alchemyfreak321 - Tumblr blog

alchemyfreak321 · 2 days ago

Note

Hear me out. Reader who is convinced she’s barren x soap with a breeding kink. HEAR ME OUT-

I KNOW I KNOW you wanted this to be a hell of a lot more smutty than I wrote it to be. That’s my bad pookie I haven’t been horny enough lately 💔 hope you enjoy anyway :)

Warnings: Angst. Smut. Mentions of infertility, fear of miscarriage, etc. Fem!Reader. Reader is very insecure and self-deprecating. MDNI.

“No,” you whisper, avoiding his eyes.

Johnny stills. Dark eyebrows furrow with hurt and shock, thin lips turning downward. A rejection was the last thing he expected to hear from you when he dropped down on bended knee and presented an intricate ring he’d spent weeks designing. Crickets chirp around the two of you, the river gently rippling beneath the bridge he brought you to—the bridge where he kissed you for the first time after one of your early dates, where he came to the devastating realization that he had fallen completely in love with you as your excited voice rambled to him about the wandering egrets and ducks that sat on the water’s surface.

“N-no?” He’s rightfully taken aback, resting his other knee on the ground as his hands fall into his lap, the ring he thought would be on your finger by now still safely tucked away into its little box.

“I’m not- fuck,” you suck in a deep breath, nearly choking on a sob. “Johnny, I love you, but I-I’m not what you need.”

Your boyfriend stills, those pretty blue eyes that you’ll always have a weakness for now trained on the pebbled ground, glossy with unshed tears. In all the time you’ve been dating him, not once have you seen him cry. He gets choked up, sure, but he never lets you see him at his most vulnerable. Not usually. Not until right this moment, when you might as well have ripped his beating heart from his chest and stomped it into the pavement. With trembling hands, you lean down and cup his handsome face in your palms, coaxing him to look up at you. It’s your turn to break.

“Baby, it’s not you,” you sniffle, thumbing away the moisture in his waterline. “I love you—God, you have no fucking idea how much I love you—b-but that… that’s why I can’t marry you, Johnny. You deserve more than what I can give you.”

“Ah dinnae understand,” he murmurs.

“I don’t wanna do this here,” you look around with a shaky sigh. “Let’s talk about it at home, okay?”

Silently, he stands, but his head hangs low as he begins the walk back to his truck. He doesn’t even reach for your hand like he normally would, and that in itself makes your stomach drop.

You could have anticipated the silence on the ride back to your flat. Instead of the comforting quiet you’ve grown accustomed to with him, it’s awkward. Painfully so. It’s wrong and it makes you nauseous, makes your head ache. When you finally arrive Johnny walks around and opens your door, and you give him a faint smile. He doesn’t return the gesture. You shuffle inside and he follows closely after, muttering under his breath as he checks the locks three times, like clockwork.

Despite being with him for so long, despite living and sharing a bed with him, you never expected the relationship to get this… serious. You’re happy with him, sure, but you’ve never really allowed yourself to imagine a future with him. He wants a big, happy family like the one he grew up in. You can’t bear the idea of holding him back, keeping him all for your selfish, dysfunctional self.

“Ah’m gonna get ready fer bed,” he informs you quietly, and instead of dragging you into the bathroom with him to fulfill your nightly routine like he typically would, he shuts and locks the door before you can even process what he said.

You chew on your bottom lip anxiously as you slip off your shoes and tread into the bedroom. Your side of the bed is neatly made and his is a mess—you can’t help but huff out a bitter laugh at the irony of it. He’s much more organized than you, generally. Johnny runs on discipline, confident and unshakable thanks to his years in the military. But you? You just take life as it comes, blindly swaying in whatever direction the wind decides to blow you in at that very moment.

He needs someone more like him, a leader. Someone who is more of a partner than a burden. He needs someone who can raise a family and hold down the home while he’s away working to support the household. He doesn’t need you, a woman who can’t give him the very thing he wants most. You can’t give him the abundance of life he desires to drown in.

