edge—like he knew the punchline to a joke you hadn’t caught on to yet. And he never rubbed it in your face, not really. He just watched you with those steel-blue eyes, arms crossed, letting you talk yourself into trouble before stepping in and pulling you back with a muttered, “You're cute when you think you're in control, you know that?”

He never made you feel small. He made you feel young. There was a difference. You could be bratty, pushy, impulsive—and he'd let you have your little fire until it burned out, then reel you in with a firm hand on your lower back and a low, amused, “Alright, love. You done now?” He never yelled. He didn’t need to. His voice could drop just an inch and your legs would lock up with instinct alone.

He took care of you without making a show of it. You’d wake up and find your car filled with gas. Your kitchen stocked. The lightbulb you forgot to change—fixed. He never asked for credit, just gave you a look when you thanked him like, Why wouldn’t I? It made your chest ache a little. That quiet kind of love, the one that said: I see what you need even when you won’t say it.

Sometimes you’d try to test him. Act like you weren’t affected. Like he didn’t have you wrapped around his finger. But he’d catch your wrist mid-sentence, lean in, and say something soft in that gravelly accent—something like, “You can keep playin’ if you want, but I already know how this ends.” And it always ended the same way: you, breathless, underneath him, wondering how a man could be so gentle with his hands and so filthy with his mouth.

And when he held you afterward, it was like the rest of the world didn’t matter. You’d press your ear to his chest and listen to the steady thump of his heart, his rough fingers tracing lazy lines along your back. “Y’know,” he’d murmur, voice heavy with sleep, “you make me feel young again too.” And it didn’t matter that he was older, or that he’d seen more of the world. You were his peace. His trouble. His girl.

And he was your anchor. Solid. Unshakable. A little bit dangerous—and exactly where you always wanted to come home to.

[phantasm-ae]

GUYS HELP! i wanna find a book so bad but idk if anyone has written one like this 😭 so like i wanna find a why choose romance (or dark) with a f!mc that’s a pirate captain or the daughter or a pirate and really badass and the m!mc’s that are like princes or like dukes or something like that. it just seems like a really good idea to me but idk 😭😭

(or maybe if someone does a fic abt this idea with f!reader x poly!141 where they’re royalty and all in a poly relationship and she’s the badass pirate captain, so kinda like Pirates of the Caribbean movies 👀)

AAAAA i love love love this... okay okayyy. I added my own twist RAAAA. I hopee you likee thiss

cw: smut, suggestive writing, afab reader x poly141, pirate queen afab reader x poly141, the boys are like... royal here, this is just a short btw AAA

HEADCANON: When you and your pirate crew loot what seems like a standard Royal Navy cargo ship, you take two Royal Navy Guards: MacTavish and Garrick in as prisoner. What starts as strategic ransom turns into something messier, sweatier, and far more entangled than you'd planned. And just when you think it can’t get any more chaotic, the rest of the bloody Royal Guard bellows in --Admiral Price and Prince Riley -- track their missing boys down and wind up entangled in your already unholy mess. Now it’s poly141, too many heated glances, and a dangerously crowded bed. You should’ve sunk the ship.

PAIRING: poly141 x fem reader

It all began when you and your crewmen of the Crimson Marauder looted a royal navy cargo ship. The usual haul -- none too far from the ordinary -- having done this more than you would like to admit in your lifetime. Sacking fat crates of supplies, pilfering robs of silver, a handful of rainbowy spices, lugs of gunpowder, dried meats, and... yellow? gold? gold-yellow-fringed? fabrics meant for some highborn boony wedding, you supposed.

The Fidelity -- you cackled as Roach, your first mate -- voiced it aloud after spotting the grimy and wry thing bobbing all stainless and impeccant on the cyanic open tide.

Brandishing one to three stripes of yellow ochre and black on its sails -- an English ship. Fucking fantastic.

The Fidelity sailed like it had something to prove -- and something to hide. You squinted through Roach's spyglass as he handed the rusty thing in your grasp. The cool metal felt lighter than usual. Almost like the inanimate thing also carried the weight of how breezy the entire situation would unfold.

The wind tugged at your coat, the salty bite of sea spray clinging to your lips like a stifled giggle held back. A cargo ship dressed like a warbird. Flashy. Pretentious. Stupid.

The deck was spotless though, you could give them that. But... too spotless.

Officers moved with precise, military grace, their coats crisp despite the salt air. You caught glimpses of gilded buttons gleaming under the sun, and the unmistakable glint of medals pinned to chests.

You sneered. Royalty, through and through.

“She’s trying to look mean,” Roach muttered, still perched beside you with his boot resting atop the coil of an idle harpoon line. Smirking as he rolled up his sleeves and watched you only hum in agreement.

A hand already up in the air, finger twirling to signal the crew -- a silent command born of years of rough waves and rougher men. A subtle indication to hull their arses ready and steady. Cannons assuredly poised and propped, gunpowder dried and eager among flintlocks and barrels, and swords sharp and burnished under the fierce sun -- ready to taste blood.

You grinned. “Let’s find out if she bites.”

She didn’t.

No thunderous roar, no volley of cannon fire. Instead, the Fidelity slipped through the waves with unnerving calm -- almost too calm. Like a cat waiting to pounce, silent and calculating. The boarding was quick and cruel. You and your crew descended like crows on a bloated carcass. Lazy, familiar, facile. Benign and an amenable picking at that.

Splinters flew, ropes sang, blades met flesh. The Fidelity’s crew folded like linen though. All gnawed and mauled. Some already bruised, bleeding, or too wounded to even lift a hilt. All cantakerous and pathetic skins of blood and flesh. Most surrendered before your boots even hit the deck.

A few tried to be brave.

