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Ghost AU: Dancer x Bouncer!Simon Riley | Author's note: smut! for some reason Simon is only hot to me in AU contexts; you're welcome btw

You hated Simon Riley from the moment you met him.

Stone-faced, hulking, rude as hell—he never smiled, never talked unless he had to, and always watched you from across the club like you were a goddamn criminal instead of one of the top dancers pulling in customers. His arms would stay crossed over his massive chest, black bouncer tee stretched tight, and his masked face just staring while you worked your magic.

The worst part? You knew he wanted you.

You could see it in the way his eyes would track your every move when you led some drunk asshole to a VIP booth. In the way his fists would flex when a customer got a little too handsy. He'd never admit it, though. Too proud. Too broody.

And he was an asshole, too. Always letting his 141 buddies—some group of Special Forces dickheads—get away with everything. They'd show up, loud and laughing, tossing money around, thinking they owned the place. You weren't even supposed to bring anyone into the private rooms without management’s approval, but if it was his friends? Simon didn’t say a damn word.

You swore he got off on making your nights harder.

That was until Johnny showed up.

Johnny was different. Sweet, funny, a little cocky but in a way that made you grin instead of grit your teeth. He actually talked to you like you were a person, not a piece of meat. When you flirted with him, it felt natural—not forced, not fake for the sake of tips.

One night after your shift, Johnny caught you smoking outside, all dolled up with nowhere to go. He offered to walk you home. Said it wasn't safe for a “pretty thing like you” out in the dark. You almost laughed him off, but his lopsided smile made you say yes.

And fuck, he was a good kisser.

One thing led to another—slow touches, pressed up against the door to your shitty apartment—and you realized maybe hooking up with a customer wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe the rules were stupid. Maybe breaking them felt good.

But of course, Simon had to ruin it.

The next night, you caught him at the back of the club, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Watching. Judging.

"You gettin' cozy with Soap now?" he muttered when you walked past, low and mocking.

You stopped dead in your heels, turning to glare at him. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, bouncer boy.”

His eyes flicked over you, slow and heavy. Like he was undressing you with just a glance. “Figured you’d have more standards.”

You laughed, sharp and mean. "Coming from the guy who babysits his drunk military buddies? Please."

For a second, it looked like he might actually say something real. Instead, he just stared you down, his jaw clenching under the black mask, something dangerous flashing in his gaze. The tension snapped tight between you—thick enough to choke on.

You hated him. He hated you.

The club was packed, a haze of smoke and cheap perfume clinging to the air. The bass thrummed through the floor, rattling up your spine as you moved, slow and sultry, weaving between the crowd. You spotted Johnny instantly—grinning that easy, boyish grin from the VIP booth, a whiskey glass in his hand, eyes glued to you.

He waved you over like you were old friends. You hesitated, glancing over your shoulder.

Simon was on the far side of the room, posted up near the bar. Arms crossed, black shirt tight across his chest, mask in place. Watching. Always fucking watching.

Good. Let him.

You smirked to yourself and sashayed your way over to Johnny, sliding into his lap like you owned him. His hands immediately found your hips, warm and heavy, but he didn’t push—you liked that about him. He was sweet. Playful. Not like the other guys who came through here.

You leaned down, whispering something filthy into Johnny’s ear just to be a brat, just to feel Simon’s eyes burning holes through your skin from across the room.

You felt it. The weight of Simon’s gaze. The way the room seemed to tilt toward him, even though he hadn't moved.

Yet.

Then Johnny’s hand slid a little lower, fingertips brushing the top of your thigh—right where your garters met bare skin—and that was it.

The next thing you knew, Simon was there, ripping you up off Johnny’s lap with a roughness that made you gasp. One hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, the other braced against your lower back, hauling you bodily away from the booth.

"Oi—!" Johnny started to protest, half-standing.

"Sit the fuck down, Soap," Simon growled—growled—without even looking at him. His voice was low, lethal, enough to make Johnny immediately freeze.

You struggled against Simon’s grip, half-hearted, more out of pride than real resistance. "The fuck is your problem, Riley?!"

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you.

He dragged you down the hall toward the back rooms, shoving open the door to an empty storage closet and forcing you inside ahead of him.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Then Simon stepped closer—slow, controlled, a fucking storm brewing behind his mask.

"You think you’re clever, prancin’ around like that?" he rasped, voice pitched low and dangerous. "Sittin' in his lap, lettin' him touch you?"

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. “I wasn’t doing anything against the rules,” you snapped, but your voice shook.

He laughed. A dark, humorless sound.

"Fuck the rules."

Before you could blink, he crowded you up against the wall, one massive hand slamming next to your head, trapping you. His other hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You’ve been fuckin’ teasing me for months,” he hissed. “Walkin’ ‘round here like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You opened your mouth—whether to fight or surrender, you didn’t even know—but he didn’t give you the chance.

He kissed you.

Hard. Bruising. Teeth and tongue and heat, swallowing the sound you made, pinning you completely. His body caged yours, so much larger, so much hotter, pressing you deeper into the wall.

His hands found your hips, gripping so tight you knew there’d be bruises. He dragged your hips against his, and fuck, he was already hard.

"This what you wanted, yeah?" he growled against your lips. "Wanted to get fucked by the bouncer, huh? Wanted me to show you who you really belong to?"

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, grinding against him, desperate for more.

He laughed again, but this time it was low, darkly pleased.

"You’re not leavin' this room 'til you can’t even think about another man touchin’ you," he promised, voice rough with want.

And somehow, you believed him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Simon's hands were everywhere—yanking your top down, dragging the skirt of your costume up your thighs. His touch was rough, all frustrated hunger, no patience left.

"You like bein' a little tease, don't you?" he rasped against your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Paradin' yourself around for anyone with a few quid."

You gasped when he shoved your panties to the side, two fingers dragging through the slick heat between your thighs. He groaned, low and guttural, when he felt how wet you already were.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he growled. "Knew you wanted this."

You couldn’t speak—you could barely think. All you could do was arch against him, whimpering when he pressed those thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right.

"Look at you," he murmured against your ear. "Already so fuckin’ desperate. Bet Johnny didn't even get you this wet, did he?"

You shook your head frantically, your hands clawing at his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, needing more.

Simon chuckled darkly, dragging his fingers out of you only to undo his belt one-handed, pants shoved down just enough to free his cock. He was big—thick and heavy in his fist—and your mouth watered at the sight of him, even through the haze of lust.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice sharp.