His knee pops when he lowers himself onto the bed, facing the wall instead of wrapping his arm around you and pulling you into him. After you strip yourself down and replace your outfit with one of his shirts, you join him, taking it upon yourself to hold him instead. He flinches, tensing at the contact.

“Didnae think ye’d wanna touch me,” Johnny grunts sarcastically; it stings, but you somewhat expected it.

“Johnny,” you coo, carefully pushing down on his shoulder so that he lays on his back. “Please look at me.”

He complies but there is no enthusiasm in the way he blinks up at you. There’s a maelstrom of emotions hiding in those stormy irises, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to say something he’ll regret. Johnny is a hothead, but he never takes it out on you. He’s never even gotten this close to losing it before. You hate yourself for being the cause.

“I-I know that this is all you want,” you hum, hesitating before hooking your finger beneath his scarred chin. “To get married, start a family with someone who loves you.”

“Aye,” he nods, and despite himself, leans into your warmth.

“Johnny, I can’t- I can’t give you that.”

He shuts his eyes in frustration, running a rough hand over his face. You’re being cryptic and you know it, but the truth is something you haven’t admitted to anyone before. To say it out loud would make it all too real.

“Ah thought we’re doin’ alreit, thought ye… hen, ye’re the love o’me life. Ah wanna give ye me las’ name, wanna show the ‘ole world tha’ ye’re mine. Bunny, ah c-cannae imagine livin’ any longer without ye as me wife,” he pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to hide the way he’s blinking back tears. “Ah wan’ ye tae be the mother o’me children. Ah wanna be buried w’ye.”

“I want nothing more than to be your wife,” you choke out. “But I’ll never be the partner you need me to be. I-I’ll never carry your children or-”

“Jus’ stop,” he laughs bitterly, sniffling as he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Ah ken s’not wha’ ye wan’. Ah’m not wha’ ye wan’, bunny. S’okay tae say so.”

“I want you more than you know, John MacTavish,” you retort, furrowing your eyebrows. “I already told you that it has nothing to do with you!”

“Ye’re doin’ a great job at convincin’ me,” he spits. “Ah’m sleepin’ on the couch. Willnae take up yer space any longer.”

“Johnny, please wait-!” You call after him, but he’s already slamming the bedroom door shut.

God, the last thing you want is for him to be angry with you, but you can’t exactly blame him. He’d spent weeks planning, spent the whole day waiting for this evening to propose in a way he thought you’d love, expecting you to say yes because why wouldn’t you? Instead, you crushed him. Ruined him. You let out a frustrated sob, pulling the covers up over your head.

Maybe it’s for the better. Better to hurt him now and give him time to get over you than to marry him and have him realize how miserable he is with you. You would never be able to forgive yourself if he devoted himself, his life, his everything to you, just to find that you’re nothing but damaged parts. A broken machine pretending to be functional just to feel something real. You were foolish to believe that you could keep up the facade.

He’ll leave early tomorrow morning to go to the gym, like clockwork. That’s when you’ll pack up your things and leave this apartment like you were never there to begin with. Maybe, after time, he’ll be able to convince himself that this—that you—were never real. One last night in this bed might be detrimental for your mental health in the end, but you’re too exhausted to care about where you’ll end up. All that matters is that Johnny gets his happy ending. All you care about is his joy.

You fall asleep as quickly as your tears dry.

The gentle dip of the bed startles you awake at an ungodly hour. A strong arm wraps around your waist, and the warmth of a familiar body melts into your back. The shirt he’d had on when he first got in bed is gone, and you never thought you could love the feel of his skin on yours more. Chapped lips trail kisses along the softness of your jawline.

“Johnny?” You question, voice raspy with exhaustion.

“Ah’m sae sorry, hen,” he whispers. “Feel terrible fer ‘ow ah treated ye.”

You turn to face him, humming contentedly when he rests a large palm on your cheek. Even in the dark, his bright eyes manage to hold your attention.

“No, don’t apologize. Y-you were… I hurt you, Johnny. I deserved it.”