Bravery bored you. And you made sure to show your appreciation for such dullness and malaise with the sharp arc of your sword. Often suppressing an eyeroll and a yawn whenever you cleaved through their defenses like slicing through rotten wood. Your blade whispered as it swept -- swift, precise, and utterly merciless. Each strike a lesson in futility, a reminder that resistance was pointless. You didn’t need to kill them all -- just enough to remind them that its either they were wasting gunpowder or human capital. Either way, you could almost groan at how stubborn the brave little muskets were. You could at least give them that much for your admiration and pleasantries.

As the rest surrendered, the few wounded, and the majority all bled out and holed through on the deck, you could almost let out a breath of relief once you kicked open the captain’s quarters to find velvet-wrapped crates of untouched tea, ink jars sealed in wax, scrolls with the royal seal.... sloppily disguised as merchant records. Contraband disguised as tribute. Smuggled goods, and worse, correspondence. Oh shady shady, you tsked at the sight.

But it wasn’t until Roach called down from the brig that things truly got interesting.

“Captain! You’ll want to see this.”

The two of them were a mess of bruises and bad attitude. One sat with his back pressed to the wall, blood drying across his brow in a jagged halo, wrists shackled, and a cocky grin half-swallowed in pain. Electric blue eyes glossed over in either pain or exhaustion. Watching you in keen interest. Humming a bit in curiosity as you catch the way his gaze darts quickly from the supple roundness of your chest and back up to your face. Almost guilty and shodden. You scoffed though. Not entirely amused.

The other knelt beside him, posture defensive, calculating gaze unmoved by the sight of you. Brown puppy dog eyes and silken chestnut skin. Coarse and roughed gloves painted in what seemed like the other one's blood. Trying to patch it all up as much as he can with scants of his threadbare handkerchief and scarves. Both wore shredded navy coats -- rank patches barely hanging on.

Officers, you chalked it up. Too polished for simple sailors that was for sure. And too fucking stubborn for common prisoners you concluded by the way the wounded one still tried to reach for his sword despite probably about to lose an arm.

Handsome though. But no one really asked.

“Names?” you asked coolly, circling them like meat you weren’t sure you wanted. Palming the hilt of your sword as you catch Roach quirking his lip up in tittered humour.

The bloody one smiled. “Weel... Depends. Ye plannin' tae kiss or kill us?”

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

“Aye. I hear that more'n I ought tae”

Roach leaned in and whispered, “That’s MacTavish. The other one’s Garrick. They’re not just navy -- they’re Royal Guard.”

You raised an eyebrow, weighing the value of keeping two highborn pests onboard versus the headache they promised. Royal Guard meant influence, connections, a hefty ransom if you played your cards right. A nice little thicket of cloisters of coins and more spices if you could tick off that Royal Navy Admiral Price good enough. A smart play, in theory. Very very smart play.

It wasn’t until two weeks of the asshats on board that you realized that, in bloody practice? The theory -- your brilliant, ransom-laced, gold-glinting theory -- was fucking falling apart at the seams.

It was like adopting two particularly handsome raccoons with a taste for violence, zero spatial awareness, and the uncanny ability to charm their way into places they had no fucking business being.

You kept them shackled at first, locked in the brig and kept a good two decks away from your charts, your crew, your liquor, and your patience. And yet, somehow -- somehow -- they were still everywhere.

Jesus H. Christ.

What started as just filling in for two of your deck-men who got the scabies turned into a bloody nightmare.

Garrick with his stupid puppy eyes and his “Captain, I can help, just tell me what needs doing” and MacTavish with that grin, that smirk, and that incessant way of sidling into your space like he owned it.

They followed you.

Literally.

Kyle -- you learnt his name after MacTavish yelped it during a mock brawl on deck, pinned beneath the man’s thighs and shouting, “Fuckin’ hell, Kyle!” with such vigor and vocal intimacy it left half the crew blushing and the other half holding back laughter. And you didn’t even ask. Didn’t have to. The name stuck to him like wet salt. Kyle “Oh-Kyle” Garrick, the Royal Guard turned public ship spectacle.

SOOO "Oh-Kyle", despite every ounce of his well-bred, tight-buttoned composure, had an uncanny way of making himself indispensable. One day he was teaching your quartermaster proper naval coordinates like your crew didn’t pride themselves on controlled chaos and instinct; the next, he was calmly untangling three months' worth of misfiled logbooks like he had lived in your cabin longer than you had. He had the gall -- the fucking gall -- to reorganize your maps. Alphabetically.

You should’ve shot him then.

MacTavish, on the other hand, was a hurricane in human form. Somehow both endearing and insufferable, always a little too close to your elbow, always a little too fond of winking. You caught him once juggling stolen lemons below deck with three of your men like it was a fucking circus. Another time, you found him shirtless, scrubbing the deck with Roach and humming something that sounded suspiciously like a love song -- off-key, of course. When you scolded him for “fraternizing,” he just grinned and said, “Captain, I’m fraternizing with the timber.”

You thought about throwing him overboard. Repeatedly.

And yet. And yet.

They grew on your crew like barnacles. Roach started calling "Oh-Kyle" sir as a joke. Then stopped joking. One of your youngest recruits claimed he wanted to “be like MacTavish when he grew up.” That nearly gave you a stroke. Even the parrot -- traitorous feathered bastard -- preferred their shoulders over yours. And well.... you just had to admit -- they were somewhat truly easy on the eyes.

Infuriatingly. Obnoxiously. Royal-blood-would-boil-if-they-knew hot.

You tried not to see it. Gods above, you tried. But there it was -- in the stupid curl of Kyle’s smile when he fiddled with your maps like he wasn't a prisoner, like he belonged there. In the way MacTavish grunted through training drills, shirt tossed over his shoulder, sweat beading on his neck in a way that should’ve been illegal on royal personnel. In the way they both looked at you -- not with fear, but with that same infuriating little gleam, like they were waiting for you to break first.

