he’s halfway through a briefing, boots kicked under the table, focus split between the mission board and the mug of tea he’s forgotten to drink, when the door opens and there you are. casual. warm. holding a bag that smells unmistakably like home.
his brain stalls.
just— hard stop.
his head snaps up so fast price actually pauses mid-sentence.
“…is that—?” johnny mutters, blinking like he’s hallucinating. then his face breaks into the biggest, most boyish grin imaginable. full wattage. dimples out. eyes lighting up like christmas came early.
“no bloody way,” he says, already standing. “you’re jokin’.”
you’re not.
you say his name, smile a little shy, explain you had the day off and thought you’d bring him lunch.
homemade.
for him.
johnny laughs, a sharp, delighted sound that bursts right out of his chest.
“you— you made me food?” he says, incredulous, thick scottish accent curling around every word. “here? at work?”
the room goes dead silent.
every single pair of eyes is now on the two of you.
soap does not care.
he’s already moving, crossing the room in three long strides, hands coming up to your waist like it’s muscle memory. he leans down, presses a quick kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, grinning the whole time.
“christ, you’re unreal,” he murmurs. “d’you know that?”
price clears his throat pointedly.
johnny barely glances back. “five minutes, cap,” he says cheerfully. then quieter, to you: “please tell me that’s for me.”
you open the bag.
he sees the containers. the care. the little note tucked inside. the fact that you remembered exactly what he likes, not just food, but comfort.
his smile softens immediately.
the teasing drops.
the soldier fades.
boyfriend johnny takes over.
“hey,” he says gently, thumb brushing your knuckles. “you didn’t have t’do this.”
but his eyes are shining.
and his voice has gone low and fond.
you sit together off to the side, him perched close, knee bumping yours, shoulders touching. he opens the container like it’s fragile, like it might disappear if he’s not careful.
he takes one bite.
freezes.
then exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.
“…fuck,” he mutters reverently. “that’s good.”
he looks at you like you’ve just handed him the world.
“that’s really good,” he repeats, already going in for another bite. “s’pose i’m spoiled now, eh?”
he eats like he’s starving, not rushed, just appreciative. pointing things out between bites.
“you seasoned this, yeah?”
“this bit right here, that’s perfect.”
“how d’you always get it like this?”
between mouthfuls, he keeps glancing at you, smiling to himself like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
someone whistles from across the room.
“mate,” someone mutters, “you’re whipped.”
johnny doesn’t even look up.
“aye,” he says easily. “an’ proud.”
when he’s done, he wipes his hands, leans back, and pulls you into him without thinking. arm snug around your waist, forehead resting against your temple.
“you know what this means, yeah?” he murmurs, accent softening. “i’m never lettin’ you forget this.”
you tease him, say you’ll bring lunch again sometime.
his eyes widen, playful panic setting in. “don’t say that,” he laughs. “i’ll start expectin’ it.”
then quieter, more sincere:
“…but gods, it meant a lot.”
before you leave, he presses a kiss to your lips, unhurried, warm, unmistakably his. just long enough to make you smile. just short enough to behave.
“drive safe,” he murmurs. “text me when you’re home, aye?”
as you walk away, you hear him mutter under his breath, fond, awed, very scottish:
how soap acts when you accidentally embarrass yourself around him
divider credits @enchanthings
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johnny mactavish
it happens fast.
too fast.
you trip over a word. or your foot. or your own confidence. maybe you wave at someone who isn’t waving at you. maybe you spill something. maybe you say the wrong thing at exactly the wrong moment, loud enough for other people to hear.
there’s that split second of horror where your stomach drops and your face burns and you just know you’re going to remember this at three in the morning forever.
johnny sees it all.
every second of it.
and for exactly half a beat, his eyes widen — not in judgment, not in embarrassment — just surprise. then his mouth twitches.
not a cruel laugh. not the kind that points and mocks.
it’s warmth first.
his reaction is instinctive: he steps in. closer. like his body knows before his brain does that you need an out.
if you freeze, he moves.
if you stammer, he fills the space.
if you try to laugh it off badly, he laughs with you — louder, brighter, drawing the attention away from you and onto himself.
“oh, c’mon,” he says easily, grinning. “you should see me tryin’ to order coffee in another language, absolute disaster.”
suddenly it’s not your embarrassing moment anymore.
it’s a shared one. or better yet — it’s his.
he has no problem making himself look ridiculous if it means you don’t feel alone. he exaggerates his gestures, cracks a joke, turns the situation into something harmless and human. people laugh but not at you. the tension dissolves like it was never there.
and the whole time?
his hand finds you.
maybe at your lower back. maybe your wrist. maybe just his pinky hooking around yours for half a second. grounding. reassuring. wordless.
you’re okay. i’ve got you.
once you’re out of earshot — once the moment has passed and it’s just the two of you again — that’s when he really checks in.
he tilts his head, studying your face carefully now. the grin softens.