“Dinnae make excuses fer me, bunny. S’not fair o’me tae expect ye tae wan’ the same things as me,” he shakes his head softly. “Ah dinnae care if ye don’t wanna get married or ‘ave kids. Ah’m willin’ tae give those up. Ah jus’ cannae live without ye.”

You sigh softly, resting your forehead against his. Your hand moves his own from your face so that you can intertwine fingers, squeezing fondly.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you admit. “I just can’t. I-I… Johnny, I’m infertile. I can’t give you kids, and I refuse to let myself marry you if it means I’ll hold you back. You deserve to be with someone who’s able to give you everything you want. I can’t stand the thought that you would settle for- for this shell of a person that I am.”

He sucks in a long breath and his grip on you loosens. Your boyfriend is still, silent for a while. You can only assume that the gears are turning in his head.

“I know it’s a lot to take,” you mutter. “But it’s fine. I’m packing in the morning-”

“Wha’?” Johnny’s incredulous voice takes you by surprise—when you flinch, he holds you tighter once again. “Nae, ye’re not leavin’. Oh, lass, is tha’ the only thing holdin’ ye back?”

“I-I mean… yeah? It’s a big thing.”

Johnny tuts, cupping your face in both of his hands and pulling you as close as possible. The tip of his nose brushes against yours clumsily, but neither of you seem to care.

“Ye’re more than wha’ yer body can or cannae do,” he says firmly. “Ah fell in love w’ who ye are, bunny, not yer fuckin’ uterus. Ah could give two flyin’ fucks about biological kids if it means ah cannae be w’ye.”

“B-but you want-”

“Ah wan’ ye. Ah wan’ all o’yer flaws and struggles. Ah wan’ every bloody part o’ye,” he interrupts. “Children are negotiable. But ye, mo chridhe, are not.”

He’s so warm and so genuine that it makes your heart drop into your stomach. You sigh softly against his lips as he pulls you in for a slow, tender kiss, tangling his fingers into the hair at the back of your head. Somehow you eventually find yourself pinned beneath a shirtless Johnny with his hips settled between your thighs.

“Johnny, wait,” you pant, grabbing onto his shoulders as he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. “Are you sure? I understand if you wanna call this off.”

“Steamin’ Jesus, ye drive me mad sometimes,” he huffs, partly with frustration and partly with amusement. “Ah’d rather die than let ye go, hen. Ye’re a part o’me, now. Alweys will be.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in closer, running your hands along the expanse of his broad neck and shoulders. Johnny leans down for another kiss and grunts appreciatively into your mouth when your fingers dig into his muscles. He is carved from stone, an immovable mountain, and yet when he allows himself to indulge in the tenderness of you, he crumbles. He would argue that, in pieces, he is stronger—especially when you are by his side to build him back up when he needs it most. Even when you hide, he is there to wrap himself around you like a fortress. A team, and one that Johnny would sooner give up air than breaking.

“Ah love ye sae much, bunny,” he hums, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “Gonna sho’ ye tha’ ye mean the world tae me. More than tha’, ye ken—ye mean everything tae me.”

His hand travels down past the place where your bellies meet, and he hooks his fingers into the hem of your panties. You lift your hips to aid him in removing the garment and he rewards you by grinding himself against your bare cunt. Your breath hitches as he slides the length of his clothed cock through your folds in a slow tease.

“E-even though I can’t give you babies?”

“Even if ye cannae give me any babies,” he murmurs, cupping your chin in one hand and squeezing just slightly so that your lips pucker out, “Ah’ll still fuck ye like we’re tryin’ fer one.”

“Johnny,” you gasp, squealing when you feel him pull his boxers down so that his flushed skin finally meets yours.

Your man’s tongue darts out to lick your bottom lip before he devours both yet again, notching the head of his cock at your weeping entrance. Any other night, you would ask him to prep you first to get your poor pussy ready for his girth, but tonight, he’s so desperate and you’re not going to deny him anything—not after the emotional rollercoaster you put him on. When he finally pushes his thick cockhead inside, he swallows the pained whimper you release into his mouth.

“Ah ken it hurts, hen. Ah’m sorry,” he apologizes, leisurely feeding himself into your aching heat inch by agonizing inch. “Tell me if it’s too much, aye?”

