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And like what if I remastered “Lockjaw” 🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨 like if I had a better story idea now and posted a rewrite 🧐🧐🧐🧐🧐🧐 what would you guys do???? 🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔

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Soap x Dancer!Reader

The lights in the club were low, the bass heavy in your chest as you smoothed down the little skirt they gave you for the night. It wasn’t always bad—some nights, you actually liked the work. The attention, the music, the power you had walking into that private room in heels taller than most men’s confidence.

But tonight? You were tired.

Still, work was work. And whoever had paid for this private session wasn’t just anybody. The bouncer told you he was military, loaded with cash, and built like a truck.

When you pushed open the door to the velvet-lit private room, you saw him. Sitting back, relaxed, legs spread wide like he owned the place—strong thighs in dark jeans, a black tee stretched across his chest, and a scruffy, charming smile under that ridiculous mohawk. His blue eyes tracked you like he could see right through the make-up, the outfit, the whole act.

You started your routine anyway—swaying your hips, running your hand down your side, giving him a slow, teasing turn.

He raised a hand, flashing cash. “Stop, lass.”

You blinked. No one ever said stop.

He stood, walking over, holding out folded hundreds. “I’m payin’. Just want to talk.”

Your stomach dipped. Talking? Great. A ‘nice guy’ type who thinks he’s rescuing you. You sighed softly and reached for the money, but he gently pressed it into your palm like it was meant for you.

“Please. Sit wi’ me. I could use the company more than the view.”

Curiosity won over annoyance. You sank onto the couch opposite him, eyeing him. “You come here... to talk?”

He gave you a sheepish grin, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Aye. I’ve been in the field too long. Need to hear a real voice. Someone who’s not armed to the teeth or screamin’ at me.”

Something in his tired eyes made you pause. You tucked your legs beneath you and tilted your head. “Rough job?”

His smile faded into something softer. “Task Force 141. You’ve heard of it?”

You shook your head.

“Good. Means we’re doin’ it right.” He leaned back, exhaling. “We see things no one should. Blood. Betrayal. Friends who don’t come back.” His accent got thicker when he was tired, voice lower. “Sometimes... I wonder what the point is. Why I fight so hard if the world’s this broken.”

For a moment, the room felt a thousand miles from the pounding club outside. It was just you and this war-torn soldier, spilling quiet truths like they’d been choking him for years.

“I get it,” you said softly. “I dance because it pays the rent. But... some nights I wonder if I’m just performing for ghosts.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Like you weren’t the dancer, the showgirl in glitter and heels, but a person.

“You’re worth more than this, y’know.”

You gave him a tiny smile. “So are you.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. For a moment, he hesitated—battle-hardened restraint meeting something warmer. But then his hand brushed your knee.

“Let me kiss you, lass.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur. “Just... somethin’ real before I go back to hell.”

You leaned in before you could stop yourself, catching his mouth with yours. He tasted like whiskey and mint, warm and desperate, his hand cradling the side of your face as he kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For listenin’. For this.”

You smirked, breathless. “You paid for the room. You got your money’s worth.”

He grinned, thumbing your cheek. “You’ve no idea how priceless you are, bonnie.”

And when he left—slipping out into the dark, dangerous world you knew he’d return to—you found another crisp bill tucked under your thigh.

A tip. For listening. For mattering.

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Yard Work | Price x Reader

The summer sun was beating down hot and heavy, making the grass smell sweet and the sweat roll down your back as you tugged another bag of mulch across the yard. You bent over to grab it properly—hips shifting, back arched without thinking—and behind you came the low rumble of a familiar voice.

“Love…” Price drawled from the porch, his shadow stretching long across the dirt, “you’re gonna kill me if you keep bending over like that.”

You glanced over your shoulder, smirking. He was leaning against the post, arms crossed, watching you with that slow-burning look that made your stomach flip. His cap was pulled low over his brow, beard catching the light, and his eyes—God, those eyes—dragged over you like they owned every inch.

“I thought you were supposed to be helping,” you teased, wiping the sweat from your brow, the thin tank you wore sticking to your back.

“I was,” he said lazily, straightening, “but then you started putting on a show.” His boots crunched on the dirt as he came closer, big, warm hands sliding low around your hips as he tugged you gently upright, chest against your back. “You know I should be lifting that for you.”

“I can handle it, Captain,” you said softly, grinning as you felt his nose brush your temple.

