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I only write smut for characters canonically 18+.
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You don’t hear it all at once. It comes in fragments, in passing whispers that you almost ignore until one name pulls everything into focus.
“—Sectumsempra—”
“—blood everywhere—”
“—Malfoy’s in the hospital wing—”
“—something wrong with his memory—”
Your heart drops so violently it feels like you’ve missed a step on a staircase, and before you’ve even processed the rest, you’re already moving, pushing past people in the corridor, ignoring the annoyed looks and muttered complaints. None of it matters. Only one thing does.
Draco.
By the time you reach the hospital wing, your breathing is uneven and your hands are trembling, though you’re not sure whether it’s from the running or the fear clawing its way up your throat. You slow just before entering, instinctively, as if part of you already knows that whatever waits inside will change everything.
Madam Pomfrey’s voice reaches you before you see her, low and tense in a way you’ve never heard before. “The physical wounds are healing well, but the spell, combined with the shock, has affected his mind. Memory loss is not uncommon in cases like this, but I cannot say how extensive it is or whether it will return fully.”
You feel cold all at once.
“…he may not remember certain people,” she continues, and something inside you fractures quietly, irreversibly.
You don’t wait to hear more. You step inside.
He’s lying there, pale even by his standards, bandages stark against his skin, his hair slightly dishevelled in a way that would have annoyed him before. For a moment, relief floods you simply because he’s alive, because he’s breathing, because he’s still here. You move closer without thinking, drawn to him in that way you always have been, your fingers lifting as if to take his hand.
“Don’t.”
The word is sharp enough to make you flinch, you freeze. His eyes are open, fixed on you with a cold, assessing look that you haven’t seen in months, not since before everything between you changed.
“Who are you?” he asks, his voice flat, almost irritated.
It shouldn’t hurt this much. You knew, you heard what Pomfrey said, you prepared yourself as much as anyone could, but nothing prepares you for the complete absence of recognition in his gaze.
“It’s me,” you say, and even to your own ears, your voice sounds fragile.
His frown deepens, and when you instinctively reach again, he pulls his hand away as if your touch is something unpleasant. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
Your throat tightens. You want to say it—you want to tell him everything, remind him, force the truth back into place—but the way he’s looking at you makes the words die before they can form.
“I’m just someone from school,” you manage instead.
He studies you for a moment longer, something flickering behind his eyes, and for a split second, you think—hope—that something might surface.
But then his expression shifts into something all too familiar.
“Right,” he says slowly. “You’re that half-blood.”
It feels like being struck.
You don’t remember leaving the hospital wing, only that you’re suddenly in the corridor again, the noise of students washing over you as if nothing has changed, as if your world hasn’t just tilted off its axis.
The days that follow are worse in a quieter way.
You don’t go back to see him. You tell yourself it’s because he needs time, because forcing yourself into his life when he doesn’t remember you would only make things harder, but the truth is simpler and far more painful: you can’t bear the way he looked at you.
Still, you hear about him constantly. You can’t escape it.
“He’s basically the same as before,” someone says near you in the Great Hall.
“Honestly, it’s like the past year never happened,” another adds.
“He called a Hufflepuff girl ‘filthy’ yesterday, proper Malfoy again.”
You sit there, staring down at your untouched plate, the words echoing in your mind.
Proper Malfoy.
As if the version of him who laughed with you in quiet corners, who hesitated before taking your hand in public but did it anyway, who whispered confessions into your hair late at night—that version had never really existed. The first time he directs it at you, you think you’re prepared; spoiler alert, you're not !
You nearly walk into him in the corridor, your thoughts too loud, your awareness too dulled, and you step back quickly. “Sorry.”
He looks at you with that same detached irritation. “Watch where you’re going.”
There’s a moment—a small, fragile pause—where something in his gaze lingers, like recognition trying to break through.
Then it vanishes.
“Honestly,” he mutters, his lip curling slightly, “you’d think half-bloods would at least try not to be completely insufferable.”
The words are precise, practiced, like they’ve been worn smooth from repetition.
You nod once, because anything else might break you open right there in the hallway. “Right.”
And you walk away.
He doesn’t see the way your hands shake, but something unsettles him all the same. He can’t name it, only that there’s a strange, unwelcome tightness in his chest that lingers long after you’ve gone.