You obeyed before you even realized it, facing the wall, hands braced against the cool concrete. You felt him behind you, lining up, the head of his cock dragging through your folds in lazy, teasing strokes that made your knees threaten to buckle.

"You sure about this?" he asked, voice a little lower, a little rougher. Beneath the dominance, there was still that careful thread of control—Simon Riley never took what wasn't given.

"Yes," you whispered. "Please, Simon—fuck—please."

That was all he needed.

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, forcing a broken cry from your lips as you stretched around him, full to the point of pain-turned-pleasure. He didn't give you time to adjust—just gripped your hips tight enough to leave bruises and fucked you like he meant it.

Fast, hard, relentless.

The slap of skin against skin filled the tiny room, mixed with your desperate little gasps and his filthy muttered curses.

"So fuckin' tight," he growled, pounding into you. "So fuckin' perfect."

Your head dropped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, as he rutted into you like a man possessed. His hand snaked around your waist, fingers finding your clit and rubbing rough, fast circles that had you screaming his name within seconds.

"That's it," he panted. "Let 'em hear you. Let everyone out there know who’s fuckin' you now."

The coil inside you snapped—white-hot and violent—your orgasm crashing over you so hard your vision blacked out at the edges. Your whole body shook, clenching around him, dragging a guttural snarl from deep in Simon’s chest.

He cursed again, low and savage, before slamming deep one last time, hips grinding into yours as he spilled inside you, filling you up with thick, hot pulses that made you shudder all over again.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the low hum of the club outside.

Simon stayed pressed to your back, his forehead resting against the side of your head, still inside you, panting like he'd just run a marathon.

Finally, he spoke—his voice rough and dangerous against your skin: "You're mine now, sweetheart."

And you were. You knew there was no coming back from this. No running. No pretending. Not with Simon Riley.

The second the high started to fade, you slumped against the wall, legs trembling, skin flushed and hypersensitive. Simon was still pressed against you, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling against your back.

Slowly—almost gently—he pulled out, a soft hiss slipping through his teeth at the loss of your warmth. You whimpered, your body aching and used, but in the best possible way.

Simon didn’t say anything at first.

Just tucked himself back into his pants, fixed his belt one-handed, and then turned his attention fully back to you.

Without a word, he bent down, thick fingers hooking under your thighs, lifting you up like you weighed nothing. You squeaked in surprise, hands flying to his shoulders.

"Shhh," he murmured, voice still rough but quieter now. "Got you."

He sat you down carefully on an old storage crate, crouching in front of you. His gloved hand brushed your hair back from your face—surprisingly tender for someone who'd just wrecked you against a wall—and then he used his thumb to wipe a tear track off your cheek you hadn't even realized was there.

"You alright, love?" he asked, voice low but sincere.

You nodded, still a little dazed, a soft, fucked-out smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah... just... wow."

He huffed a small laugh, the tiniest crack in that usual stoic front.

Then his eyes darkened again.

"You don’t let anyone else touch you like that," he said firmly, voice dipping into something almost dangerous. "Not Soap. Not any fuckin' customer."

You blinked at him, heat rising to your cheeks.

"You made yourself real clear out there," you teased, but there was no real bite to it.

Simon leaned closer, until his masked mouth was hovering right at your ear.

"You’re mine now," he said again, like a vow, low and fierce. "Only mine."

You shivered, not from cold, but from the possessiveness dripping from every word.

He stood, towering over you again, and grabbed a discarded clean towel from a shelf. Without asking, he knelt between your legs, parting them easily, and started gently cleaning you up—careful, thorough, murmuring under his breath whenever you winced.

"Could've gone easier on you," he muttered, almost to himself. "Couldn't fuckin' help it. You drive me crazy, prancin’ around in those little outfits."

You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile.

Once he was satisfied you were alright, Simon stood again, grabbing your chin between his fingers and forcing you to look at him.

"You need somethin’, you come to me, yeah?" His eyes, the only part of his face visible behind the mask, burned into yours. "Don’t care what it is. Don’t care if I’m on shift, don’t care if it’s three in the fuckin’ mornin’. You come to me."

You nodded, swallowing thickly. "Okay."

"Good girl," he murmured.

The praise made your stomach flip wildly.

He helped you stand, smoothing your clothes down as best he could before tucking you close to his side, his big hand splayed protectively on your hip like a silent warning to the rest of the world.

When he finally opened the door to the club again, you caught sight of Johnny at the bar, nursing a drink and looking anywhere but at you.

Simon leaned down, mouth brushing your ear. "Don't worry about Soap," he said quietly, almost amused. "He knows better now."

And with that, Simon Riley—bouncer, enemy, now very clearly yours—led you through the crowd like he had every right to you.

And you had a feeling he was never letting you forget it.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

EXFIL -07 | Pairing: Captain Price x Sgt!Reader

Her eyes snap open, her head spinning. Her body feels heavy, disoriented. She takes in her surroundings, squinting through the dim light, but all she sees is blackness—a room so dark, the air itself seems suffocating. Panic floods her chest, and she instinctively tugs at her restraints. Her wrists are bound, her body stuck to the cold metal of the chair, the ropes digging into her skin. Her breath hitches, rapid, as she shifts her shoulders, trying to break free.

She can’t move.

The only sound is her own shallow breathing, loud and frantic in her ears. The world feels like it’s spinning out of control. Where am I?

Suddenly, she hears movement. Footsteps, one after the other, from the corners of the room. Figures emerge from the shadows, ghostly shapes in the gloom.

Price. Soap. Ghost. Gaz.

They all stand at different points in the room, their silhouettes haunting her in the dim light. She can’t tell how long she’s been here—48 hours? More? It doesn’t matter now. Her stomach twists. What do they want from me?

Her heart races when she sees him. Price. Standing right in front of her. His eyes cold, unreadable, like nothing has changed between them, like he isn’t the man she once tried so hard to understand. She tries to back away, even though she knows it’s futile. The chair scrapes against the floor, but she can’t escape. Her body is trapped. Her voice is smothered by the gag in her mouth.

No...

She struggles against her restraints, but it’s hopeless. The gag muffles her screams as her mind races. Price stares at her, his gaze unwavering. She’s stuck. Helpless.

Soap steps forward, his voice a low rumble in the silence. “You thought you could pull this off? You think you could just walk away, leave us all behind?”

What have I done?

Her body shakes with adrenaline, but she’s too far gone now. They know. They know everything. And as the minutes tick by, her mind begins to crack.