You told yourself it was fine. Normal even. A healthy appreciation for enemy assets. You were still in control. Still had the upper hand. Right?....

Right??

It wasn't until you woke one morning to find both of them asleep in your quarters after a drunken menage à trois that you started to suspect -- maybe you never even had so much as a lifted finger on these incensing broods.

Or at least it was probably misplaced somewhere between Johnny's mouth on your cunt, suckling your achy and engorged clit like it was something syrupy and saturnine at the end of a raid -- finally learning his name after screaming it hoarse after he took you from the side where your swore you felt and saw God in between his cock's brutal thrusting and his canine and saccharine mouth on your tits -- and Kyle's fingers tangled in your hair, paired with his mocking and patronizing coos everytime you hiccuped and sobbed out your release from just his fingers or his tongue alone. Both of them taking to your bed and pussy like it was a battlefield they fully intended to conquer, together.

You blinked hard at the ceiling. Blinked again. Because maybe if you stared long enough, the water damage above you would split open and swallow you whole. Mercifully. Quietly. Preferably before Johnny could start stirring again.

Because that? That was definitely his bloody thigh. Still slung across your hips like you were a prize he’d claimed in the name of King and country. One of his arms tucked under your neck. And Kyle -- Oh-Kyle -- was on your other side, shirtless, snoring lightly with his face mashed against your shoulder and a hand, scandalously, still cupped over your breast like it belonged there.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You nearly stabbed them then and there again. But if it wasn't for the lazy grin starting to spread across Johnny's face at the mere shift of your warm skin against his own. His achy and reddening tip starting to chub up and leak pre-cum once more near the tender slit of your vagina or Kyle's fingers starting to tighten possessively over the pinkening nipple of your breast, you vowed that yeah sure, Jan, they would have hung from the hull to the mast.

At first you thought they were only fattening up the plot to escape, betray, and pilfer all your loot in a single wink. Royal Guard and all -- maybe they were trying to gauge the layout of your ship, cozying up to the temperament of your crew and you. And maybe... just maybe you’d wake up to Garrick slitting your throat after Johnny had you too drunk or too well-fucked to notice the blade sliding home -- booning over your men's favor and Johnny flipping your charts while humming sea shanties to a possible mutiny.

But no.

As morning after morning passed, your sex and thighs either plugged up or leaking with their mixed spend, and throat remained blissfully uncut. Your loot untouched. Your maps unspoiled. No mysterious disappearances. No hidden daggers. Just Kyle’s goddamn smile when he handed you coffee like a bloody deckhand, and Johnny's stupid humming while he patched sails or helped Roach scrub dried salt from the gunwale.

They were... helping.

Contributing.

Loyal.

Kyle started bringing you crates before you even asked for them. Memorized your rum preference and the exact way you liked your charts folded. Once, he even punched a crewmate for calling you “boss” instead of “Captain.” (You didn’t stop him.) And Johnny -- Johnny saved your life during a skirmish with a Portuguese cutter, dragging your bloodied body across the deck with fire in his eyes like the thought of losing you was the real mutiny.

Barking orders like a man possessed for Roach to move his arse, tearing fabric with his teeth to stop your bleeding, cradled your face in his palms after like he didn’t give a damn who saw. Like you were his to lose. Like he’d rather sink the whole ship than let that happen.

And after?

Well. After that, their devotion?? got even more.... creative....

Johnny took to sleeping outside your quarters. Said it was to “keep watch,” but you’d catch him shirtless most nights knowing you couldn't resist the flutter of his pec to his arm, cleaning your boots or sharpening your cutlass with that infuriating grin -- daring you to say he wasn’t being useful. You slapped him hard after sucking his dick though.

Kyle, on the other hand, started sneaking into your cabin under the excuse of "nightly reports." But the reports always came with warm hands, eager and sinewy fingers, warmy mouth licking and suckling the fat of your tit just right. Kissing you like he knew it was already dangerous -- like he knew you could gut him then and there, and still didn’t care.

You tried to hold the line.

You really did.

But the line started to blur the night Kyle dropped to his knees in the glow of your lantern and promised you his loyalty with his mouth, not words. Or the night Johnny pressed you against your map table and growled that if you wanted him to leave, you’d have to use your blade -- and when you reached for it, he only grinned wider and said, “Didn’t say I wouldn’t like that, hen.”

Bastards. Both of them.

It was beginning to disturb you, how they didn’t run.

How they stayed.

How they smiled when you issued and quipped out your own orders. How Johnny’s hand always lingered just a little too long at your lower back. How Kyle’s eyes softened when you laughed -- gods forbid you ever laughed around them again.

You cornered them once in your quarters, after a few too many drinks and even more pent-up suspicion. Shirt half-open, your bustier falling loose, and hair mussed, sword already drawn, lip curled in your best don’t-fuck-with-me snarl.

“I know what you’re doing,” you growled.

Johnny raised an eyebrow, head rising from the softness of your thigh. Kissing and licking the fresh bruise near your pussy almost as a sign of penance. “Do ye now?”

“You’re seducing me,” you spat. “Turning the crew. Planning something. You want something.”

Kyle blinked, utterly unbothered, even as your blade hovered an inch from his chest. “Aye,” he said, voice maddeningly casual. “Want you. Thought that part was obvious.”

And Johnny, the bastard, just grinned. “No' everything’s a ploy, Captain. Sometimes we just like what we see.”

You hated them.

You hated them and the way they kept unraveling your world with grins and glances and too much damn charm.

And worse -- worse -- you were beginning to hate how much you were starting to not mind.

So when you finally received the letter -- an official, wax-sealed declaration from Admiral Price himself, stamped with all the pomp and entitlement of the Royal fucking Navy -- you didn't even flinch.

“To the Captain currently harboring His Majesty’s property --” (Already starting off strong.) “-- you are hereby summoned to discuss terms of retrieval and recompense. Failure to comply will be considered an act of war.”