“hey,” he says quietly. “you alright?”
not teasing. not joking.
genuine.
if you groan and hide your face, mortified, he laughs again — softer this time — and gently pulls your hands away.
“nah, don’t do that,” he says. “that was adorable.”
adorable.
not embarrassing. not stupid. not awkward.
adorable.
if you protest, he only doubles down.
“i’m serious,” he says, eyes warm. “everyone does it. just… makes you human.”
and then — because he’s johnny — he’ll probably make it worse in the best way.
he’ll reenact it later. badly. dramatically. mimicking himself instead of you so you don’t feel targeted. flailing a little. exaggerating the moment until you can’t help but laugh.
“see?” he says between chuckles. “if anyone should be embarrassed, it’s me.”
but if you’re really embarrassed — if you go quiet instead of laughing, shoulders curling inward — his energy shifts instantly.
the joking stops.
he steps closer, voice lowering, accent softer.
“hey,” he murmurs. “look at me.”
when you do, his expression is steady. earnest.
“i promise you — no one’s thinkin’ about it as much as you are.”
he brushes his thumb over your knuckles, grounding you back into your body.
“and even if they are?” a shrug. “doesn’t change a thing about you.”
later — hours later, maybe days — when you mention it again with a wince, expecting him to tease you?
he barely remembers the details.
“wait — that’s what you’re still thinkin’ about?” he asks, genuinely surprised. “thought that was funny. forgot it right after.”
and that’s when it hits you.
the thing that feels earth-shatteringly embarrassing to you… barely registers as anything negative to him at all.
to johnny, it’s just another moment with you.
another memory where you were real.
another reason he smiled.
and if anyone else ever brings it up?
he shuts it down immediately — still joking, still light — but firm underneath.
“nah,” he says easily. “that wasn’t embarrassing. that was just them bein’ cute.”
then he glances at you, winks.
“don’t worry. you’re safe with me.”
and you are.
because with johnny, embarrassment never turns into shame.
he catches it.
laughs it away.
and makes sure you never carry it alone.
also I'm new to the whole taggin thing so if I'm missing something please do tell me
johnny x neighbor!reader
For months, johnny was the best part of your day.
It started small. Passing each other in the hallway. A shared elevator ride. A quick "morning" when one of you was leaving for work. Then somehow those little interactions became conversations, and those conversations became exchanged phone numbers, and those phone numbers became late-night texts that stretched well past midnight.
You never officially called it dating.
Not because you weren't.
Just because neither of you had gotten around to putting a label on it yet.
Johnny always seemed like he was waiting for the perfect moment.
And you were happy waiting for him.
There were dinners.
Coffee runs.
Movie nights that somehow ended with the two of you talking more than actually watching the film.
The occasional unexplained disappearance for a few days at a time that he always apologized for afterward.
You never pushed.
You figured everyone had things they couldn't talk about.
And Johnny always came back.
Always.
Until he didn't.
At first you weren't worried.
Three days without a text wasn't unusual.
Then it became a week.
Then two.
Your messages remained unread.
Your calls went unanswered.
And for the first time since you'd met him, Johnny wasn't coming back.
The worst part wasn't the silence.
It was the hope.
Every time your phone lit up.
Every time footsteps echoed down the apartment hallway.
Every time someone knocked on your door.
For weeks you convinced yourself there had to be an explanation.
Johnny wouldn't just disappear.
Not Johnny.
Not after everything.
Then one afternoon you saw someone entering his apartment.
A tall man dressed in black.
A skull mask covering his face.
You almost laughed from relief.
Finally.
Finally, there was an answer.
Johnny had to be inside.
You knocked immediately.
The masked man opened the door after several moments.
You could see boxes stacked throughout the apartment behind him.
Furniture missing.
Drawers emptied.
Pieces of Johnny's life disappearing into cardboard.
And suddenly your relief vanished.
"Where's Johnny?"
The man's eyes changed.
Just for a second.
Something flickered there.
Pain.
Guilt.
Something you couldn't identify.
"He isn't here."
His voice was rough.
Quiet.
You hated it immediately.
"What do you mean he isn't here?"
You tried looking past him.
Searching for some sign of Johnny.
His jacket.
His laugh.
Anything.
The apartment looked hollow.
Empty.
Dead.
"When's he coming back?"
You asked.
The masked man didn't answer right away.
And that silence became your answer.
Your stomach dropped.
Because suddenly all the unanswered texts.
All the ignored calls.
All the waiting.
Started fitting together into something ugly.