You nod as your eyelids screw shut. Johnny sighs softly when he feels his balls press against your ass, now fully sheathed inside of you, intertwining both of his hands with yours and pinning them beside your head.

“Alrigh'?” He asks, but the little moan you let out along with the tight pulse of your walls around his dick tells him all he needs to know. “Gonna move now, bonnie.”

“I love you,” you rasp through a broken weep the moment he starts moving, crossing your legs over the small of his back.

In this position he can barely move, but the grinding of his hips against yours is all either of you need. His cock hits deep, and his tongue licks over yours, and it’s the closest you’ll get to heaven while still on this planet.

“Ah love ye more,” he whispers. “Cannae believe ye’d ever think otherwise.”

“I’m sorry-” you begin, but Johnny shushes you with a particularly lengthy pump of his hips.

“None o’tha’, baby,” he tuts. “Nothin’ tae apologize fer. Jus’ gotta talk tae me, aye? Dinnae wan’ ye feelin’ less than because o’summat ye can’t control.”

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breaking your hands free from his to trail them up his back and feel the muscles there contracting with his every move. His own hands travel lower to grasp the backs of your knees, pushing them up to settle his body over yours. Your pretty eyes widen when he hugs your thighs so that your calves rest on his shoulders, keeping you completely spread and useless beneath him. Your boyfriend grunts as he starts thrusting quicker, harder, mouth hanging open as he stares down at you with those crystalline eyes full of admiration. He just about bursts when his rhythm causes your shirt to ride up over your tits.

“Ye’re bloody perfection,” Johnny groans, lowering his head to lick a broad stripe between the valley of your breasts. “Cannae breathe when ye’re gone from me. Cannae think when ah’m awey from ye. Price is startin’ tae keep me off the field ‘cause all ah do is worry ‘bout ye.”

You whimper as he sucks a nipple between his lips before kissing his way up your neck right back to your lips. His entire body drapes over yours once again as he holds you down in an overwhelmingly warm bear hug, pressing his sweaty forehead against your own. Your nails scratch down his back carelessly as he presses deeper and deeper still with every pump of his hips, damn near reaching the plug of your womb.

“B-but you love—fuck, Johnny, right there!—you l-love being on the field,” you cry, legs bouncing uselessly in the air.

“Not as much as ah love me gal,” he murmurs. “Bit difficult tae focus on the enemy when ah’ve got a hard-on thinkin’ about the wey ye feel around me. Fuck, like bloody heaven, lass.”

You go crosseyed when the pleasure that had been building in your belly finally peaks, and your pussy tightens around him so hard it’s like it’s trying to push him out, but Johnny persists—strong hips snapping forward as hard as his body allows. He cups your face in his big hands and pushes one thumb into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue. When you begin to suck, it sends him over the edge. He growls as ribbons of hot cum coat the inside of you.

“Bleedin’ ‘ell,” pants Johnny, collapsing on top of you and peppering your neck with slow, lazy kisses. “Could do nothin’ but fill ye up fer the rest o’me life and die a happy man.”

“Freak,” you breathe affectionately, flipping him onto his back so that you can cuddle into his side.

“Aye, yer freak,” he huffs amusedly, rough fingertips caressing your back and the nape of your neck.

“I wanna marry you, Johnny," you admit after a moment of silence.

“Ye do?” He questions too quickly, clearing his throat to try and hide his excitement. “Bunny, are ye sure? Ah dinnae wanna pressure ye intae anything.”

“You’re not,” you assure him. “I do. I want to marry you.”

“She’s comin’, mate,” Simon informs the groom, leaning against the doorframe of the men’s dressing room.

“Wha’?” Johnny asks, straightening his tie before turning to face his best man with a confused scowl on his face. “Righ’ now?”

“Affirm,” the blond man grunts, giving you a polite nod when you approach and stepping out of the room so that you and your future husband can have a moment alone.

You look nervous, and Johnny’s first thought is that you’re getting cold feet. His heart sinks as he sees you in your gorgeous dress, tears in your eyes and your painted lips trembling. You look stunning even in your fear.