Then, the lights flicker to life, and the harsh glow blinds her for a second. She feels her heart lurch in her chest as a screen flickers to life in front of her. The footage starts—Alex—his familiar face appears on the monitor. The camera angle shifts, showing Alex stepping into the safehouse. He’s alive.

He’s alive.

Her pulse pounds in her throat, but as she watches the footage play out, a sick realization sinks in. Price, Ghost, Soap—they all know. They know where Alex is, and they know what she’s done.

A sickening thought claws at her chest. They’re going to kill him.

Her heart drops to her stomach. She struggles harder against the ropes, trying to shout through the gag, but her voice is still muffled, useless. The feeling of dread deepens as Price approaches her. His hands move deliberately as he yanks the gag from her mouth, his grip like iron on her chin.

She gasps, frantic, desperate for air. “No, you can’t—please.”

Price’s voice is dark and low. “You thought this was just a little game, didn’t you? We gave you the benefit of the doubt. But now, we have to have a civil discussion.” His fingers tighten on her jaw. “And you’re going to answer my questions. Or I’ll put a bullet in your head right here and now.”

Her breath hitches. “You—you can’t do this. You can’t—”

“I can,” Price interrupts, voice dangerously calm. “And you’re going to tell me everything. Every damn thing you’ve been hiding.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but his hand slaps across her face with brutal force, cutting off the words. She stumbles in the chair, dizzy from the blow, her mind whirling.

“Tell us where he is,” Soap demands, his eyes burning with anger. “Where is he, huh?”

Price steps back, watching her like a predator. “Get her up,” he commands, and Ghost and Gaz move quickly, yanking her to her feet. Her body is weak, battered from the last few days. Her head spins, her limbs feel like they’re made of lead.

They drag her outside, the chill of the air biting at her skin as they throw her to the ground. She doesn’t even have the energy to fight back. Her bruised body trembles as they force her to kneel in front of a water basin, the clear water reflecting the moonlight.

No, please. Don’t do this.

They shove her face down into the water. The cold hits her skin first, then the water floods her lungs. She gasps, trying to breathe, but she’s drowning—choking, sputtering, her body writhing in desperation. The pressure on her chest is unbearable. She can feel the cold creeping into her bones, and every instinct screams at her to survive.

“Where’s Alex?” Ghost growls, his hand on her back, pushing her deeper into the water.

Her mind races. She can’t breathe. She’s suffocating.

“Please,” she gasps, barely able to speak. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

They pull her out of the water, her body shaking violently, water dripping from her hair and clothes. She can barely focus, her thoughts clouded with fear, her chest still burning from the lack of air.

“Talk,” Price commands, his voice thick with authority.

She stammers out the information, her mind unraveling with each word. She tells them everything she’s done—everything she knows about the leak, the plan, Alex. Her heart races with each confession, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they’ll forgive her. But their faces are unreadable.

Her knees hit the ground hard, skin splitting on gravel, blood mixing with the muddy earth. She chokes, coughing up water and bile, her body trembling violently from the cold, from the pain, from everything. Her clothes cling to her, soaked, filthy. Every breath is a sob.

Price stands over her. His shadow swallows her whole.

She lifts her head, barely able to hold it up. Blood trickles from her lip. Her voice is cracked, ruined. “Don’t kill him,” she rasps.

No one speaks.

She drags herself forward, clawing at the dirt like a broken animal, until she’s close enough to wrap her arms around Price’s legs. She presses her face to his thigh, her voice muffled against his pants.

“I’ll give you whatever you want.” Her fingers curl around his knees. “Please. I’ll stay. I’ll be yours. Just let him go. Please.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t move.

She presses her forehead to his knee like a prayer, her body trembling. “I’ll never leave again. I’ll do anything you say. I’ll kneel, I’ll crawl, I’ll be quiet. You can keep me. Lock me up. Just let him go.”

Price looks down at her like she’s something pitiful. Something already gone.

“You’re begging,” he says flatly.

She nods, eyes wide and soaked with tears. “Yes. I’m begging you.”

“Why should I believe a word you say?”

“Because I loved you!” she screams, the words torn from her like they’re killing her. “I loved you, and I chose you. I chose you over everything. And I—I would’ve kept choosing you if you hadn’t buried me alive.”

There’s a flash in his eyes—recognition, regret, rage. It’s gone just as fast.

She shifts on her knees, crawling closer, like a supplicant at the altar. Her hands slide up his thighs, not out of seduction but complete surrender. “Take it out on me. Not him. Let him go and you can break me any way you want. Just don’t kill him.”

He stares down at her.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she whispers. “Me—on my knees. Helpless. Yours.”

He exhales slowly. His voice is ice.

“You were always mine. That was never the problem.”

Her eyes shine. “Then let me prove it.”

Price reaches for the sidearm. She flinches but doesn’t run. Doesn’t plead again. She just closes her eyes, whispering, “Just don’t tell him. Don’t tell him what I did.”

There’s a pause. For a moment, it feels like the world stops spinning.

Then—

Bang.

The breeze was gentle. Almost mocking.

She lay still on the grass, the blood beneath her soaking into the dirt like the earth itself wanted to swallow her sins. Her body was twisted in that final, crumpled shape — head turned just enough that her open eyes caught the dawn light.

Price stood a few feet away, the weight of the pistol still heavy in his hand.

No one spoke.

Soap was staring at her. Not with pity. Not with anger. Just that blank, shell-shocked stare that soldiers wear when they’ve crossed another line they can’t uncross.

Ghost muttered something under his breath and turned away.

Gaz kept his distance.

Price exhaled slowly and stepped toward her. The grass crunched under his boots. He crouched beside her, not like a man grieving, but like a man checking for gear.

Her side holster was empty. She hadn’t even tried to go for it.

He reached into her pocket and pulled out the matchbook.

Same brand she used since their first date. He flicked it open. Just two left.

He took one, struck it.

Lit his cigar.

Held the flame for a second longer than he needed to, watching it burn down to his fingertips before letting it die.

The second match, he left tucked inside her hand.

“You wanted out,” he said lowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Now you are.”

He stood.

“Burn the site,” he told Ghost.

They walked away as the wind picked up.

The grass swayed.

She didn’t.

FIN.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

EXFIL -06 | Pairing: Captain Price x Sgt!Reader

She stands in front of her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard, her eyes scanning the classified intel. It’s all laid out for her—everything she needs to disappear, to pull Alex out of this mess for good. The leak is risky, but she’s already made her choice.