Sleep becomes something distant, something you can’t quite reach no matter how exhausted you feel. Every time you close your eyes, memories press in too close, too vivid: his voice softer than anyone else ever hears it; the careful way he used to hold you; the quiet confession he once made like it cost him everything: “I don’t believe any of it when I’m with you.” Now he does. And he doesn’t even know what he’s lost.
It’s what drives you to the Astronomy Tower, night after night, because it’s the only place that feels far enough away from everything else, from everyone who looks at you like you’re imagining things when you say he used to be different.
You sit on the cold stone, pulling your knees in, pressing your sleeve against your mouth to muffle the sound as your composure finally cracks. You try to be quiet, as if that might make it hurt less, but the tears come anyway, slow and steady.
You don’t hear the door open behind you.
Draco doesn’t expect anyone to be there. The tower has always been his place, even if he can’t fully explain why, just that something about it feels familiar, grounding.
So when he sees you there, curled in on yourself, shoulders trembling, something inside him shifts uncomfortably.
“…What’s wrong, half-breed?” he asks, the insult automatic, a shield he doesn’t even realise he’s using.
You go still before slowly straightening, wiping at your face as you stand. When you turn, your expression is composed, almost cold, but your eyes betray you.
“Nothing, Malfoy.”
Your voice is distant, stripped of anything soft, and the absence of it unsettles him more than your tears did.
You brush past him, your shoulder knocking lightly against his. “Move.”
He does, almost instinctively, and you disappear down the staircase without another word.
He remains where he is, staring at the space you left behind, a strange, unfamiliar ache settling in his chest.
That wasn’t right.
None of that felt right.
The feeling doesn’t go away.
If anything, it worsens.
He starts noticing you without meaning to, drawn to you in ways that irritate him because they make no sense. He watches you laugh with others and feels something sharp twist inside him, hears your voice across a room and finds himself listening for it without understanding why.
And every time he says something cruel, every time he leans into the version of himself that feels expected, something in him recoils afterward, leaving behind a hollow discomfort he can’t shake.
It comes in flashes, too brief to grasp—laughter that doesn’t feel mocking, a voice that sounds like yours but softer, closer, saying his name like it matters. The images vanish before he can fully see them, leaving only the impression that they were important.
That he’s missing something.
That he’s missing someone.
When he finds you at the Astronomy Tower again, it feels inevitable.
You don’t turn this time when he approaches, as if you’ve already decided he isn’t worth acknowledging.
“Why do you keep coming here?” he asks, though the question feels strange even as he says it, as if he’s intruding on something that used to belong to both of you.
“It’s none of your business,” you reply quietly.
He steps closer despite himself. “You’re crying again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Brilliant observation.”
Something in your tone—flat, tired, devoid of anything that once might have been warmth—grates against him.
“Did someone—”
“Stop,” you cut in, turning sharply to face him. “Just stop pretending like you care.”
The accusation lands harder than he expects, and he falters. “I don’t—”
“Exactly,” you say, your voice cracking despite your effort to keep it steady. “You don’t.”
Silence falls between you, heavy and suffocating.
“You used to,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
He stiffens. “…What?”
You shake your head, already regretting it. “Forget it.”
“No,” he says, more firmly now, stepping closer. “You don’t get to say that and then walk away. What did you mean?”
You let out a shaky breath, the fight draining out of you all at once. “We were together.”
The words hang there, impossible to take back.
He stares at you, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “That’s not possible.”
“Because I’m a half-blood?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer, and the silence is louder than any insult.
You nod once, tears slipping free. “Right.”
You turn to leave, needing distance before you break completely, but this time his hand closes around your wrist, stopping you.
The touch is hesitant, almost unsure, as if even he doesn’t fully understand why he’s doing it.
“I don’t understand,” he says, his voice lower now, stripped of its earlier sharpness.
“Join the club.”
“No,” he insists, his grip tightening just slightly. “I mean… I don’t understand why this feels like I’m losing something I don’t even remember having.”
Your breath catches.
“Because you are,” you whisper.
He goes still, something shifting behind his eyes as another fragment surfaces; your hand in his, your head resting against his shoulder, a quiet moment that feels more real than anything else he can recall.