You stared at the letter.

Then at Kyle, who was kneeling to rub balm over the burn on your calf, his touch gentle, eyes wandering glossed over in arousal and fervor at your smooth smooth skin. The sight of your skirt riding high up your thigh making him groan like a man lost and found.

Then at Johnny, who had the audacity to be asleep in your bed, your actual bed, one leg slung over your pillows like he owned the place -- snoring softly, lips parted in a way that made you both want to kiss him and suffocate him.

You crumpled the letter and tossed it into the sea.

They didn’t ask after.

Didn’t flinch either.

Just stayed.

Admiral Johnathan Price arrived three days later though with all the dramatics of a man used to being obeyed. Making you perk an eyebrow in both amusement and bemusement at someone being able to track the Maurauder down in such short notice.

He stepped onto your deck with a slight gait, hands clasped behind his back, beard bristling in the wind, and that narrowed, assessing glare already cutting through your defenses. Tired, dangerous, and somehow still chewing on a cigar like he had time for leisure as his eyes -- slow, calculated, and practiced-- examined the thick coarse of your helm, the masts, sails, and to the soft spill of your breasts from your corset as if you wouldn't notice.

It wasn't until the second part of his rendezvous that you tilted your head a bit in both surprise and confusion, watching the Royal Crown Prince himself, Simon fucking Riley -- sauntering beside Admiral Price like he wasn’t wearing half the Empire’s weight across his shoulders.

You recognized him after a beat. After a flicker of memory -- the dull glint of coin passed through a storm market in Tortuga, a trader laughing as he slapped the copper piece into your palm.

“Rare, that one,” he’d said. “Crown mint. Got the prince’s face on it. Rumor says he’s a ghost -- never speaks, never smiles.”

At the time, you’d laughed. Called it superstition. Tossed the coin into your boot for luck. Now, watching the exact silhouette from the coin move -- cut across your entresol like he already owned it -- your blood cooled.

Same jaw. Same sharp, still grace. Same stare that could unmake a person without ever lifting a blade.

Prince Simon Riley alright.

The masked royal ghost.

He didn’t speak, not right away. Just stood beside Price like a looming specter, face hidden behind that infamous black cloth over his mouth, arms folded like a damn statue. Judging. Watching.

Sizing you up.

Price, however, didn’t bother with greetings. Opting instead to go straight to the bloody point.

“So,” he said coolly, “how long have you been fucking my men?”

You stared.

Kyle choked.

Johnny cackled.

“Is that how the Navy opens all its diplomatic engagements now?” you snapped.

“Only when diplomacy’s already been thoroughly compromised,” Price said dryly, taking in Johnny’s open shirt, your bite mark on his neck, and Kyle’s bare feet. “Jesus.”

You ignore him. Eyes narrowed instead on the royal-born covered in black from collar to boots. “Didn’t know the Navy brought along crown jewels on recovery missions,” you said coolly, voice like cut glass. “Planning to bribe me or blind me?”

Price didn’t blink at that. A slight quirk of his lip as he stood up straighter by the Prince's side. “He volunteered.”

“Royalty doesn’t volunteer.” You stepped forward, ignoring the faint, cursed jolt that rolled through you as Riley turned to face you directly.

His eyes -- visible through the mask -- were pale. Distant. And focused on you like you were the first breath after drowning.

“He does,” Price said, voice low. “When he’s invested.”

That made your brow arch.

“And what exactly is His Majesty invested in?” you asked, gaze flicking pointedly between the four of them -- at Johnny and Kyle, the main bloody problem in the first place, the reason your ship had gone soft with affection and discipline all at once.

Riley finally spoke. Voice deep. Even. And terrifyingly soft.

“You.”

....... huh?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“You can have them,” you said, pointing to the two smug bastards behind you. Ready to hand them over if it meant that you can let these bastards fuck off to whatever port in some highland or springy-marsh just so you could get your life back. Because what the fuck was that? What the fuck was this? A fucking harem on water? A fucking sick bloody joke on some carribbean fantasy??

Christ. You're probably still stuck on that one cave out in the port of Tiago and this was still an illusion. “Take them. Take them for all I care and get the fuck out of my ship and off my waters”

But neither any of them moved. Not the Admiral nor Kyle. Shit. Not even Spooky the Parrot resting on the sails.

Kyle only stepped closer. Johnny wrapped an arm around your waist. And the Prince and the Admiral watched it all, quiet, almost amused.

“Told ye, hen. Yer' irresistible.”

“At this point it’s just a matter of who gets to stay in your bed, don't you think?”

You almost choked.

Yeah. You were gonna need a drink.

Or a mutiny.

Possibly both.

“I should have hanged you both,” you muttered as Price hummed softly in amusement and Prince Riley’s masked quirked up from a smirk at your response — eyes oh so slowly tracing every outline granted from the loose bodice of your shirt to the open front of your blouse. Gritting your teeth, already calculating how far you could jump off the side of your own ship without breaking something vital.

Yeah.

You should have hanged them both. Goddamnit

masterlist

[mctvsh]

ᯤ

gn!reader x johnny soap mactavish

you explaining your insecurities to johnny and he just grabs your hand and puts it against the growing bulge beneath his pants. he blinks his baby blues at you like he hasn't done a thing wrong, but says some shit like, "naw you're beautiful bon, look how hes growin'" with a shit eating grin.

[dead-flight]

“Be careful who you trust, Sergeant. People you know can hurt you the most.” “Good advice, Lt. I wanna be like you when I grow up.” “You wanna be better than me, Johnny.” “I will be.”“Think I’ll live that long?” “Probably not…”

i think about it daily. do... you think that when johnny died, simon ever thought about what he said??? do you think simon ever regretted it??? i don't know if it's just me, but i think that simon is the reminiscing type. the type to pretend like it didn't bother him when it's all he thinks about when he goes to bed. like a fuckin' film on repeat. he runs through it, goes down every possible option--believes wholeheartedly in the butterfly effect.

do you think simon ever wishes he said differently? also not to mention in the game you CAN'T EVEN change the 'probably not'--it's always destined to happen, (regardless of what chat reply you press) no matter what simon does...

but do you think he knows that?