“Wha’s wrong, lass?” Your fiance coos, carefully wiping the moisture from your waterline. “Ye havin’ second thoughts?”

“No! Yes? Fuck, I-I don’t know,” you ramble, starting to hyperventilate.

Johnny guides you to sit on the sofa in the dressing room, kneeling before you. He takes your hands in his and gingerly rubs his thumbs over your knuckles.

“Talk tae me.”

“I took a couple of tests because I’ve been feeling off lately,” you admit slowly.

“Tests?” He cocks an eyebrow, heart pounding inside of his chest. “Like-?”

“Johnny, I’m pregnant,” you conclude, nervously meeting his eye.

“Ye’re…” he pauses, utterly confused. “A-ah didnae think ye could-”

“Neither did I,” you squeeze his hands tightly. “I’m so fucking scared. I don’t understand.”

“Alrigh’. As soon as the ceremony’s over, ah’m tellin’ Price ah wan’ out o'the field fer good—only deskwork from now on,” he says sternly, confident in his plan.

“What? No, no, no, Johnny, please don’t do that just because of me. What if it’s a… a false positive? W-what if I lose the baby? What if I can’t-?”

“Relax, hen,” he smiles, sitting up on his knees to cup your face in his hands. “Everything ah do is for ye. Ah wouldnae wan’ it any other wey. No matter wha’ happens with this pregnancy, this marriage, any challenges we’ll face, ah swear ah’ll be righ’ by yer side fer all of it.”

“I don’t deserve you,” you whisper, croaking out a gross sob.

“Ye absolutely do. S’why we’re gettin’ married,” he grins.

“You weren’t even supposed to see me yet,” you sniffle, looking down at your dress. “I ruined it.”

“Nae. Ye needed this, bunny. Didnae think ye cared about traditions anywey,” he teases.

“I thought you did.”

“Used tae. All kinda changed when ah met ye. Ah much prefer takin’ it one day at a time w’ye, now,” he leans in to press a lingering kiss to your lips, then kisses his way down your sternum until he reaches your belly, whispering something inaudible before resting his forehead there.

“We’re gonna be alrigh’, ye ken.”

You nod, allowing him to help you stand and pull you into a gentle, loving hug.

“Let’s go get married, Mr. MacTavish.”

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alchemyfreak321 · 5 days ago

Text

Loud and Clear

Tension runs high on the battlefield—and even higher over the comms—as you and Soap blur the line between friendly banter and something far more dangerous. But when your squad finally calls you both out, all that teasing threatens to combust. In war, nothing is certain… except maybe him. *Contains fluff, flirting, slow-burn, task force 141 teasing, eventual confession, first kiss Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Reader Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl Mics. Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The static of the comms buzzed low and steady in your ear, a sound so constant it had become second nature—like the thrum of your pulse, the whisper of your own breath behind your mask. A hundred firefights and twice as many missions had taught you to tune it out, to let it melt into the background of your focus—until his voice cut through like a knife through gauze.

“Bravo Six, shift your position to grid three-seven. Y/N, keep your eyes on that east flank.”

Price’s voice was all gravel and command, dragging you back to the moment like a leash. You adjusted your grip on your rifle and slipped into the shadows of a crumbling concrete wall, boots crunching softly on the debris scattered through the alley. The heat shimmered off the broken asphalt in waves, thick and dry, coating your throat in dust and gunpowder.

“Copy,” you whispered into the mic, your tone clipped and calm. It was the voice of someone in control. Someone not distracted.

The lie barely settled on your tongue before it was obliterated by the low, honey-slick lilt of Johnny MacTavish cutting through the comms.

“Lookin’ good on that flank, bonnie.”

His accent was unmistakable—rich, teasing, and rough around the edges like a velvet blade. Even through the distortion, you could hear the smile that curled around every syllable. It dripped into your ear and sparked something dangerous just beneath your ribs.

You pressed your back to the wall, the rough concrete biting through the layers of your tactical gear, and bit down on the smirk tugging at your lips. “Eyes on the target, Sergeant.”