“I don’t remember you,” he admits, the words rough.
“I know.”
“But I remember… how it felt,” he continues, his gaze searching yours. “Or at least...something like it.”
Your chest aches. “That’s not the same.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “It isn’t.”
There’s a pause, fragile and uncertain, before he lifts his free hand and hesitates, as if asking permission without words, before brushing a tear from your cheek.
The touch is gentle, instinctive.
Familiar.
“I want to,” he says quietly. “I want to remember. Or… feel it again.” He said it such a childlike voice, unsure and hesitant to rebel against his pureblooded beliefs for the second time.
Your heart stutters painfully at that.
“You hurt me,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“You forgot me.”
“I didn’t choose to.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“I know,” he says again, but this time it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like something he means, even if he doesn’t fully understand why.
You don’t realise how close you’ve moved until there’s barely any space left between you, the tension thick, fragile, ready to shatter.
“I don’t remember loving you,” he says, his voice barely above a breath.
"But I think I still do,” he adds.
Everything in you stills. The kiss that follows is hesitant, uncertain, like stepping onto unfamiliar ground that somehow feels known all the same. It’s not the same as before (you can feel that)b ut there’s something there, something real, something that lingers even as memory fails.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours, his breath unsteady.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes, letting the words settle.
“I know.”
And for the first time since you heard his name whispered in the corridor...it doesn’t feel like the end.
Bucky Barnes x reader (cuddle for warmth, friends to lovers)
Snow wasn’t supposed to be part of the mission. Switzerland, yes, mountains, altitude, a little cold, but not this. Not a storm that swallowed the sky whole and turned the world into nothing but blinding white. You could barely even see ten feet ahead of you, your breath sharp in your lungs as the freezing wind cut through every layer you had. “Visibility’s gone,” you called, though it felt useless; the storm seemed louder than your voice.
Ahead, Bucky didn’t stop immediately. He rarely did. He just kept moving, steady and relentless, like he could outwalk the weather itself. Then, finally, he turned, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the conditions. The wind tearing at his clothes.
“We keep moving,” he said.
“And walk straight off a cliff?” you shot back, your patience thinning with the temperature. “We need shelter.”
There was a pause, brief, but telling. Bucky wasn’t used to stopping. But even he could see it now; the storm had turned too dangerous to carry on.
“…Fine,” he said. “We find cover.”
That was as close to agreement as you ever got.
The cold crept in slowly at first, almost unnoticeable beneath the adrenaline. Then it settled deeper; first it spread into your fingers, then your legs, then your chest, until finally every step felt heavier than the last. You stumbled once, your boot catching in the snow, and before you could even react, Bucky’s hand was on your arm, steadying you.
“Focus,” he said.
“I am,” you muttered, though your voice lacked its usual bite. “I just can’t feel my hands.”
His grip tightened for a second, not that you could feel it. “Stay close.”
You didn’t argue.
That alone would’ve surprised him, if he’d had the energy to think about it.
The cabin appeared like something unreal: half-buried in snow, tucked between the trees like it had been waiting for you. You almost thought you’d imagined it until Bucky reached it first, forcing the door open against the wind.
Inside, the silence hit just as hard as the storm. No warmth. No fire. Just still, frozen air, but hey, it was shelter, and that was more than enough.
You stumbled in after him, shutting the door quickly, cutting off the roar of the wind. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stood there, catching your breath, the quiet settling heavy between you.
“…We got lucky,” you said eventually.
“We don’t rely on luck,” he replied automatically, already scanning the room.
You almost smiled at that, but it faded quickly as another shiver ran through you, stronger this time, harder to ignore.
Bucky noticed immediately; it was hard to miss the aggressive shakes coming from your body.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said—” Your voice caught slightly, betraying you, “—I’m fine.”
He stepped closer then, his gaze sharper now, more focused on you than the room. “You’re freezing.”
You let out a weak breath that might’ve been a laugh. “We’re in a snowstorm, Barnes. What gave it away?”
But he didn’t react to the sarcasm this time. His attention dropped briefly to your hands, your posture, and the way you tried (and failed) to balance your weight.
“…We need heat,” he said.
“There’s nothing here,” you replied. “No firewood, no power.”