Her breath comes in short, shallow bursts as she clicks, copying the encrypted files to an untraceable server. She’s going to do this. She can feel the weight of it already, heavy on her chest, like she's walking a tightrope without a net below.

The plan is simple: she’ll meet Alex at the designated location in 48 hours, and they’ll leave together. She can’t be sure of the outcome, but it’s the only way forward.

A final glance over her shoulder. There’s no going back now.

She takes a deep breath as she steps into the dimly lit room where Alex is waiting. His expression softens when he sees her, that familiar flicker of warmth in his eyes. He’s not the same man she remembers, but he’s still him.

“I’ve got it,” she says quietly, walking toward him, the weight of her decision settling into her bones. “I’ll get us out. All of it—the intel, everything. You and me. Just like we talked about.”

His gaze sharpens, calculating. “Where?”

“Outside the city,” she replies, keeping her voice steady. “There’s a safehouse. I’ll send you the coordinates. 48 hours. We’ll meet, and I’ll make sure you’re gone from all of this.”

He steps closer, his hand brushing her arm as if to steady himself. “You sure you want this? Once we’re out, there’s no turning back.”

She looks at him, her heart hammering. “I don’t have a choice anymore.”

He smiles, and for a brief moment, it feels like the world is right again. She lets herself believe it, just for a second.

Price is waiting for her when she gets back. His presence is like a storm—heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

She’s barely through the door when he speaks.

“You’ve been busy.”

The words don’t make sense at first. She’s confused, still reeling from her conversation with Alex. But when she sees the cold look in Price’s eyes, she knows.

He’s already found out.

“You—” she starts, her voice trembling, “you can’t—"

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” His voice is low, dangerous. He steps toward her, his expression darkening. “You’ve been leaking intel. Playing both sides. And you think you’re just going to walk away?”

She stands frozen, heart in her throat, realizing she’s just crossed the point of no return.

“John—” she begins, but his gaze cuts her off.

“I’m not letting you go.” His voice is colder now, controlled, as if everything is finally falling into place.

She feels the weight of his stare like a physical blow.

The air between them crackles with tension, thick and suffocating. She takes a step back, but he moves closer, almost like he can’t stand the distance.

“You can’t do this. You can’t make this right,” he says, a dark amusement creeping into his tone. “But I can.”

The door slams shut behind her, sealing her fate.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

EXFIL -05 | Pairing: Captain Price x Sgt!Reader

The eggs are going cold on her plate.

She sits at the kitchen island, one knee tucked under her, wearing nothing but a long t-shirt and bruises from last night. Her hair’s still messy, lips still kiss-swollen, and her neck is painted in the evidence of him. Of Price.

He moves behind her, pouring coffee into her mug like nothing’s wrong. Like the world isn’t about to split open.

“I’m not hungry,” she says softly.

He raises a brow, sets the pot down. “You asked for eggs.”

She doesn’t answer.

Price leans in, hands bracing the marble on either side of her. She’s caged in without force. Just presence. Heat. Authority.

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m thinking.”

He hums, the kind of sound that says he doesn’t believe her. “About Keller.”

Her throat tightens.

“I know he’s back. I know what he meant to you. Doesn’t change what we are now.”

She finally turns her head toward him, eyes shadowed. “And what are we, John?”

He leans in until his lips brush her ear. “We’re necessary.”

Her breath stutters.

His hands slide up her thighs, parting them where she sits. Familiar. Effortless.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispers.

“You said that before.” His mouth trails down her neck. “Still here.”

Her body tilts instinctively, like it always does. He knows how to touch her. How to use her silence as permission.

“I mean it this time.”

His hand finds her jaw, turns her face to meet his. “You think he can love you the way I do? You think he’ll survive this world better than me?”

She shakes her head, gently — not a no, not a yes. Just fear. Conflict.

“I want out,” she says, firmer now. “This life. This unit. Us. I want it gone.”

His kiss is hard this time. Not sweet. Not seductive. Just control in the shape of a mouth.

When he pulls back, she’s breathless, but not moved.

“You leave,” he says lowly, “you better pray he’s worth what it’ll cost.”

She doesn’t look away. Not this time.

“He already is.”

The silence afterward is violent in its stillness. Price doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. His hands stay on her thighs, his mouth inches from hers, but everything about him has gone still.

It’s the beginning of the end. And they both feel it.

The kitchen is too quiet now.

Her words hang between them, heavy, like the suffocating pressure of a storm that hasn’t yet broken. His lips part, his breath shallow. There’s anger in his eyes now, dark and cold, like a slow-burning fuse.

“You really think you can walk away from this?” he growls.

She doesn’t flinch, but her chest tightens with something she can’t quite control. “I don’t think, I know.”

His eyes narrow, and in one sharp motion, he shoves her back into the stool, hands gripping her shoulders, locking her in place. She gasps, but doesn’t make a sound. His fingers dig in, bruising, as if he’s trying to force her into submission with sheer will.

“You think you can just leave me after all of this?” His voice cracks, rough with frustration. “After everything I’ve donefor you?” His grip tightens as his anger spills over, the fury in his gaze raw and jagged.

She pushes at his chest with her palms, but he doesn’t move.

“Let go of me, Price.” Her voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation, no second thoughts. She means it. But the way he stares at her, like he’s trying to see inside her, is almost worse than the physical pressure.

“No,” he snarls. “You’re mine, and you don’t get to walk away from me. Not like this.”

Before she can protest, he’s kissing her again—harder, more punishing, taking her mouth with a demand she can’t refuse. His lips are rough, his tongue insistent, and her body reacts on instinct, her hands clawing at his chest to push him away.

But he only pulls her closer, slamming her back against the counter with such force that the plates clatter, the sound deafening in the otherwise silent kitchen. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she freezes for a moment, too stunned to move.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re not just fucking lying to yourself,” he says between kisses, voice hoarse with desperation.

She presses her palms flat against his chest, trying to push him away again, but this time he doesn’t give in. Instead, he yanks her by the wrists, spinning her around so she’s facing the counter, her body pressed flush against his.

“You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers into her ear, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Her breathing is ragged now, chest heaving with frustration, a mixture of anger and desperation swirling inside her. But her body betrays her again. She wants this. Needs it. Even if it’s suffocating. Even if she’s losing herself in it.

His hands move to her waist, tugging at the waistband of her pants, but she stops him with a forceful hand on his chest.

“I’m done,” she grits out, voice strained. “I’m done with this. With you.”