“I am,” he replied smoothly, and you could practically hear the wink in his voice. “Can’t help it when the view’s that distractin’.”

There was a beat—a breathless silence—and then Ghost’s voice slammed into the channel like a sledgehammer.

“Focus. Both of you.”

Cold. Unamused. The kind of tone that could freeze lava.

“Focused, sir,” Soap shot back instantly, with just enough crispness to sound obedient—but not nearly enough to hide the grin laced behind the words.

You didn’t respond, just huffed under your breath and raised your rifle again, your finger brushing the trigger guard as you swept the east quadrant through your scope. Civilians had long since cleared out. The buildings were hollowed husks, windows shattered like spiderwebs, laundry lines flapping like white flags in the breeze. Still, your skin prickled beneath your gear, heat crawling up your neck in a slow, traitorous wave. And it wasn’t the blistering midday sun to blame.

No. It was him.

It always was.

Johnny MacTavish had been a problem since day one. Smart-mouthed, battle-hardened, and recklessly charming in a way that made it hard to breathe. He was the kind of man who could draw a smile from you in a war zone, who knew just how to twist a compliment into a weapon. And somehow, you’d been matching him word for word since the moment you first locked eyes over a disassembled rifle and a betting pool.

The flirting had started as a joke. A dare. A whispered comment after a mission gone sideways and a round of drinks none of you had earned. But somewhere between the bullet casings and the caffeine-fueled briefings, it turned into something else. Something sharp. Electric. Addictive.

Over the comms, on rooftop stakeouts, during quiet hours in safehouses where the only light was the dull flicker of the kettle in the corner—he'd find you. Every time. With a wink. With a quip. With a brush of his shoulder as he passed by just a little too close.

You were dancing along the edge of something neither of you dared name. Teetering on a line drawn in blood and protocol and the very real possibility that one wrong step could mean losing everything—your job, your safety, your lives. And yet, you danced anyway.

Your scope glinted briefly in the light as you shifted, catching movement out of the corner of your eye—just a scrap of shadow darting between two buildings. Your voice went low and serious as you tapped your comm again.

“Movement. East alley. Single target—fast.”

“On my way to back you up,” Soap answered immediately, the flirt stripped from his tone, replaced with something heavier. Protective.

“I’ve got it,” you replied, more sharply than intended. “Just cover from your side. I’ll close the gap.”

A pause. Then a low chuckle, quieter this time, almost intimate.

“Aye. But if you get shot tryin’ to prove how capable you are, I will haunt you. Every night. Shirtless.”

Despite yourself, your laugh broke free—a quiet huff you couldn’t contain. “That’s a threat, MacTavish.”

“No, bonnie,” he murmured, voice dropping to something nearly private, like the others weren’t listening. “That’s a promise.”

“Soap,” Ghost cut in again, flat as ever.

“Right. Focusing.”

You shook your head, trying to clear the heat buzzing in your chest as you moved along the crumbled edge of the alley. You swept your scope over the rooftops, the windows, the broken lines of sight where a sniper might hide.

And still, beneath it all, was him. Always him.

Months of this—months of adrenaline-laced teasing and eyes that lingered too long in the dim light of safehouses. Months of private glances exchanged over weapon briefings and close quarters that left no room for breathing, let alone pretending you didn’t want more.

It was reckless.

It was stupid.

It was impossible.

And still—

God, still.

You wanted to cross that line so badly you ached with it.

✦

“You gonna cover me?” Soap’s voice was a low murmur through the comms, but the edge in it was all adrenaline. He was crouched near a rusted-out side door up ahead, one boot braced against the wall, the other toeing the cracked frame like he was sizing it up for a fight.

Your heart ticked higher with every passing second, but your voice came steady. Certain.

“Always.”

There was a brief pause, a flicker of static, and then, in a tone too flippant for the heat of the moment, he fired back, “Then marry me.”

You snorted. “Buy me a drink first.”

From the other end of the channel, Gaz’s groan was theatrical. “Jesus Christ. Every. Single. Mission.”