A beat passed.
"Then we share body heat.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “…Seriously?”
“It’s survival,” he said simply. “Hypothermia doesn’t wait.”
You knew that. You did. Still, you hesitated.
“We don’t have to talk,” he added, softer now. “Just...stay warm.”
Something about that made it easier to nod.
“…Fine.”
At first, it was awkward. You sat beside each other, close but not quite touching, like there was still some invisible boundary neither of you had crossed before. But then another shiver hit you, sharp and uncontrollable, and Bucky didn’t hesitate anymore.
He moved closer, one arm pulling you in until your side pressed against his chest. His hold was firm, steady, and grounding in a way that surprised you. You tensed for half a second but didn’t pull away; the heat coming from him was too nice to reject.
“This is weird,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” he agreed quietly.
But neither of you moved.
"How are you so freaking warm? Curse that super serum," you grumbled under your breath, feeling a silent huff escape Bucky.
The warmth came slowly, seeping through layers, through hesitation, through whatever distance had always existed between you. Your breathing steadied first, then your hands stopped shaking so violently. At some point, your head ended up resting against his shoulder - you weren’t sure when, and he didn’t comment on it.
“You're a stubborn ass,” he said after a while, his voice low in the quiet.
You frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t stop, even when you should.”
You tilted your head just enough to glance at him. “And you do?”
“This isn't about me.”
His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to be felt. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It felt… full. Different, even. Like something had shifted without either of you saying it outright.
“You could’ve left me,” you said eventually, your voice softer now.
His response was immediate. “No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I don’t leave people behind.”
You exhaled slowly. “You left Clint behind on the last mission; why do you think I'm here and he isn't. ”
His gaze dropped to you then, something unreadable flickering there.
“Because you're one of the few people who isn't cautious around me, who makes me feel like I can be myself," he said.
You didn’t know what to do with that, so you didn’t try. You just stayed there, letting the warmth settle deeper, letting the moment stretch a little longer than it probably should have.
By the time the storm began to quiet outside, the distance between you was gone. Not just physically, something had changed
When you finally pulled away, it felt wrong. Too cold. Too empty.
Neither of you moved toward the door right away.
Because stepping outside meant going back to the silence, to distance, to whatever this had been before.
And for the first time since you’d met Bucky Barnes, neither of you seemed ready for that.
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The field had always felt like something out of a dream.
It stretched endlessly, a sea of soft colour; lavenders, whites, and yellows swaying gently beneath a warm, honeyed sky. You lay on your back in the middle of it, fingers threaded lazily through the stems, the scent of summer thick and sweet in the air.
Beside you, Fred Weasley was unusually quiet.
That should’ve been your first clue.
You turned your head slightly, watching him from the corner of your eye. “You’re thinking,” you said.
He scoffed. “I always think.”
“Not like this,” you teased. “This is dangerous thinking. This is ‘Fred Weasley is about to do something ridiculous’ thinking.”
He grinned at that, rolling onto his side to face you. “You wound me.”
“I know you,” you replied simply.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind whispered through the flowers, brushing against your skin, lifting strands of your hair across your face. Fred reached out absentmindedly, tucking them behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
It made your chest tighten, just a little.
“You ever think about it?” he asked suddenly.
“Think about what?”
“The future,” he said. “After all this.”
You huffed softly, staring up at the sky again. “Constantly. It’s how I survive all this.”
He nodded, gaze tracing your features like he was memorising them. “Yeah. Me too.”
A pause.
Then, before you could ask anything else, he sat up abruptly, pushing himself onto one knee.
You blinked.
“…Fred?”
He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking far less composed than you’d ever seen him. “Right. Okay. So - hypothetically - ”
You were already laughing. “Oh no.”
“Don’t laugh,” he said, though his lips twitched. “This is serious.”
“You’re kneeling in a field of flowers saying ‘hypothetically,’ Fred, I physically cannot take you seriously right now.”
“Just, give me a second, yeah?”
You sat up too, propping yourself up on your hands, watching him with a soft, amused expression.
He took a breath.
Then another.
“Marry me.”
Silence.
The wind seemed to still. The world narrowed to just him, his freckled, earnest eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them, like this moment mattered more than anything.