He freezes, his hands tightening for a moment before he pulls back, forcing her to meet his gaze. His chest is rising and falling with ragged breaths, his eyes dark with a mix of anger and something else—something much worse. He’s trembling now, barely holding on.

“You’re not done with me,” he says, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “You think you can just walk away and leave me behind? You can’t.”

She turns her head away, eyes brimming with frustration. “I’m not the same person I was when we started this, Price. I’m not yours anymore.”

The words cut him deeper than anything else could. His face hardens, jaw clenched, and in that moment, he looks like a man on the verge of losing everything.

“Then why the fuck are you still here?” he asks, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.

She doesn’t answer, her silence enough to send him over the edge. With a growl, he spins her back around, slamming her body against the counter once more. His hands are everywhere—gripping, pulling, pressing against her like he’s trying to consume her. His lips crash against hers again, desperate and possessive, as if he can’t fathom the idea of losing her.

But she’s already slipping away. Mentally, emotionally. She just doesn’t know how to pull herself back.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

I need to know what happens next in 'soap fucked prices daughter' please it gave me brainworms and i need to know

ask and ye shall receive...this time.

INT. 141 COMMON AREA – LATER

Soap slams the door behind him and leans against the wall, panting like he just barely escaped a lion’s den. His hair’s a mess. His soul has left his body.

Gaz strolls in like he owns the place, still grinning.

Gaz: “You alright, lover boy?”

Soap: (dead inside) “He’s gonna kill me. I saw it in his eyes. That man was calculating my death in real time.”

Gaz: “Well… maybe he’ll be distracted by the mental image of you climbing his daughter like a jungle gym.”

Soap groans and throws a pillow at him.

Ghost enters silently, as he always does. Looks at them. Blinks once.

Ghost: (casual) “You’re the one who shagged Price’s daughter, right?”

Soap: (yelping) “How the hell did you find out?!”

Ghost: “It’s all over base. Heard she called you ‘Sir’ and you cried.”

Gaz: (wheezing) “He did cry. A little. Right before he told Price she was ‘a demon in bed.’”

Ghost: “...Impressive. Stupid. But impressive.”

Soap: (burying his face in his hands) “I was a dead man before. Now I’m a meme.”

EXT. BASE – EVENING

Soap’s walking toward the barracks when he sees her—Price’s daughter—leaning against the wall in a hoodie and boots, arms crossed, watching him.

He freezes like a guilty raccoon in headlights.

Her: “You told my dad?”

Soap: (panicked) “No! I told a man, who I didn’t know was your dad, and then your dad turned into your dad after the fact!”

She squints. Trying not to smile.

Her: “So… you told Captain Price that I was, quote, ‘the best ride since the Triumph Rocket III?’”

Soap groans. Soap: “Okay, who is leaking my quotes?!”

She walks toward him. Slowly. Teasing.

Her: “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re panicking.”

Soap: “I’ve aged ten years today. Price threw a chair out a window. I think I’ve been disowned and I’m not even related.”

She finally reaches him, smirking. Her: “You really think it was top three?”

Soap: (blinking, hopelessly lost in her now) “...Top one. Don’t tell your dad.”

She leans in—like she might kiss him—then just pats his cheek with a wicked grin.

Her: “Too late.”

She walks off.

Soap stares after her, hands on his hips, muttering to himself.

Soap: “I’m gonna die with an erection. That’s how this ends.”

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

EXFIL -04 | Pairing: Captain Price x Sgt!Reader

They’re back on base by sunrise. The sky is the kind of gray that settles in your bones, bleeds into your thoughts. The med bay smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Alex is getting patched up behind a privacy curtain—fractured ribs, dehydration, a mess of untreated wounds. But he’s alive.

She hasn’t left the bench outside the curtain.

Her hands are still dirty.

Blood under her fingernails.

She can feel Price before she hears him—his presence moves like a storm. Heavy boots across tile. The hallway empties.

He stops in front of her. Arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You didn’t answer your comms.”

She looks up, expression unreadable. “Was a little busy.”

He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s biting down on something sharp. “You disobeyed a direct order.”

“I followed the intel.”

“You ran,” he says. “Blind. Into an unsecured wing.”

“I found him,” she snaps, voice cracking. “He was in a cell, John. A cell. After a year of thinking he was dead.”

Price’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We all thought he was dead. You’re not the only one who lost something.”

She flinches like he struck her.

But still—she holds his gaze. That same quiet, aching look. The one she always gives him. The one that still hopes there’s a man buried underneath all that steel.

“You lied to me,” she says. It’s soft. Broken. “You told me there was no chance he made it.”

“There wasn’t,” Price says flatly. “Not with the blast radius. Not with the intel we had.”

“But you didn’t leave room for doubt.”

“I did what I had to,” he says. “So you’d move on. So you’d stay focused.”

She rises to her feet slowly, still a few inches shorter, still looking up at him. Her voice barely holds steady.

“You did it to keep me tethered to you.”

His silence is answer enough.

The curtain shifts behind her, and Alex’s voice comes out—hoarse, but strong. “Everything okay out there?”

She turns.

She doesn’t look back at Price.

“I’ll be right there,” she calls.

And then she’s gone—slipping behind the curtain, disappearing into the soft blue light of the med bay. Back into the arms of a ghost.

Price stays standing in the empty hall, the weight of her absence somehow heavier than her presence ever was.

Alex is propped up in the med cot, back braced against thin pillows, one leg gone beneath the blanket where the bandages end in emptiness. His hair is slicked back now—someone must’ve handed him a comb—and the sharp angles of his face are clearer without the grime and blood. He looks older, more worn, but still him. Still Alex.

She steps into the space and closes the curtain behind her.

For a second, all she can do is stare. Like if she blinks, he might vanish.

“You gonna say something,” he murmurs, “or just keep looking at me like I crawled out of your dreams?”

Her lips twitch, but don’t quite smile. She walks over slowly, sits down at the edge of the cot and runs her hand up the blanket until she reaches his chest. Flat palm. Over his heart.

“I keep thinking,” she says softly, “that maybe this is a trick. A punishment.”

Alex huffs a low breath. “For what?”

“For moving on. For trying to be okay.”

His hand finds hers. He’s warm, solid.

“I wanted to be mad at you,” she says. “For not surviving. For not… coming back sooner.”

“That makes two of us,” he says, eyes flicking down to where his leg used to be. “I woke up in a cage. Had to learn how to live all over again with half my body and no idea if anyone even thought I was alive.”

“I thought you were dead,” she whispers. “They told me you were gone.”

“I know. He told you.”