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saints of One Way Trips

Ch30

Description: Shit happens. Lots of shit happens. John gets hurt. Laika goes ‘missing’. Laswell’s back. Tensions are unresolved. Eek..

*Laika’s POV*

Kyle and Johnny took me for lunch. It had almost worked in distracting me from the way Simon and John had behaved earlier. Almost.

Just as we finish eating, Johnny’s phone rings. He answers and immediately glares towards Kyle and I, nodding his head to the exit, before hanging up the call.

“Laswell’s got a lead. We’re leaving now. Fuckin’ bullshit. Cannae’ even get a few days between jobs..” he complains.

My gut lurches but I blink the panic and disappointment away and stand, ready to move. The drive back to base is silent. Kyle drives, Johnny sits shotgun, and I sit in the back. I don’t let them see me rolling my shoulder to test the sore points. I hadn’t given it any time to heal between missions, or gotten it checked out since the initial injury happened months ago. And since then, it’d been consistently banged about one way or another.

As soon as we are back on base, I run and grab the essentials from my room, stuffing my belongings into a small rucksack, before heading to the pack room to join the Alphas.

Simon sees me coming and nods his head. “You packed quickly, pet. Got everything?” he asks.

“Yeah, think so..” I reply, noting his steady eye contact, eyeing me for any signs of nervousness. I make a point to show none.

“Where’s John?” I ask, noting that I hadn’t seen him since the spat earlier, where he almost went feral with Simon, over an argument about me, where he accidentally shoved me across the room.

“Said he’d get us on the heli-” Simon grunts.

“Is he ok..-” - “fine” Simon interrupts.

Johnny and Kyle appear in the hall just then, effectively ending the conversation between Simon and I.

“Let’s go, team” Johnny says, trying to sound upbeat.

Simon grabs my rucksack from its position at my feet, and leads the way.

The sound of the helicopter blades wakes me right up. My hair tussles in the wind created by the propellor, and I raise an arm to hold my hair out the way of my eyes. I’ll braid it back once we’re loaded up I think to myself.

John appears with Kate. He seems to purposefully keep his distance from me, which pains me, but I gulp down my disappointment when Kate approaches me and gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder. My sore one.

From the corner of my eye I notice Simon looking down at me as I try not to wince at the pain. I return a smile, albeit a tightlipped one, back to Kate and try to ignore Simon’s intense stare.

Once seated on the heli, the briefing starts. Apparently Hassan had been traced to a facility in Chicago - where El Sin Nombre has suggested the third missile was.

Kate tells us that we are partnering up with the Marines, and that Kyle is to go down to ground level with them through the Chicago river and get access to the compound from below. My inner Omega is not happy about being split from Kyle. I try to resist a whine but Kyle must notice my discomfort and places a gentle squeeze on my thigh, as if to reassure me.

“While Gaz and the Marines push up the building, Price and Soap will work their way down, with Soap rappelling to the server floor, pinching Hassan in the middle” Laswell instructs, showing us the plan and maps on her laptop screen.

Simon’s role is overwatch, so he is sniping. I find my eyes darting about, having not heard what my role in all this is to be.

John’s eyes meet mine, for the first time since the argument with Simon.

“Laika, you are to stay with Simon. Watch his back while he’s in position. I don’t want you getting involved in the skirmish”.

I furrow my brows, and look up at him, and then down at my feet. He doesn’t want you anymore, stupid mutt.

I nod my head, accepting of my fate, and refuse to let any tears fall, even though I can feel them coming, my lash line heavy with tears I refuse to shed.

I sneakily open my rucksack, and open the front pocket, pulling out scent patches. I place one on each scent gland, either side of my neck. I’m not an omega anymore. If I’m not their omega. I’m nobody’s.

I dissociate for the remainder of the helicopter ride. As we land and unload, Kate is immediately escorted to a black SUV and drives away, and Simon just starts walking away. I follow, remembering my orders to have Simon’s back while he is providing overwatch for the others. I’d been put on the bench for this assignment. It was clear to see. The next step will be to get abandoned by the 141. This is why they hadn’t claimed me as their own. I’m not pack, after all.

Laswell’s voice crackles through the comms device in my ear, it flashes me back into reality.

“Watcher-1 to Bravo-6 Actual. Perimeter is secure. We have a possible hit on the missile container. We're moving in now” she speaks.

The Captains voice replies “Solid copy. All Bravo, move to set. We're on”

I continue to follow Simon to wherever he is headed, like a lost puppy.

“Ghost, get to your overwatch” the captain orders.

“Rog, we’re on the move” Simon replies, glancing back to me to make sure I’m still there. I wipe quickly at my eyes, hoping there is no evidence of my emotions. After this, I will need to disappear. I’m no longer wanted here. That much is clear. I’ve been rejected by pack alpha. He’s just sent me with Simon to babysit me and keep me out of trouble.

Simon eventually settles on a spot where he can see the action from above. I position myself slightly to the left of his perch and keep a look out for any movement. I see the helicopter incoming with Johnny and the Captain ready to lower into the action. My lip trembles. I want to leave.

Price and Soap reach the ledge of the roof.

“We are down, Ghost.. you have eyes on us?” Price asks over comms.

“A-firm. Flashing now” Simon replies, shining a light for Price and Johnny to find the overwatch position.

“Copy visual, L.T. What've you got?” Johnny asks.

“Civilians” - “or Hostages..”