Your heart stumbled.
“…Fred.”
“I know,” he rushed. “Timing is...objectively terrible. There’s a war, and we’re both a bit preoccupied with not dying, and I don’t even have a proper ring—though I could make one, actually, George and I—”
You reached out, grabbing his hand.
He stopped immediately.
You were smiling, but your eyes were shining with something deeper beneath the teasing.
“Silly idiot,” you murmured.
His expression faltered. “That’s not exactly the response I was-”
“I’ll marry you,” you said softly.
He froze.
“Just… after the war,” you added, squeezing his hand. “When everything’s over. When we actually get a future to start.”
Hope flickered across his face.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “After the war.”
He let out a breath, something almost disbelieving, before breaking into a grin so wide it made your chest ache.
“Brilliant,” he said, dropping down beside you again, pulling you into him. “That gives me time to plan a proper proposal. This one was clearly lacking.”
“Oh, absolutely terrible,” you agreed, resting your head against his shoulder. “No ring, no speech, very disappointing. Solid 3/10 I reckon.”
“Oi,” he nudged you. “I said ‘marry me.’ Straight to the point. Efficient.”
“Romantic as ever.”
He pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “You love it.”
“I do.”
You lay there together as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in soft gold and rose. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and certain, like a promise neither of you doubted.
The future felt real there.
Possible.
Yours.
But they never got their happy ending.
Because when the war came, it took more than it gave.
And in the end, death did them part.
And when she visited that same field years later, she found it dead, decayed. As if Fred took all the joy and beauty of this world with him.
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Bucky Barnes x Reader
Blurb : You photograph the aftermath. He prevents the next one.
Bucky Barnes has always been protective — maybe too much so. You just thought it was love. But the lines between devotion and darkness blur when your work starts colliding with his secrets.
Tropes: dark romance, secret identity, moral ambiguity, lovers and liars, “I’d burn the world for you”, angst with tenderness, power couple energy
He watches you from the kitchen doorway as you scrub the smell of another night’s work off your hands, the faint trace of metallic tang that never seems to wash away. You look tired, your smile weaker than it used to be, but when you lift your camera bag and glance up at him, that soft spark lights again behind your eyes.
“Rough night?” he asks.
You hum an answer, trying not to think about the scene; about the alleyway, the blood, the victim’s watch still ticking. “They’re getting bolder,” you mutter, “like they don’t even care anymore.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes. They. You always say it like that.
And every time, something darker coils in his chest, the thought that he could stop them, that he has.
He steps closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You shouldn’t have to see things like that.”
You laugh softly, hollow but sweet. “Someone’s gotta make sense of the mess.”
If only you knew how many messes he’d already cleaned up for you.
Later that night, you develop photos in the dim red light of your home studio, unaware that Bucky’s gone. The faint click of your camera shutter echoes through the room, rhythmic, familiar, comforting.
But across the city, he moves through the dark like a ghost.
He knows the name of the man who hurt that girl in your latest case. He knows where he hides, what he’s done, what he’ll do again if someone doesn’t intervene.
He doesn’t think about what happens after. Only that you’ll sleep easier knowing justice is served.
When he returns, the first thing he hears is the gentle hum of your music, the faint laughter spilling from your lips as you talk to yourself about the perfect shot. He leans against the doorway again, watching; that same camera that captures tragedy now aimed at a vase of flowers, light streaming in just right.
“You’re home late,” you tease, turning to him. “Out saving the world?”
“Something like that,” he says.
You cross the room, slip your hands into his. They’re warm — warmer than they should be. “You’re shaking,” you whisper. “Everything okay?”
He looks down at you, guilt and longing at war in his eyes. “I just—sometimes I wish I could take it all away for you.”
You smile, leaning up to kiss him. “You already do.”
And in that moment, he decides not to tell you. Not about the men who won’t be found, the names that won’t reach your crime scenes.
Because love, to him, has always been something worth sinning for.
John “Soap” MacTavish x reader
Blurb : You never meant for the one night to happen. But when an undercover op forces you and Soap to play the part of a married couple—just weeks after you discover you’re pregnant—it becomes harder to keep the line between pretend and reality. Especially when Soap’s easy grin fades to something sharper, more dangerous, every time another man looks your way.