"Oh."
The word came out smaller than you intended.
"Right."
The stranger said your name.
And that somehow made everything worse.
Because Johnny had talked about you.
Of course he had.
You laughed.
A horrible sound.
Thin and broken.
"That's embarrassing."
The masked man's hands tightened around the box he was carrying.
"I actually thought something happened to him."
You swallowed.
"I spent weeks worried."
Another laugh.
"I thought maybe he was hurt."
The stranger looked like he wanted to say something.
Desperately.
Like there were words clawing their way up his throat.
But they never came out.
Because Johnny had secrets.
And apparently one of those secrets was that he could leave without saying goodbye.
"So that's it?" you asked.
"He's just gone?"
The silence answered again.
You nodded slowly.
Trying to ignore the pressure building behind your eyes.
Trying to preserve what little dignity you had left.
"Tell him thanks."
The masked man flinched.
Actually flinched.
"For what?"
You smiled.
The kind that hurts.
The kind that doesn't reach your eyes.
"For letting me think I mattered."
Then you walked away.
Before the tears could start.
Before the stranger could say anything else.
Before you could humiliate yourself further.
The door closed behind you.
And for a long time Simon Riley stood motionless inside Johnny's apartment.
The box in his hands suddenly feeling impossibly heavy.
Because Johnny had cared.
God, he'd cared.
Simon remembered all the times Johnny talked about you.
The stupid smile he'd get whenever your name appeared on his phone.
The way he'd spent months trying to figure out how to officially ask you out.
The plans he'd had.
The future he'd wanted.
And now there was a woman across the hall who believed she'd been abandoned.
Who believed she'd been forgotten.
Who would probably spend years hating a man who had spent his final months falling in love with her.
Simon considered telling you.
For one brief moment.
He considered running after you.
Explaining everything.
Telling you that Johnny hadn't left.
That Johnny hadn't chosen this.
That Johnny's last text draft still sat unfinished in his phone.
That there had never been a goodbye because he'd never gotten the chance to give one.
But he couldn't.
Some truths died with soldiers.
So instead Simon finished packing the apartment.
Box after box.
Memory after memory.
Until there was nothing left.
Across the hall, you deleted Johnny's number that night.
Blocked it.
Deleted the photos.
Deleted the messages.
Deleted every piece of evidence that he'd ever existed in your life.
Then you cried until morning.
Not because he was dead.
You never knew he was dead.
You cried because you thought he'd chosen to leave.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Because death would have meant he wanted to stay.
But abandonment?
Abandonment meant he didn't.
And years later, long after the grief had settled into something quieter, you'd still occasionally catch yourself looking at men with mohawks in crowded places.
Still glance at your phone when it rang unexpectedly.
Still wonder what you'd done wrong.
Never knowing that somewhere in a box of Johnny's belongings sat a small velvet ring box.
Unopened.
Unused.
With your name written on a folded piece of paper tucked inside.
he tries to go big, it goes slightly wrong, and you both end up laughing your way through a chaotic but sweet date.
taglist
he absolutely meant for it to be impressive.
that was the plan.
something big enough to make you smile before he even explained it — reservations somewhere nice, a surprise activity, maybe a dramatic reveal he definitely overhyped in his own head. johnny’s the type to think if he’s going to do something, he might as well do it properly.
the problem is that “properly,” in his case, tends to come with a bit of chaos.
the first hiccup is the timing. he shows up five minutes late with an apology and a grin, hair slightly wind-tousled like he ran the last stretch. then he realizes he mixed up the booking time. then the place he wanted to take you has a wait. a long one.
he looks so genuinely frustrated with himself you almost feel bad — almost — until he starts laughing it off, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering something about plans never surviving contact with reality.
and somehow, that’s where johnny shines.
so the fancy dinner turns into street food and a walk.
the planned activity turns into wandering wherever looks interesting.
the perfect schedule dissolves into whatever feels right in the moment.
because once he stops trying to make it perfect, he just focuses on you. pointing out silly things he thinks will make you laugh, bumping his shoulder into yours, telling stories that get more animated the longer the night goes on.
at one point something goes properly wrong — maybe you both get caught in the rain, maybe he takes a wrong turn and ends up somewhere completely unintended — and instead of sulking, he pulls you along with a bright, “well, we’re here now, aren’t we?”
later, when things quiet, he admits in a softer voice that he wanted today to be special for you. that he tried to make it big because you deserve big things.
you’re both laughing by the end of it.
the kind of laughter that leaves your cheeks sore and your guard down.
but the truth is written all over the day already:
the way he kept checking if you were having fun.
the way he adjusted every plan the second you looked tired.
the way your happiness clearly mattered more to him than the plan itself.