She doesn’t argue. She can’t. Her gaze drops to their joined hands.

“I won’t let them take you from me again,” she says, barely louder than the hum of the fluorescent lights. “Even if I have to burn it all down. I’ll get you back—for good this time.”

Alex blinks like he doesn’t believe he heard her right. But she’s already shifting closer, curling into the space beside him, head on his shoulder, her fingers never letting go of his.

And he lets her.

Lets her stay close.

Lets her mean it.

Outside the curtain, boots pass. Voices low and clipped.

But inside, it's just the two of them. Survivors, barely pieced together. Wanting something neither of them knows how to ask for.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

EXFIL -03 | Pairing: Captain Price x Sgt!Reader

The ride in is silent except for the rotor blades. Darkness presses in through the open bay door of the helicopter, wind whipping through and carrying the cold scent of foreign earth and something metallic.

She sits between Ghost and Gaz, helmet on, comms crackling faintly in her ear. Rifle across her lap, safety off. Her fingers twitch against the grip—nerves, not fear. She’s trained, capable, hardened by more than she cares to admit.

Across from her, Price watches her. Like always.

She meets his eyes, and for a second, she lets the mask slip. That softness in her gaze isn’t fear—it’s something more fragile. A flicker of longing. Hope, even. Like she’s silently asking: are you still in there?

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once, like he’s giving silent permission.

When they land, they’re ghosts slipping through shadow. The compound is dead quiet save for a few patrols, easily dispatched. The team splits—Soap and Ghost sweep the north side. Price takes Gaz to breach the server room. She goes with them.

It's clean. Too clean.

"Clear," Gaz mutters as they move through rusted corridors and flickering lights.

The air is thick with damp and rot. She moves in silence, heart thudding, scanning corners, watching doors. But there’s a tension she can’t name building in her chest. Something’s off.

Price gestures her forward, motioning to a control room at the end of the hall. “Pull the drive,” he says. “We’ll cover.”

She moves quickly, setting her rifle aside as she plugs the extraction tool into the server. The screen flickers to life.

Encrypted logs. Archived feeds.

Then a folder pings open on its own.

"KELLER_04-06"

She stares at it, pulse spiking. Hesitates.

Click.

A video loads. Grayscale. Grainy footage of a concrete cell. A man is hunched on the floor, shirtless, chained at the wrists. Blood smeared down his back.

At first, she doesn’t believe it.

She leans closer.

Then he looks up, just slightly.

Blonde hair, matted with sweat. A busted mouth. But the eyes—those eyes. Sharp and alive, even through pain. They cut straight through her.

Alex.

She stumbles back like she’s been hit. The tool disconnects. The feed blinks out.

Price notices immediately. “What did you see?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s shaking. Her mouth opens—then closes.

“Hey.” Price’s voice sharpens. “What did you see?”

“I—I think… I think Keller’s alive.”

The name lands like a gunshot in the narrow hallway.

Gaz turns sharply. “No fucking way.”

“Where?” Price demands.

She can’t lie. Not about this.

“There’s a holding cell in the east wing. It looked recent. Footage is dated last week.”

Price’s face hardens, jaw ticking. He grabs his radio. “Ghost, Soap—redirect. We may have a prisoner in east block. Coordinates coming.”

Her legs move before her brain does. Toward the east wing. Toward him.

She knows she shouldn’t. Knows she’s just intel, not a soldier. But she can’t stop.

She has to see him.

She doesn’t feel her legs anymore. She just runs.

Voices shout behind her—Ghost, maybe Gaz—but she tunes them out. Her heart is a hammer in her chest, blood roaring in her ears. The hallway turns cold, lit by flickering overheads. Rust creeps up the walls. She knows this kind of place. Black site. Forgotten by the world.

She rounds the last corner.

And stops.

There’s a cell at the end. No guards. The door’s ajar.

Her fingers tremble as she lifts her rifle, stepping forward slowly, breath ragged. She pushes the door open.

It creaks.

Inside, it smells like iron and rot and sweat. There's a single man, curled near the far wall in a puddle of shadow. He's barely more than a silhouette—head low, ribs rising slow and shallow.

"Alex?" she whispers.

The man flinches.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head.

And everything inside her shatters.

It's him.

His face is sunken, bruised, the beard patchy and overgrown. But his eyes—those eyes—they meet hers like a spark hitting gasoline.

She drops her rifle.

She’s on him in an instant, knees slamming the floor, hands cupping his face, fingers trembling over bruises and scabs.

“Alex—Alex,” she breathes, over and over, as if saying his name will keep him here, tether him to her.

His hands rise, weak but certain, gripping her wrists.

“Hey,” he croaks. A ghost of a smile on his face. “Thought I was hallucinating again.”

Her breath catches in a sob. “You’re alive.”

“I think so,” he rasps. “Unless heaven’s got your voice.”

She breaks.

She buries her face in his chest and sobs, full-bodied and guttural, her hands clutching him like she could fold him into her skin. Like maybe if she holds him tight enough, time will rewind and none of this will have happened.

His arms—shaky, trembling—wrap around her.

Neither of them speak.

Because what is there to say when a dead man comes back to life? When your heart starts beating in someone else’s chest again?

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

EXFIL -02 | Pairing: Captain Price x Sgt!Reader

The briefing room buzzes with quiet tension, the kind that comes before something big. Maps, satellite images, and personnel files scatter the long table. A digital board displays a looping drone feed—an abandoned factory compound deep in hostile territory. No one speaks unless necessary.

She’s seated at the far end, hands folded tightly in her lap as she listens. A folder rests in front of her, untouched. She already knows the contents by heart—classified documents, communication intercepts, field recon photos. Her intel is what got them here, and now she has to watch it all unfold.

Price stands near the screen, arms crossed, his voice low and authoritative as he walks the team through the mission. He doesn't look at her once.

“Primary objective’s intel retrieval. Secondary—hostile capture, if possible. We’re assuming presence of a command node here.” He taps the screen. “We move at 0200. Quiet, fast, clean.”

She nods like the rest of them, keeping her expression unreadable. But every time his eyes sweep the room, her posture stiffens, just slightly. He speaks with calm control, but she can still feel last night’s touch on her skin—his lips, his breath, the weight of his hand at her back. She doesn’t flinch, but it’s there, in the way her jaw locks a second too long.

Gaz leans over, quietly. “You good?”

She forces a smile, nodding. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He believes her. They all do. She’s always been good at staying composed, at pretending everything’s fine.