You’d sworn to yourself that the one night meant nothing.
Alcohol, adrenaline, and Soap’s maddening smirk—that’s all it was. At least, that’s what you’ve told yourself every night since. But the faint sickness in the mornings and the test hidden in the bottom of your rucksack told you otherwise.
Pregnant.
With Soap’s child.
And he had no idea.
When Laswell pulled you into the briefing room and laid out the assignment, your stomach plummeted. Deep cover, infiltrating a trafficking syndicate suspected of supplying arms to Makarov’s network. Easy enough—except your entry was through a “married couple” persona. And the “husband” chosen for you?
Soap.
You glanced at him across the table, his grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he found the whole thing amusing.
“Guess we’re takin’ the honeymoon before the weddin’, aye?” he quipped, elbow nudging you lightly.
Your throat tightened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He wasn’t.
The first days undercover weren’t unbearable. Soap played the part of doting husband far too well, his arm slung across your shoulders, his hand sliding to your lower back in crowded rooms. Every time he did it, your pulse betrayed you.
But his affection wasn’t confined to the job. It lingered, even when you weren’t in public. When the mission-day ended, he’d still toss himself on the hotel bed beside you, legs brushing yours, fingers drumming against your wrist like he had every right to touch you.
And then there was the jealousy.
The first time you noticed, it was small. A target associate leaned too close at a dinner, his hand ghosting over yours while pouring wine. Soap’s jaw tightened, his smile all teeth. Later, when you returned to your room, his words were edged steel.
“You enjoy lettin’ him paw at you like that?”
Your head snapped up. “It was for the cover, Johnny. You know that.”
He stepped closer, chest brushing yours, voice dropping low. “Cover or not, he touches you again, I’ll break his fuckin’ hand.”
You should’ve laughed. Should’ve told him he was being ridiculous. But the heat in his eyes pinned you, and something inside you twisted—fear, desire, guilt, all tangled together.
The mission dragged on. Nights blurred into mornings, tension coiling tighter. Soap’s protectiveness grew sharper, more possessive, until it wasn’t just about cover anymore. He watched you too closely, pulled you too near, spoke too harshly when someone else so much as glanced your way.
And you—damn it, you let him. Because when his hand closed around yours in public, it wasn’t just acting anymore. Because every time he called you “wife,” some traitorous part of you wished it were real.
But you couldn’t tell him. Not when the truth—the baby—would unravel everything.
Until the night you snapped.
You’d just returned from a meeting, Soap storming ahead, his shoulders wound tight.
“You were laughin’ with him,” he muttered, accent thick with restrained anger. “Laughin’ like he was—” He cut himself off, fists flexing.
“Jesus, Soap, it was a mission dinner. I wasn’t exactly swooning into his lap!”
He turned then, eyes burning. “Aye, but you could’ve fooled me.”
You froze, chest tightening. “What is your problem?”
“My problem—” He stalked closer, voice raw. “—is that I can’t stand watchin’ anyone else touch what’s mine.”
Silence. The words hung heavy in the air.
Your breath stuttered, heart hammering. “Yours?”
His chest rose and fell, his usual bravado stripped away. “Aye. Mine. Always fuckin’ has been.”
For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. And then it spilled out—the truth you’d been holding, trembling on your lips.
“Johnny… I’m pregnant.”
The world went still. His expression flickered, shock, disbelief, then something darker, deeper, breaking through.
“…mine?” His voice cracked.
You nodded, tears burning your eyes. “Yours.”
And for the first time, Soap didn’t smile. He just stepped forward, gathering you against his chest with a desperation that stole the air from your lungs.
“Jesus Christ, lass,” he whispered into your hair, voice shaking. “You should’ve told me.”
Your hands were fisted in his shirt, clinging like the world was about to collapse. “I didn’t know how.”
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes fierce and tender all at once. “You think I’d ever let you go through this alone? You think I wouldn’t tear the fuckin’ world apart for you?”
And in that moment, there was no cover, no mission. Just the man who’d always been yours—even when neither of you would admit it.