It’s cold on top of the high rise building. I fold my arms to try and preserve body heat. “Two enemy soldiers below” Simon gruffs over the comms -“clear to engage. Can't sneak past. They'll spot you.”

I hear two gun shots.

“Clear. Bravo-3, five-five secure.” Good, they’re still alive, at least. I hope Kyle is ok…

“Four guards ahead. Three in the room, one in the hallway” Simon instructs from above. “Drop 'em fast.”

Four gunshots follow. I close my eyes and try to collect myself, feeling totally useless, listening from above. I can’t even watch seeing as I’m having to watch Simon’s back. All I can do is listen to the comms and gunshots. It’s horrible.

“One floor to go”

“Copy, in position on the target deck” the Captain’s voice growls through.

“Five on the next floor. Three moving. Two stationary. Get a visual before you engage” Simon instructs, again.

Five gunshots ring out.

“Price, all hostages secure” Johnny’s voice crackles through. I hadn’t realised, from my position, that they’d been split up from each other…

The sound of rumbling makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I gulp and turn my head quickly to Simon. “Simon… what was that..?” I ask, nervously. He stays scarily still, watching his mark.

“Laswell, what the hell was that?” John’s voice growls down the radio, equally as unsure as I.

“John, the missile is active, it's in first stage. Be advised - controls are not in the container.”

Shit

“We need those controls!” Johnny shouts

I hear more gun shots from my position, and finally feel the tears I’d been holding for hours start to fall. There had been no action from Simon’s overwatch position to distract me, and there wasn’t going to be. We were at the top of a neighbouring, locked down, high rise office building. There was no need for me to watch Simon’s back. Price just wanted me out of the way. And that angers me. He obviously thinks I am a burden.

I hear the distant crackle of gunshots and the crashing of helicopters from above, alongside rumbling booms of RPGs and explosions. What the hell are they doing in there ?!

“Visual on the control room. All stations, negative on Hassan. Control is a dry hole. Ghost, you got anything?” John’s voice shouts into comms.

I finally hear Kyle’s sweet voice over the radio and my shoulders drop, relief flooding my chest. Another huge bang sounds from the distant.

Simon continues to provide overwatch until all of a sudden, his voice, not as balanced as usual, shouts -

“ENEMY SOLDIERS. RPG. RPG.”

Then the comms go mad. All of the Alphas are shouting “contact” - “fall back” - “RPG” it’s a gargle of panic and dismay.

Enough!! Do something. You have to help.

I hear the RPG fire and explode, and my decision is made. I abandon my post. I leave, silently, glancing back at Simon only once as I leave. He will be ok. He is far from the fray happening in the building across the street. He doesn’t need me here. He’s not taken his eye from the scope for the past 3 hours anyway, he won’t notice if I’m here or not.

When I decide I’m far enough from Simon’s ears, I break into a run. I smash the down button on the elevator, deciding it’s quicker, and more energy efficient, than taking the stairs. It feels ridiculous, travelling down in the lift, with typical lift music playing softly from within the metal box, while I know my Alpha’s task force 141 are fighting for their lives just across the street.

The metal doors open, and I leave the office building, quickly crossing the street and entering the one Simon had been watching through his scope.

“Soap, there's no cover out there!; I can't cover you, Sergeant! Get in here!; Get in here, Sergeant!” I hear the Captain’s panicked voice shout over comms.

Oh Johnny, please don’t get yourself hurt. I pray to no god in particular.

“All Bravo, be advised -- Hassan is in the stairwell, he's moving down”. Simon advises.. He still hasn’t noticed I’ve gone. Good.

“Solid copy! Gaz - he's headed your way!” Price shouts.

Ok. Think Laika! THINK! This must mean that Kyle is lower than John and Johnny. And in the stairwell. The building is 55 floors high. If he’s heading down the stair well, he will be running about a floor a minute. That means he must be somewhere in the 40s.

I step into the elevator and travel up to floor 39. Just to be sure I don’t by-pass them. To my surprise, the elevator is still working. I huff a small chuckle under my breath, not believing my luck.

As I travel upwards, it gets louder. Guns cracking and the building almost shaking. I then hear voices and the elevator jolts, announcing its arrival at floor 39.

Don’t be stupid, now, Laika. You’re on your own here. The voices might be friendlies. They might be enemies too. But my head is on a swivel. I’ve got no one to watch my back.

I run toward the stairwell, rifle at the ready, and pray I don’t run immediately into Hassan. Because that would mean he has passed Kyle. Which would mean…

NO. No . Kyle will be fine.

I take the stairs two at a time, dragging myself up using the handrail.

I hear John and Johnny over comms. No sign of Kyle yet.

Price’s voice then comes through asking Kyle for a sit-rep.

I hold my breath. His voice replies. I release my breath, thankful.

“no sign, yet, Cap. I’m waiting for him!”

“- Copy, we're moving to you!”

The stairwell is echoing and it makes me feel slightly disoriented. I hear crashing and loud, hurried footsteps, but they sound like they’re coming from at least a few floors up. I must be approaching Kyle’s position.

Then my fate is sealed. Simon’s voice rumbles down the radio.

“Gaz - armed unknown approaching your position from below. Keep your head on a swivel. Two floors down but moving quickly”

Shit. SHIT.

I don’t know what to do. Should I tell them it’s me. Should I risk Kyle shooting on sight? Think Laika. THINK!!!

I slow my steps and press my comms, I hear the crackle, about to speak, before Simon’s voice shouts to tell Kyle that Hassan is in immediate contact range.

Then I hear gun fire. And then.. The sound of the missile launching. My heart stammers in my chest and I whimper.

“All stations, missile is hot! I say again, the missile is launching!” No shit, Sherlock!

“No, no, no-!”- “Feckin' hell!”

“Watcher, where's the target?!” John yells to Kate.

I then hear a crash, signalling that a door onto a floor has been opened, meaning whoever made the sound has left the stairwell..