The room empties slowly after the briefing. She’s one of the last to leave, pausing by the table to gather her things. When Price approaches, her back goes rigid, and for a moment, she pretends she doesn’t notice.

“You missed a detail,” he says quietly, close behind her. Not accusatory. Not gentle, either.

She looks over her shoulder. “What?”

“Intercepted call last week.” He slides a paper across the table—a transcript of a coded message. “Could be chatter about a prisoner.”

Her heart skips.

She reads it quickly. The language is vague, but there’s a mention of a name—K. A string of coordinates. Another holding site?

Her fingers tremble, but she hides it by tightening her grip.

“You want me on it?” she asks, eyes still on the paper.

He leans in, close enough for her to feel his breath again. “You’re already on it.”

She finally looks up at him. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze lingers too long—just like it always does.

He brushes a hand down her arm in passing as he walks away, nothing more than a casual gesture to anyone watching.

But she feels it for minutes after he’s gone.

She stares at the transcript, mind racing. The initial mission was about arms shipments. This… this is something else.

And buried somewhere in her gut is a feeling she doesn’t want to name yet.

A name she hasn’t thought about in months, because she couldn’t. Because it would hurt too much.

Alex.

She shakes it off. Focuses. Folders. Gear. Next op. Same routine. But the feeling won’t leave. And tomorrow, when they breach that compound, everything will start to unravel.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Merhaba!! Hemen konuya gireceğim, yazdığınız şeylerin adını bilmiyorum ama devamına İHTİYACIM var😭🙏🏻🙏🏻

I understood that well! lolll (Google translate tells me this is praise so glad you liked it thank you!!! All parts to "LOCKJAW" posted now!)

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

EXFIL- 01 | Pairing: Captain Price x Sgt!Reader

The room is dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and lingering heat. Price, sprawled across the bed, lets out a contented sigh, running a hand through his hair as she sits up beside him. She doesn't look at him—her gaze drifts towards the floor as she grabs her robe from the chair and drapes it over her shoulders.

Price speaks first, low and commanding, "Get me a cigar, love."

She doesn’t look at him as she crosses the room to the dresser, fingers brushing over the cigars. She doesn’t need to ask which one he wants; she’s already reached for it. His expectations are her commands. She picks it out and hands it to him, her eyes never quite meeting his.

Price lounges against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths as he exhales a cloud of smoke from the cigar, already between his fingers. He watches her carefully, his gaze lingering on her movements. “You always know how to please me, don’t you?” His voice is low, almost teasing, but there’s no affection in the way he says it. It’s more of a statement than a compliment.

She sits back down in his lap without a word, positioning herself carefully but not too comfortably. She’s close, but not too close, still within his reach, as always. His hand comes to her neck, pulling her closer for a moment before his lips press gently against the soft skin there. He kisses her slowly, almost as if savoring the control he holds over her, before letting her pull away slightly.

"You're so obedient." His voice is soft, but there's an edge to it. She forces a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The discomfort lingers, but she hides it well—just enough to keep him satisfied.

She shifts in his lap, her body tense, fingers tightening around the fabric of her robe as she looks down at his chest instead of meeting his gaze. His eyes never leave her, though, like he’s studying her, reading her every movement.

“You’re always looking up at me, aren’t you? Makes you seem so small, like you don’t even realize it.” He smirks, taking a slow drag from his cigar and blowing the smoke out in a steady stream. His free hand comes to her neck again, his thumb brushing over her skin as he speaks. Another kiss, this one pressed softly to her temple, his lips lingering for a second too long. “But I suppose it suits you. You’re better when you’re at my mercy.”

She doesn't respond immediately, her fingers still twisted tightly in the fabric of her robe. She feels him close, but she still looks away. The weight of his presence makes her breath catch in her chest, and she wants to escape the intensity of it.

He doesn't give her a chance to escape, though, his lips trailing down her neck to the delicate skin beneath her ear. “You know you’ll never leave this, right? No matter how many times you say you will.” The words are laced with a dark affection, his kiss turning possessive as his teeth graze her skin lightly. “You’re too good at this. You’ll always come back.”

She forces her lips into a smile again, but it's thin, a reflection of what she knows she’s expected to do, not what she’s feeling. “Just doing what you told me to do...” Her voice is small, barely audible, and she immediately looks down again, not daring to meet his eyes.

He chuckles softly, his fingers trailing up her spine as he exhales a puff of smoke. His lips move to her neck again, this time brushing against her skin with a quiet possessiveness, as if claiming her. “I know you are, sweetheart. I know.” He pulls her closer, his hand resting lightly on her back, the touch reassuring in its familiarity, yet never tender.

"Don’t worry, darling," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to her neck, this time lingering longer. "You’ll always get what you want as long as you remember who’s in charge."

She doesn’t respond. She can’t. There’s nothing to say, nothing to do. Her discomfort isn’t loud enough to interrupt the rhythm between them—just a quiet hum beneath her skin, something that’s been there for so long it almost feels like it belongs. He leans in close, his lips brushing her ear as he whispers, “But you like it this way, don’t you? You're better when you’re mine.”

The kiss on her neck is deeper this time, a possessive press against her skin, and she shudders despite herself.

She doesn't pull away.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Soap fucked the Captain's Daughter

INT. CAPTAIN PRICE’S OFFICE – NIGHT

The mood is serious. Dimly lit. The tension is thick. Captain Price stands behind his desk, hands braced on the wood, jaw clenched. Gaz sits in a chair off to the side, wide-eyed, sensing danger. Soap is grinning like a schoolboy who just got away with skipping class. He’s recounting something—animated, smug, proud.

SOAP Mate, you should’ve seen her. Bloody firecracker. Had me gasping for air. Not to be crass, Cap, but let’s just say—she's might be stronger than me. She's a beast, I’ll tell you that.

GAZ (eyes widening) Johnny, shut up.

SOAP What? What?! I'm just sayin’—I’ve never been folded like that in my life. She said she was into military guys and I was like "say less."

GAZ (horrified) Soap—

PRICE (very, very quiet) Her name?

SOAP Uh… [Y/N]. [Y/N] Price.

PRICE (pause. calm. too calm) [Y/N]. Price?

SOAP Yeah, mate. Brunette. Killer smile. Cute little tattoo on her hip that says—wait… (he freezes, blinking) …Price?

GAZ(whispers) Oh my God.

PRICE (face turning red, voice rising) You slept with my daughter?!

SOAP (panicking) Wait—wait wait wait, hold on! Your daughter daughter?!