“Right?” Price chimed in, voice rough with amusement and years of this same damn song and dance. “It’s like eavesdropping on a slow-burn rom-com. Except with more grenades.”

“Oh, come off it,” Soap said, but he was laughing, and you didn’t even need to see him to picture the grin stretched across his face—cocky, boyish, infuriatingly charming.

“Professional disaster waitin’ to happen,” Ghost muttered, deadpan as ever.

You bit back a grin as you ducked beneath a blown-out window frame, shards of glass crunching faintly under your elbow pad as you propped yourself low. The room ahead was dimly lit, the flickering overhead fluorescents casting weak shadows. Through the fractured pane, you counted three hostiles. Two near the back, pacing like bored wolves, and one stationed at the glowing control console. From the tight formation, you guessed they weren’t expecting a breach. Good.

“Three inside,” you whispered into your comm. “Soap, left’s yours.”

“Copy that, love.”

Love. It slipped off his tongue like a reflex—casual, almost careless. But it landed like a bullet, soft and molten, lodged behind your ribs. It was a word he used often, sure. Like a comma, a space filler. But when he said it to you, it always felt like he meant it just a little more. And that was the dangerous part—you wanted to believe it.

You gave the silent count with your fingers. Three… two… one.

You breached together, synchronized like clockwork. The door caved under Soap’s boot, and you surged in behind him, rifles raised. Your boots thudded across the floor as gunfire cracked sharp and fast. The echo of it rattled off concrete walls, a short, brutal percussion. Targets dropped. The console operator barely turned before you had him down with a single, clean shot.

In less than ten seconds, the room was still.

You stood over one of the bodies, weapon still raised, your chest rising and falling in steady, measured breaths. The copper scent of blood mingled with the burnt sting of gunpowder. Sweat rolled down your temple beneath your helmet, trailing a slow line along your cheek.

Soap stepped up beside you, his gaze sweeping over the glowing monitors and flickering surveillance feeds before drifting—inevitably—to you.

“Clean work,” he said softly.

“You too.” You turned slightly toward him, and in the dim emergency lighting, your shoulders brushed. A small, accidental thing. But the contact sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t pull away.

The silence that followed wasn’t tactical. It was personal. Too long to be coincidence. Too thick with something that didn’t belong on the battlefield.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower now, filtered through the private comm channel he’d switched to without a word. Just for you. “You ever think about it?”

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand, not this time. But you played it cool. “About what?”

“Us.”

Just that. Simple. Stark.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your rifle. You stared ahead at the glowing green screens, trying to stay focused on anything but the way your pulse was suddenly hammering in your ears.

He didn’t press. Didn’t elaborate. Just stood there—shoulder to yours, breathing calm and quiet as he waited.

And God, you hated him for asking that now. In a war zone. After months of toeing the line, of stolen glances and suggestive banter and almost touching.

“…Yeah,” you said finally. The word escaped like a secret. “I do.”

The moment stretched thin. You could feel him beside you, still and stunned. And then—

“Oi!”

Gaz’s voice exploded through the comms, back on the open channel.

“You two do realize you’re still live, yeah?!”

Your eyes snapped wide.

Soap blinked. “...Shit.”

“Ohhh, this is gonna be good,” Ghost muttered dryly. “Can’t wait for the wedding invites.”

“I want to be best man,” Gaz said, absolutely cackling now.

“I’m not sitting through a ceremony where you two read vows laced with bloody puns,” Price groaned, and this time, his exasperation sounded more like resignation.

“Just kiss already so we can all move on,” Ghost said with finality, like he was tired of your entire emotional arc.

Soap turned to you then, and even under the tactical lighting, his expression was unmistakable—that smirk, slow and cocksure, the kind that should be classified as a distraction. His eyes glittered with challenge.

“Well,” he murmured, shifting closer. “Permission to make this official, lieutenant?”

You cocked an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself. “You asking for a mission report… or a kiss?”

“Both,” he said, stepping forward until the space between you was nonexistent. “Preferably.”

The comms were still active. You could hear Gaz wheezing somewhere in the distance and Price muttering something about professionalism, but you didn’t care.

