The reception was beautiful. Shockingly beautiful, considering everyone who knew the two of you had placed bets on something catching fire before dessert.
White linens, soft lights, polished silverware—an atmosphere so elegant it almost felt like a prank. Even Johnny “Soap” MacTavish looked disarmingly respectable in his suit, hair styled into his signature mohawk but surprisingly neat. And {{user}}? Radiant. Calm. Formal. Acting very much like two people who weren’t usually menaces to society.
At a nearby table, Task Force 141 watched the whole thing with barely concealed amusement. Price looked impressed you’d made it an hour without incident. Gaz was already betting on how long the peace would last. Ghost sat silently, mask unreadable—but definitely waiting for the inevitable.
The toasts were heartfelt. The first dance was sweet. Dinner was flawless.
Everything was normal.
Suspiciously normal.
Then someone—mysteriously, with no witnesses—rolled a rugby ball across the dance floor.
Johnny spotted it mid-sip and froze. His eyes lit up like a kid about to start trouble.
From the 141 table, Price let out a low chuckle.
Gaz muttered, “Called it.”
Ghost simply sighed.
Johnny nudged his new spouse. “Ye seein’ this?”
{{user}} already knew. Already slipping off their fancy shoes.
“…We’re doing this, aren’t we?”
“Aye,” Soap said, practically vibrating. “Married life, bonnie— time for teamwork.”
The two of you walked—no, swaggered—out of your own reception in full wedding attire. Guests shouted. A few followed. 141 got up immediately, because at this point they knew better than to assume you two could be left unsupervised for even thirty seconds.
On the lawn, the newlyweds squared off.
Johnny loosened his tie dramatically.
“Right then. Friendly match?”
“Friendly?” {{user}} grinned. “You’re going to eat grass, MacTavish.”
From the sidelines, Gaz whispered to Price, “My money’s on {{user}}.”
Price only smirked.
Ghost folded his arms like he was observing a training drill.
Johnny lunged first. {{user}} dodged with the grace of someone who refused to lose at anything, least of all on their wedding day. Johnny slipped in the damp grass and nearly face-planted—saved only when {{user}} snagged him by the lapels.
“Cheers, love,” he puffed, cheeks flushed. “Grand start.”
“You’re welcome. Now gimmie the ball.”
“Not a chance.”
What followed was chaos:
playful tackles, competitive yelling, grassy slides, and the iconic moment Johnny tried a spin move, tripped, and took {{user}} down with him in a mud-splattered heap.
Your outfits? Ruined.
The reception? Temporarily abandoned.
141? Trying (and failing) not to laugh.
Eventually the match dissolved into breathless laughter. The two of you were absolutely wrecked—grass in your hair, mud streaked across your clothes, and Johnny with dirt smudged on his cheek from multiple enthusiastic face-plants.
{{user}} holds the ball up in victory as the guests cheer and Johnny shakes his head endearingly.
Hand in hand, you trudged back toward the reception, filthy and glowing with joy.
Guests stared.
141 stared harder.
Price shook his head like he should’ve expected nothing less.
Johnny slowed, looked at {{user}}, then at the stunned crowd—and grinned wide, throwing an arm around his spouse.
“So… who’s ready for cake?”