PRICE (yelling now) YOU BRAGGED TO ME ABOUT IT. IN DETAIL.

SOAP I didn’t know she was YOUR kid! I thought she was just a civvy! A hot civvy! She didn’t say anything!

PRICE She called me DAD, you absolute muppet!

GAZ (screaming from the chair) I told you to shut up, Johnny!!

SOAP (trying to recover) I—I can explain! It was mutual! It was passionate! It was respectful! I saluted her—twice!

PRICE (roaring) YOU'RE DEAD, MACTAVISH!

Price starts circling the desk like a bull who’s just been let out the gate. Soap starts backing toward the door, hands up.

SOAP Sir! Sir! Captain! Let’s talk about this like grown—AH!—

Price lunges. Soap bolts. Gaz leans back, takes a sip from the water bottle on Price’s desk, and sighs.

GAZ They are never gonna live this down in briefing tomorrow.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Below the Mask| simon "ghost" riley

You never understood the hype around Ghost.

He was quiet. Rigid. All black gear and that damn skull mask. The kind of man you nod at in passing and hope doesn’t acknowledge you, because if he does, it’s usually just a grunt or a stare sharp enough to slice skin. And yet—somehow—everyone wanted him.

Soap joked about Ghost having a fan club. Said women slid into his DMs just from hearing his voice on comms. The others called him “enigmatic.” Mysterious. Sexy.

You called him emotionally constipated.

So no—you didn’t get it. You weren’t interested. He wasn’t even your type.

Until the day he saved your life.

Until the day you saw how he moved—fluid and brutal, dropping bodies like a ghost in the dark—and then turned to you like you were the only thing worth looking at. Until the way he grabbed your arm, steady and warm, his voice low in your ear: “Stay behind me.”

That was the first crack.

The second came weeks later. On a stakeout, the two of you crammed in a cold abandoned apartment, watching a warehouse through grimy glass. For hours, he said nothing—until he did.

“You snore,” he muttered, deadpan, eyes still on the window. You turned, blinking. “Excuse me?” He cut you a glance. “Last op. You do this little… choking sound. Like a dying pigeon.” You laughed despite yourself. “I do not.” “Do.” His tone didn’t change, but you could feel the smirk behind the mask.

That was when you started watching him differently. Listening. Noticing how his hands flexed when he was focused. How he only ever stood between you and a potential threat. How that fucking mask made it impossible to read him—and somehow, that made him more dangerous.

Still, you kept your distance. Told yourself it was just curiosity. Boredom. The mind playing tricks.

Until the op in Prague.

Everything went to hell—ambush, tight hallways, blood on your sleeve. You got separated from the team, backed into a stairwell, breath ragged, gun shaking. And then—Ghost. Kicking in the door. Wrapping an arm around your waist and dragging you to safety. The two of you slammed into the wall of an empty room, chest to chest, hearts pounding.

“Fuck,” you breathed, trying to steady yourself.

His hand gripped your waist. Tight. His eyes pinned you like a blade to a throat.

“You alright?” You nodded. He didn’t let go.

The tension crackled. You could hear your own pulse. And then—His hand slid to your throat. Not choking. Not threatening. Just resting there. Dominant. Heavy. Like he was claiming something. And you didn't stop him.

Didn’t stop him when his body pressed harder into yours. When his thigh shoved between yours. When his forehead dropped against yours, masked, but close enough to feel the heat of his breath.

“You sure?” he asked, voice frayed at the edges.

You nodded. Whispered, “Keep the mask on.”

And that’s when everything made sense.

The obsession. The attention. Because from underneath him—from the floor, breathless, back arching as his hips rolled into yours with brutal precision—it wasn’t about seeing his face. It was about the way he fucked like he didn’t need words. Like he could devour you without saying a single thing.

The mask was part of it. The mystery. The anonymity. The intensity.

And you? You crumbled beneath it.

Now, you look at him differently. Now you feel that stare like a brand. Now, when Soap teases you about Ghost’s “charm,” all you do is smirk.

Because you know the truth.

The view from underneath him is enough to ruin you. And some part of you—dark and unrepentant—wants to stay ruined.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

A NOTE ON WARFARE

I haven't been able to stop thinking about this movie since I saw it last week. It tells an important story from a polarizing and painful time in U.S. history. What really stuck with me was the intention behind making it—it sheds light on a side of the military brotherhood and male relationships that's rarely seen publically. The love and care these men have for one another, even after everything they endured is deeply moving.

I appreacited the filmmaker's decision to take a cut-and-dry, matter-of-fact approach rather than leaning into stylized, Hollywood-style war propaganda.

I'm not posting this to sway your opinon one way or another, but to highlight the humanity at the heart of the story. The film is undeniably political but what stands out most is the love, loyalty, and bond people can build with each other, even in the darkest moments.

To speak more specifically to what relates to me—I think fanfiction around this movie should be limited to the actors and the making of the film. Writing about being on set, the press tour, or behind-the-scenes moments feels more appropriate given the subject matter.

What I don't think is right is using the real-life people portrayed in the film as characters for fanfiction. These aren't fictional characters—they're real individuals who lived through unimaginable trauma.

I won't pretend the actors aren't attractive or that they dont look good in the movie—let's be real, men in uniform will always be hot—but there's a difference between admiring an actor and romanticizing a real person's sufferieng because someone you find attractive is playing them.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

SOAPYYYY I don't even know where to start, I love your writing so much, the series was incredible, the story was so well written, I could go on forever!?!?!!!!!

congratulations on the 700 followers🥳🥳

yaaaayyyyyyy thankyou thankyou thank you!!!!!!!! so happy you enjoyeedddddd!

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

THANK YOU!

Thank you so much for 700 followers like what??????????????? I'm so glad you all enjoyed/are enjoying my lockjaw fic. I pinned the masterlist will all parts so lmk what you think. I'm working on reacitng to all you comments. It means sooooo much to me you all love it and killer/lockjaw esp she so important to me.

I want to take cod requests now!!!! SO lmk what you want me to write!!!!

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

SOAPY!!! happy ending NEOW!!!😭😭😭😭 (jk but will you ever make an alive!soap au with Killer?😞😞)

HAPPY ENDING NEVERRRR! I'll deff make an alive!soap au but with killerrrr (aka Lockjaw) idk?????????

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

You have me crying at 6 am with that new part. Your writing is so good and im like flabbers? Ghasted. Tears? Falling. Angst? Hurts but in such a delicious way oh boy

LMAOOO SORRYYYYYYY!!!! I MISS SOAPY!