It wouldn’t be Kyle, because he is holding his position for Hassan from above and myself from below.

Which means, it must have been Hassan.

I leave the stairwell at the next opportunity and slide into the awaiting elevator, silently making my way up 2 floors. Hassan is somewhere on this floor. He’s got to be.

I hear through comms, thanks to Simon (who still hasn’t noticed I’ve left..) that Price and Johnny have met up with Kyle and are moving to find Hassan.

I can now hear their voices through the stairwell doors.

“Gaz, where did Hassan go?” - “End of the hall! Hassan's held up behind those doors!” -“Let's clear this out and bag him, then!”

This floor is swarming with guards. My knife slides smoothly through their throats. I’m making good progress.

Hassan could only be in one room, and it’s the room I’m approaching from a hallway on the left. I freeze when I hear them. From the right.

“We got him cornered in this room. Follow me”

I stay hidden against the back wall, hoping they don’t spot me.

John and Johnny are following Kyle into the other end of the hallway and reach a set of double-doors.

“Hassan's behind those doors”

“I'll snake a camera in there.”

They work like a well oiled machine.

This is why they’d never want me.

I’m not as efficient. As clever. As strong.

I’m a liability. Weak. Useless.

Price takes out a snake-cam and slips it under the door.

Johnny steps forward to check the camera.

BANG!!!

The doors explode. I’m thrown back into the wall but the Alphas took a serious hit. I panic. I crawl back to my feel, wobbling slightly, my head swimming from the blast. I can’t locate my rifle. Shit shit shit.

Then I hear Arabic voices. And gunshots. I hope they’re alive. Please god be alive.

I see Kyle stumble through the smoke, rubble and dust, yet he manages to shoot one of the soldiers and drags Johnny, who looks awful, to cover.

It all happens so quickly.

Kyle has Johnny safe, but Hassan lines up a shot on John. It is a point blank head shot. I break into a sprint as Hassan’s face breaks into a smile.

“JOHN” Kyle’s panicked and broken voice screams at the scene unfolding in from of him. John is on his knees, winded and injured from the blast.

I realise too late that I have no gun. No knife. Just my body.

I throw myself at Hassan, and the gun fires due to the impact. Hassan grunts as we collide and I feel my shoulder, that takes the brunt of the impact, finally give out. It’s either broken, dislocated or…

I roll and roll, and I hear muffled sounds and movement. My eyes blink away the dust and my lungs burn.

Kyle limps quickly to John, still not realising. It’s me, Kyle. It’s me..

He heaves John away from the rubble, and watches as Hassan gets up and runs away.

“You broken?” Kyle asks John.

“I'm good. Go, you got this.” John grumbles, sounding winded and tired.

“Soap, let's move!” And with that, Kyle and Johnny leave. My eyes feel heavy. They don’t know I’m here. And they’ve left me. Of course they have, you stupid mutt. Simon hasn’t even noticed you’re gone.

Through tired and exhausted eyes, I hear John weakly say into his comms “Watcher, Hassan has the missile controls. Johnny and Kyle are going after him” and that’s when I lose consciousness.

*John’s POV*

“JOHN. It’s Laika. She’s gone…” Simon’s voice barks over the comms.

Shit.

Authors note: sorry for the huge hiatus guys. Life’s been crazy. Nothing bad, just crazy. 🤪 huge thanks for ALL the comments, ALL the kudos and ALL the messages. I didn’t realise people from all over would even read, let alone care about updates and/or if I was ok. How wrong I was. 6 months down the line and I’m still getting daily notifications from you guys asking if I’m ok, if I’m coming back etc. sorry for ignoring y’all. I just didn’t want to reply, to then not have the time to post anything.

Anyway, enjoy the story. We’re back, baby!

[baty2004]

The boys :(

I missed drawing them so much aaaa and im super happy with how this turned out fr

I finally finished my semester so hopefully I can draw and make more stuff :))

[ghcstsoap]

Captain John Soap MacTavish would be a Trauma Surgeon

Sergeant Johnny Soap MacTavish would be a Pediatric Surgeon

[journen]

So this was the page art I did for the Sunshine Soap Zine. 🧡 Soap and Ghost taking advantage of some quiet downtime on a mission as they wait to head back out again...

[waves-against-a-cliff]

Soap putting you in a headlock when fucking you into the mattress, his chest against your back as his hips snap against the fat of your ass. You're clawing against his forearm which only makes him chuckle and comment about how feisty you are while he hits so deep inside you that you damn near scream.

Biting down hard enough to leave indents on his bicep and not letting go until he uses his other hand to wrench your head away by your hair with a snarl. Snapping your jaw at him while he stares down with feral blue eyes, "Ye wannae play rough?"

[certifiedcodbabygirl]

HEAR ME OUT

Let's Get Physical series

pt.2

I need hooker!Soap but with a shy college student who needs help with her physics assignment. She can't go to her professor (he's a dick), and she doesn't really have friends and doesn't wanna seem like an idiot for needing help.

She somehow hears about Soap and hears how he used to be a sniper and demolition expert. That means he knows math and physics, right? There's a confidentiality rule, right? She buys one hour, and when he walks in, he thinks it's just the usual. But she's got her too heavy backpack with some books and worksheets. Okay, so she has a schoolgirl fantasy, easy enough. Except she starts rambling about how she needs help, and her assignment is due soon, and she's stuck. Okay, so she's deep in the fantasy, alright.

She explains she doesn't want sex. She just actually needs help. She knows he knows this shit, and she has no one else to go to. He's slightly baffled, considering most people just get straight into jumping his bones. But no. It's just a shy little thing that needs an A on her physics assignment.

Well, she already paid for the hour, and she's so pretty all flustered like that, who is he to turn her away? Show him the page, hen.