“Mm. I don’t doubt you, love. But you make it real hard to focus on the yard when you’re sweatin’, bendin’ like that.” His voice dropped lower, the scrape of his beard grazing your cheek. “Gonna have to drag you back inside if you keep teasing me like this.”

You laughed, feeling his arms tighten just a little. “What about the yard?”

“Sod the yard,” he murmured. “I’ve got better things to handle. Like you.”

The bag of mulch hit the dirt with a soft thud, forgotten completely.

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Every time you post about soap an angel gets its wings <33 (fr tho the way you characterize him is so??? Im in love??? I rotate him around in my mind like a blender file. I can see all angles. He's the antithesis of flat. Never stop writing <3)

- @rawme-price

aaaahhhhhhhh thank youuuu!!!! i honestly listen to angel by pinkpantheress and think of johnny LOLLLLL (i wish Scottish people were real)

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You bastard for no part two of tactical but quiet love Johnny *melts* stop it (more more more more more more feral growls* I’m ok.

I love you.

freak of the week! (you better love me)

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Being with Johnny MacTavish felt like stepping into something bigger than you. He was older, more grounded, had seen things that gave his smile that edge—like he knew the punchline to a joke you hadn’t caught on to yet. And he never rubbed it in your face, not really. He just watched you with those steel-blue eyes, arms crossed, letting you talk yourself into trouble before stepping in and pulling you back with a muttered, “You're cute when you think you're in control, you know that?”

He never made you feel small. He made you feel young. There was a difference. You could be bratty, pushy, impulsive—and he'd let you have your little fire until it burned out, then reel you in with a firm hand on your lower back and a low, amused, “Alright, love. You done now?” He never yelled. He didn’t need to. His voice could drop just an inch and your legs would lock up with instinct alone.

He took care of you without making a show of it. You’d wake up and find your car filled with gas. Your kitchen stocked. The lightbulb you forgot to change—fixed. He never asked for credit, just gave you a look when you thanked him like, Why wouldn’t I? It made your chest ache a little. That quiet kind of love, the one that said: I see what you need even when you won’t say it.

Sometimes you’d try to test him. Act like you weren’t affected. Like he didn’t have you wrapped around his finger. But he’d catch your wrist mid-sentence, lean in, and say something soft in that gravelly accent—something like, “You can keep playin’ if you want, but I already know how this ends.” And it always ended the same way: you, breathless, underneath him, wondering how a man could be so gentle with his hands and so filthy with his mouth.

And when he held you afterward, it was like the rest of the world didn’t matter. You’d press your ear to his chest and listen to the steady thump of his heart, his rough fingers tracing lazy lines along your back. “Y’know,” he’d murmur, voice heavy with sleep, “you make me feel young again too.” And it didn’t matter that he was older, or that he’d seen more of the world. You were his peace. His trouble. His girl.

And he was your anchor. Solid. Unshakable. A little bit dangerous—and exactly where you always wanted to come home to.

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Gahhhhh part two of Tactical Porn. Omg this sexy cocksure Soap? I die. No I can’t have him be that hot and that smooth. Nonononoooooooo

REALLLLLLLLL 🤣 (i'm 🤣 probably 🤣 not 🤣 gonna 🤣 write 🤣 a 🤣part 🤣 two 🤣) 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

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just read «Tactical Porn». spectacular. give me 14 (chapters) of em’. obsessed

real. like why was he so hot???? all I did was write him a little older and drool over his muscles. it never ends with this guy. Well it does, but 😗

Tactical Porn

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Tactical Porn | Soap x TF141!Reader

The pub wasn’t packed, but it buzzed with the low thrum of end-of-mission tension finally loosening its grip. You were leaned against the corner of the booth, half a drink too deep, cheeks a little warm, boots scuffed and muddy under the table. Ghost sat across from you nursing a dark ale, Price was at the bar charming the poor bartender for the fourth time that night, and Gaz was telling a story with too many hand gestures and not enough point.

And then—he walked in.

Soap.

Freshly showered, but still wearing his tactical pants, boots laced up tight, black tee stretched across his chest like it was trying to hang on for dear life. Dog tags clinked softly against his chest as he slung his bag down, arm flexing with the movement.

He didn’t notice you watching. Not yet. He was talking to someone from another squad, smiling wide, that same damn smile he used after blowing something up and getting away with it.

You stared. Shamelessly.

“I mean… Jesus Christ,” you mumbled.

Gaz leaned a little closer. “What’s that?”