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John “Soap” MacTavish x reader
Blurb : You never meant for the one night to happen. But when an undercover op forces you and Soap to play the part of a married couple—just weeks after you discover you’re pregnant—it becomes harder to keep the line between pretend and reality. Especially when Soap’s easy grin fades to something sharper, more dangerous, every time another man looks your way.
You’d sworn to yourself that the one night meant nothing.
Alcohol, adrenaline, and Soap’s maddening smirk—that’s all it was. At least, that’s what you’ve told yourself every night since. But the faint sickness in the mornings and the test hidden in the bottom of your rucksack told you otherwise.
Pregnant.
With Soap’s child.
And he had no idea.
When Laswell pulled you into the briefing room and laid out the assignment, your stomach plummeted. Deep cover, infiltrating a trafficking syndicate suspected of supplying arms to Makarov’s network. Easy enough—except your entry was through a “married couple” persona. And the “husband” chosen for you?
Soap.
You glanced at him across the table, his grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he found the whole thing amusing.
“Guess we’re takin’ the honeymoon before the weddin’, aye?” he quipped, elbow nudging you lightly.
Your throat tightened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He wasn’t.
The first days undercover weren’t unbearable. Soap played the part of doting husband far too well, his arm slung across your shoulders, his hand sliding to your lower back in crowded rooms. Every time he did it, your pulse betrayed you.
But his affection wasn’t confined to the job. It lingered, even when you weren’t in public. When the mission-day ended, he’d still toss himself on the hotel bed beside you, legs brushing yours, fingers drumming against your wrist like he had every right to touch you.
And then there was the jealousy.
The first time you noticed, it was small. A target associate leaned too close at a dinner, his hand ghosting over yours while pouring wine. Soap’s jaw tightened, his smile all teeth. Later, when you returned to your room, his words were edged steel.
“You enjoy lettin’ him paw at you like that?”
Your head snapped up. “It was for the cover, Johnny. You know that.”
He stepped closer, chest brushing yours, voice dropping low. “Cover or not, he touches you again, I’ll break his fuckin’ hand.”
You should’ve laughed. Should’ve told him he was being ridiculous. But the heat in his eyes pinned you, and something inside you twisted—fear, desire, guilt, all tangled together.
The mission dragged on. Nights blurred into mornings, tension coiling tighter. Soap’s protectiveness grew sharper, more possessive, until it wasn’t just about cover anymore. He watched you too closely, pulled you too near, spoke too harshly when someone else so much as glanced your way.
And you—damn it, you let him. Because when his hand closed around yours in public, it wasn’t just acting anymore. Because every time he called you “wife,” some traitorous part of you wished it were real.
But you couldn’t tell him. Not when the truth—the baby—would unravel everything.
Until the night you snapped.
You’d just returned from a meeting, Soap storming ahead, his shoulders wound tight.
“You were laughin’ with him,” he muttered, accent thick with restrained anger. “Laughin’ like he was—” He cut himself off, fists flexing.
“Jesus, Soap, it was a mission dinner. I wasn’t exactly swooning into his lap!”
He turned then, eyes burning. “Aye, but you could’ve fooled me.”
You froze, chest tightening. “What is your problem?”
“My problem—” He stalked closer, voice raw. “—is that I can’t stand watchin’ anyone else touch what’s mine.”
Silence. The words hung heavy in the air.
Your breath stuttered, heart hammering. “Yours?”
His chest rose and fell, his usual bravado stripped away. “Aye. Mine. Always fuckin’ has been.”
For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. And then it spilled out—the truth you’d been holding, trembling on your lips.
“Johnny… I’m pregnant.”
The world went still. His expression flickered, shock, disbelief, then something darker, deeper, breaking through.
“…mine?” His voice cracked.
You nodded, tears burning your eyes. “Yours.”
And for the first time, Soap didn’t smile. He just stepped forward, gathering you against his chest with a desperation that stole the air from your lungs.
“Jesus Christ, lass,” he whispered into your hair, voice shaking. “You should’ve told me.”
Your hands were fisted in his shirt, clinging like the world was about to collapse. “I didn’t know how.”
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes fierce and tender all at once. “You think I’d ever let you go through this alone? You think I wouldn’t tear the fuckin’ world apart for you?”
And in that moment, there was no cover, no mission. Just the man who’d always been yours—even when neither of you would admit it.