You grabbed the front of Soap’s vest and yanked him down.

The kiss was quick—but it was real. Decisive, like any good op. Like a line finally crossed, a fuse finally lit. His mouth was warm, sure, just a breath away from trembling.

When you pulled back, his grin was dazed and wide.

The comms went dead silent.

Not the usual kind of tactical quiet, either. Not the hushed lull between gunfire or the sharp, anticipatory silence that came before a breach. No—this was the stunned kind. The kind of silence that gaped, wide and stunned, like the entire squad had collectively stopped breathing.

Then, finally, Ghost’s voice crackled through, bone-dry and unmistakably smug:

“…Finally.”

A beat. Then Gaz piped in with a groan. “I owe Price fifty quid.”

Price didn’t miss a beat. “I said before the mission ends, you idiot.”

A choked laugh burst out of you before you could stop it, your forehead dropping briefly against Soap’s shoulder, still dizzy from the kiss. Your heart was hammering—not from adrenaline, not from the op, but from him. From the way he’d looked at you right before he leaned in. Like he’d been waiting years for it. Like he’d do it all over again without hesitation.

You pulled away, breathless but grinning, your lips tingling from the contact, your entire body buzzing like the aftermath of a detonation.

Soap blinked, slightly dazed. “Y’know, I was half-convinced you’d deck me instead.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smirk crooked. “I still might.”

He laughed—open, wide, real. That rare kind of laugh you’d only ever heard off-duty, in the safety of dark safehouses and tin-can barracks, when his shoulders weren’t so tense, when he let himself be. You’d always loved that sound. Hearing it now, up close, made something crack wide open in your chest.

The tension between you—months of it, maybe longer—finally snapped. Not with violence, not with denial. But with something warmer. Something electric. It unspooled from your ribs like static, like sparks dancing down a wire. All those glances, all those murmured quips, the late-night stakeouts where your knees brushed and no one pulled away. The endless back-and-forth over the comms, all bite and grin and not-so-subtle longing, had always felt like balancing on a wire stretched taut.

Now that wire was gone.

In its place: something real.

Something felt.

“Are you two done?” Ghost asked dryly. “We’ve got a job to finish, unless you plan to elope mid-op.”

You let out a breath and straightened your gear, fingers brushing over your rifle as you reset. “Yeah, yeah. All business now.”

Soap clapped a hand to your shoulder—brief, but firm, grounding. Then, with his signature boyish swagger, he jogged ahead toward the hallway, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Let’s finish this. Then drinks. Then that proposal.”

You rolled your eyes—but your smile betrayed you. You fell into step behind him, boots silent over the cracked tile, weapon raised and ready. The mission wasn’t over. The fight still lay ahead. But your heart felt lighter than it had in months—hell, maybe longer. It beat with something more than duty now. Something sweet. Dangerous. Alive.

And sure, maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was a bad idea, wrapped in flirting and bad timing and the constant risk of not making it home.

But then again—love always had been.

It was messy. Wild. Ill-timed.

It didn’t wait for clearance.

It charged in headfirst, no backup, no plan B. Just heart and instinct and the gut-punch certainty that it was worth the risk.

You glanced ahead, watching Soap’s silhouette move down the corridor in fluid, practiced strides, the way his rifle was already raised, the way he never hesitated when it came to protecting the people he cared about.

And yeah—damn it—it felt good.

To stop pretending.

To finally feel something this real in the middle of so much wreckage.

Your comms crackled again, Ghost’s voice flat as ever. “If I hear any more flirting before this op is over, I’m muting both of you.”

Soap didn’t even slow his pace. “You’ll miss the proposal speech.”

“Oh, please,” Gaz groaned. “Spare us all.”

You laughed, your eyes locked ahead, a new fire under your skin.

There was a job to finish.

But after?

After, it was finally time to see where this thing went. No more pretending. No more waiting.

Just you and him, and whatever came next.

Together.

#oh my god this was so cutee #the way you wrote johnny (and the rest of the 141) is like right off the game #and the way you wrote the chemistry!!#love love love #fic #john soap mactavish #my fave

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