🧼 ye always this dramatic?
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call of duty: johnny 'soap' mactavish x female!reader
summary: the op was doomed from the start—bad intel, no exfil, rain falling so hard it drowned the last of your hope. crouched behind the husk of a car, bleeding and low on ammo, you were ready to make peace with whatever came next. and then he showed up.
setting: an urban warzone gone to hell—thick rain, ruined buildings, and a stalled mission with no support in sight. the only cover is a burnt-out car, and the only ally comes in hot with a mouth full of cheek and a heart steadier than you'd expect.
warnings: blood and injury (minor gunshot graze), swearing, combat violence, tension, battlefield banter, flirty dialogue, mild vulnerability, lowercase prose
word count: 0.4k
note: for the ones that meet in the middle of the storm, bruised and bleeding and half-laughing anyway—for the first spark in the darkest hour. also: men with accents who flirt in firefights should come with a warning label.
my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡
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the op was a shitshow from the second the chopper blades cut through the sky.
rain slicked the streets in silver, pouring down in sheets so thick you could barely see past your rifle. the recon had been off—wrong coordinates, heavier resistance than intel claimed, and now you were stranded with a comms blackout and half the squad scattered or worse.
you were bleeding. you were pissed. and you were out of options.
the burnt-out husk of a sedan had become your shelter, your cover, your coffin if things went further south. the side panel was warm against your back from all the gunfire it had absorbed, and your left arm stung like hell from a graze wound that was bleeding more than you liked.
you gritted your teeth and ejected your mag, cursing under your breath. just three rounds left.
and then—footsteps. fast. heavy. not panicked.
you turned your rifle toward the sound, finger steady on the trigger.
a figure skidded around the corner of the crumbled building ahead, ducked low, face half-obscured by grime and a soaking balaclava.
“friendly!” the man barked out, hands raised as he dove into cover beside you with a practiced roll. “fuckin’ hell, yer still breathin’. wasn’t expectin’ that.”
you eyed him warily. “name.”
he yanked the mask off with one hand, revealing a rain-soaked mohawk and a cocky grin that somehow survived all the chaos. “soap. soap mactavish. here tae pull yer arse out the fire, bonnie.”
you blinked at him. he grinned wider. “ye always this dramatic on first dates?”
“you always this annoying in a firefight?” you shot back.
“aye,” he said, pulling out a field bandage. “keeps me grounded.”
he nodded at your arm. “yer bleedin’. let me help.”
you hesitated—just a beat too long. he noticed, but didn’t push. just reached into his vest, slow and calm, and tossed you the bandage instead.
“yer call. won’t lay a hand on ye unless ye say so.”
it wasn’t what you expected. neither was the way his voice softened at the edges, still threaded with humor but careful, like he knew the difference between pain and pride.
you took the bandage. started wrapping with one hand, poorly. he watched in silence for a second, then offered again:
“lemme hold it steady, aye? promise I won’t cock it up.”
you let him. his fingers were warm, steady despite the adrenaline in the air.
“we’ve got evac,” he said quietly after a beat. “exfil’s aboot two clicks east. can ye walk?”
“i can limp.”
“good. i’ll shoot anyone who stares too long at yer stride.”
you snorted despite yourself. “smooth.”
“aw, sweetheart—this is me bein’ polite. ye’ve no idea what smooth looks like yet.”
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.