Y/N x Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish
You never thought you’d find yourself here, wrapped in the chaos of global conflict, bullets flying past and the deafening crack of gunfire your new soundtrack. But this, this war, this team, it’s your life now. You’ve learned quickly there’s no room for distractions. No room for mistakes. No room for anything other than focus.
And yet, somehow, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish keeps breaking through all of that.
You first really notice him during one of those endless training sessions at the base. You’re loading magazines, eyes tired from sleepless nights, when he strolls up beside you, moving with that easy confidence of a man who’s been through it all and survived.
“You new here, aren’t you?” His voice is calm but sharp, eyes scanning your gear and then landing on you.
You glance at him with a half-smile. “Could say that.”
He grins, that crooked smirk that’s equal parts cocky and charming. “I’m Soap. Johnny MacTavish, but nobody calls me Johnny.”
You chuckle softly. “Y/N. Just Y/N.”
He offers a fist bump. “Welcome to the madness, Y/N.”
From that moment, you’re drawn into his orbit, even as the rules keep you cautious. There’s no room for distractions Captain Price makes that clear time and again. The team relies on every member being laser-focused. You can’t afford to let your guard down, especially not with someone as skilled and charismatic as Soap.
The base becomes a place of routine and tension. You spend hours running drills, memorizing mission details, running through scenarios where failure isn’t an option. But between the drills, Soap’s quick wit and easy banter become a constant in your days.
One morning, you’re bleary-eyed, trying to sip a cup of bitter coffee in the mess hall. Soap slides in beside you, grinning.
“Thought you were part of the team, not the furniture,” he jokes.
You glare, amused. “I’m fully functional. Just running on minimal sleep.”
He leans in, whispering, “Welcome to the club.”
You laugh, feeling a bit lighter despite the weight pressing on your chest.
It’s during the briefing for the favela mission that you really feel the stakes. Maps sprawled across the table, voices low but urgent, you catch Soap’s eyes.
“Try not to get yourself killed,” he says under his breath, smirking.
You shoot him a glare. “You first.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough.”
The favela mission drops you into chaos gunfire, shouting, confusion everywhere. You move with practiced precision, adrenaline sharpening your senses. Soap is beside you, cool under pressure, barking orders, watching your six.
“Left flank’s clear. Move up,” he says calmly.
You nod, heart hammering. The way he moves confident, reliable keeps you steady when everything feels like it’s spiraling.
At one point, a bullet whistles past. You flinch, and Soap catches your eye.
“Relax. You’re tougher than that.”
You smirk despite yourself. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
Back at base, the tension eases just enough for you to steal some moments. Soap’s easy charm breaks through your walls.
One evening, you find him on the rooftop, staring out over the city lights.
“Ever think about what life is like back home?” you ask softly.
He shrugs. “Sometimes. Mostly I try not to.”
You nudge him. “You’re the philosopher of the unit now?”
He smirks. “Only when I’m not pretending to be a badass.”
You laugh, and the sound feels like a breath of fresh air.
Slowly, the walls between you begin to crumble. The banter grows sharper, more intimate.
One afternoon, he finds you packing your gear and raises an eyebrow.
“You packing for a week-long war or a weekend getaway?”
You grin. “Isn’t this all the same?”
The bond deepens during missions and quiet downtime alike. There’s the way he watches you when you’re not looking, the subtle brush of hands when passing gear, the silence that stretches comfortably between you when words aren’t needed.
During a dangerous airport assault, you’re pinned down behind a barrier. The roar of gunfire surrounds you, but Soap’s voice cuts through the chaos.
“Stay low. I’ve got you.”
You follow his lead, heart pounding but calm because he’s there.
Afterward, he cracks a grin. “Told you I was good at this.”
You shake your head, smiling. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
Between missions, the base feels quieter. Your connection grows small smiles in the mess hall, shared glances during briefings, jokes exchanged in the locker room.
One night, as you sit side by side watching the stars, he breaks the silence.
“Ever think about what happens when this ends?”
You swallow hard. “I try not to.”
He nods. “Me too. But... maybe there’s more after the war.”
You look at him, really look, and something shifts.
The slowburn becomes undeniable. You catch him stealing glances; he catches you right back. The tension hums beneath every touch, every laugh, every shared secret.
One day, as you prep for a mission, he nudges you with a grin.
“You know, if you keep packing grenades like that, we might just level the entire city.”
You shoot back, “Better safe than sorry.”
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “You’re a walking arsenal.”
The war rages on, and so does your connection.
In a rare quiet moment, he pulls you aside.
“Why don’t you ever let anyone in?” he asks quietly.
You shrug, heart heavy. “Because this life doesn’t leave much room for it.”
He nods, understanding. “Maybe we make our own room.”
You meet his gaze, wondering if maybe, just maybe, you can.
Love in the middle of war isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about the quiet moments a hand resting lightly on yours, a shared laugh in the mess hall, a glance that promises you’re not alone.
With Soap, you find something steady in the storm.
The no-distractions rule still echoes in your mind, but when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters, it feels less like a rule and more like a challenge.
Because even in a world defined by chaos and loss, you’re learning that sometimes, the most important mission is the one of the heart.