[rejected-reapermain]

Don’t touch his Soap 🧼 >:/

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Tactical Porn | Soap x TF141!Reader

The pub wasn’t packed, but it buzzed with the low thrum of end-of-mission tension finally loosening its grip. You were leaned against the corner of the booth, half a drink too deep, cheeks a little warm, boots scuffed and muddy under the table. Ghost sat across from you nursing a dark ale, Price was at the bar charming the poor bartender for the fourth time that night, and Gaz was telling a story with too many hand gestures and not enough point.

And then—he walked in.

Soap.

Freshly showered, but still wearing his tactical pants, boots laced up tight, black tee stretched across his chest like it was trying to hang on for dear life. Dog tags clinked softly against his chest as he slung his bag down, arm flexing with the movement.

He didn’t notice you watching. Not yet. He was talking to someone from another squad, smiling wide, that same damn smile he used after blowing something up and getting away with it.

You stared. Shamelessly.

“I mean… Jesus Christ,” you mumbled.

Gaz leaned a little closer. “What’s that?”

You blinked, realizing you’d said it out loud. But it was too late now—your drunk mouth was running. Full speed.

“I just don’t get how he exists, you know? Like—how is that man real? Look at his arms. His arms, Gaz.”

Ghost raised a brow, amused. “You alright there, sunshine?”

You waved your hand dismissively, laughing. “I’m just saying! It’s criminal. He’s got that... older guy confidence. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and how you like it—probably doesn’t even have to try.”

Gaz nearly choked on his drink. “Bloody hell, you’re in deep.”

You nodded solemnly. “You ever seen him disarm a bomb? It’s porn. Tactical porn.”

“I’m regretting this conversation,” Ghost muttered, though his eyes were definitely smiling under that mask.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer weight of your thirst, Soap turned. Eyes scanned the room and locked right on you. His smile curled into something sharper, something knowing. He raised a brow.

You went very still.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He definitely heard me.”

Gaz snorted. “He didn’t have to. You’re practically drooling.”

Soap started toward your table, slow and loose, and you suddenly remembered how to panic.

“I hate everyone here,” you muttered under your breath.

“You love it,” Ghost replied.

Soap reached the table, gaze flicking from Gaz to Ghost, and then settling on you. He leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of your seat, voice low and amused.

“Somethin’ you wanted to say to me, bonnie?”

Your mouth went dry. Heat crept up your neck.

“I—uh… I like your shirt?”

Smooth. Nailed it.

He just smirked, voice like velvet and mischief. “That right? Thought I heard something about my arms.”

You buried your face in your hands as the guys lost it around you. Ghost let out an unholy wheeze. Gaz was doubled over.

Soap leaned in even closer, lips brushing your ear. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll give you somethin’ better to look at later.”

He pulled away with a wink and walked off, leaving you red-faced and speechless, the table roaring with laughter.

You were never drinking around the Task Force again.

The barracks were quiet. Most of the squad was still out drinking, laughing off adrenaline and bruises. But you had ducked out early—blaming your headache, or maybe your pride.

You’d hoped he’d forget. You’d prayed he hadn’t heard you go on and on about his arms, his older-guy confidence, the way he disarms bombs like he’s undressing someone. But Soap wasn’t the type to let something like that slide.

You were halfway through changing—jacket off, shirt tugged up over your ribs—when you heard the door creak open.

You froze.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt,” came that familiar voice—low, lilting, amused.

You yanked your shirt back down and turned, heart hammering. Soap leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, hands in his pockets, that smirk already locked and loaded.

“Johnny—”

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. “No need to get shy now, bonnie. You had plenty to say earlier.”

You crossed your arms, trying to fight the heat crawling up your throat. “I was drunk.”

He tilted his head. “Drunk enough to say the truth.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Soap took a slow step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you. His eyes dropped, dragging over your face, your parted lips, the rise and fall of your chest.

“You said I look like I know exactly how you like it,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it.”

He grinned. “Aye, but you do wonder.”

You opened your mouth to snap back—deny it, laugh it off, something—but he leaned down and kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It was precise. Confident. Just like you imagined. His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he angled your head and deepened the kiss until your knees gave just a little.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, breath uneven.

“I was gonna wait,” he said quietly. “Figure you might get nervous. Might think I’m just older and lookin’ for fun.”

You blinked up at him. “Aren’t you?”

His grin turned dangerous. “No. I’ve had fun. What I want now’s a little more than that.”

Your heart flipped, fast and stupid.

He stepped back, letting you breathe, eyes dragging down your frame again—just long enough to make your skin burn.

“Come find me when you stop pretending you don’t want it,” he said, heading for the door. “And next time, love, don’t whisper it in a pub. Say it to me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you just stood there—flushed, breathless, and already aching to chase him down.

[girl-lostconnection]

Eating my orange in the dark and thinking about fruit bat hybrid!Reader x hybrid!141.

When they don’t exactly realise that she is not a usual bat and still joke about vampires and drinking blood while their new addition to the team is fucking vegetarian.

Wolf!Ghost makes a joke about bloodsuckers and Reader just gives him a slow blink and says “Lieutenant, my species are frugivores” and leaves him floored because first of all, what the FUCK are frugivores???

Komodo Dragon!Price opens their file back because he thought he was sent a bat as the new underling and the file is like yeah, you got sent a bat. A FRUIT bat, you old geezer.

Harbour Seal!Soap is just astounded by how much fruit they eat (fruit bats are known to eat anywhere from 50% to 150% of their body weight in fruits) while Harpy Eagle!Gaz is thrilled to have someone who finally GETS him (harpy eagles have the largest talons of any living eagle and males have been seen to carry prey roughly half of their own body weight).

Later the pack finds out that fruit bats have not one but two breeding seasons. Reader will need to fight them off with a stick because “back up, lads, I said BACK UP”. After all they are a hybrid, not an actual fruit bat.