You blinked, realizing you’d said it out loud. But it was too late now—your drunk mouth was running. Full speed.

“I just don’t get how he exists, you know? Like—how is that man real? Look at his arms. His arms, Gaz.”

Ghost raised a brow, amused. “You alright there, sunshine?”

You waved your hand dismissively, laughing. “I’m just saying! It’s criminal. He’s got that... older guy confidence. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and how you like it—probably doesn’t even have to try.”

Gaz nearly choked on his drink. “Bloody hell, you’re in deep.”

You nodded solemnly. “You ever seen him disarm a bomb? It’s porn. Tactical porn.”

“I’m regretting this conversation,” Ghost muttered, though his eyes were definitely smiling under that mask.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer weight of your thirst, Soap turned. Eyes scanned the room and locked right on you. His smile curled into something sharper, something knowing. He raised a brow.

You went very still.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He definitely heard me.”

Gaz snorted. “He didn’t have to. You’re practically drooling.”

Soap started toward your table, slow and loose, and you suddenly remembered how to panic.

“I hate everyone here,” you muttered under your breath.

“You love it,” Ghost replied.

Soap reached the table, gaze flicking from Gaz to Ghost, and then settling on you. He leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of your seat, voice low and amused.

“Somethin’ you wanted to say to me, bonnie?”

Your mouth went dry. Heat crept up your neck.

“I—uh… I like your shirt?”

Smooth. Nailed it.

He just smirked, voice like velvet and mischief. “That right? Thought I heard something about my arms.”

You buried your face in your hands as the guys lost it around you. Ghost let out an unholy wheeze. Gaz was doubled over.

Soap leaned in even closer, lips brushing your ear. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll give you somethin’ better to look at later.”

He pulled away with a wink and walked off, leaving you red-faced and speechless, the table roaring with laughter.

You were never drinking around the Task Force again.

The barracks were quiet. Most of the squad was still out drinking, laughing off adrenaline and bruises. But you had ducked out early—blaming your headache, or maybe your pride.

You’d hoped he’d forget. You’d prayed he hadn’t heard you go on and on about his arms, his older-guy confidence, the way he disarms bombs like he’s undressing someone. But Soap wasn’t the type to let something like that slide.

You were halfway through changing—jacket off, shirt tugged up over your ribs—when you heard the door creak open.

You froze.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt,” came that familiar voice—low, lilting, amused.

You yanked your shirt back down and turned, heart hammering. Soap leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, hands in his pockets, that smirk already locked and loaded.

“Johnny—”

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. “No need to get shy now, bonnie. You had plenty to say earlier.”

You crossed your arms, trying to fight the heat crawling up your throat. “I was drunk.”

He tilted his head. “Drunk enough to say the truth.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Soap took a slow step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you. His eyes dropped, dragging over your face, your parted lips, the rise and fall of your chest.

“You said I look like I know exactly how you like it,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it.”

He grinned. “Aye, but you do wonder.”

You opened your mouth to snap back—deny it, laugh it off, something—but he leaned down and kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It was precise. Confident. Just like you imagined. His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he angled your head and deepened the kiss until your knees gave just a little.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, breath uneven.

“I was gonna wait,” he said quietly. “Figure you might get nervous. Might think I’m just older and lookin’ for fun.”

You blinked up at him. “Aren’t you?”

His grin turned dangerous. “No. I’ve had fun. What I want now’s a little more than that.”

Your heart flipped, fast and stupid.

He stepped back, letting you breathe, eyes dragging down your frame again—just long enough to make your skin burn.

“Come find me when you stop pretending you don’t want it,” he said, heading for the door. “And next time, love, don’t whisper it in a pub. Say it to me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you just stood there—flushed, breathless, and already aching to chase him down.

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I beg youuuuu, please consider writing a piece with Ghost or someone you deeply love as the focus. Here's the premise:

"The reader (or Y/N) works for KorTac or another organization and is tasked with extracting critical information from Ghost. Y/N’s method is seduction—charming her targets, drawing them in, and coaxing out secrets before finishing the job with a poison-laced blade.

This time, Y/N passionately kisses Ghost, preparing to strike when the moment feels right. Minutes pass, their kiss growing deeper, and she readies her hand to deliver the fatal blow. But something shifts. When she dares to open her eyes, Ghost's expression has changed. He’s smiling—subtle, calculated, like he’s been in control all along.

That’s when she notices it: the cold barrel of a gun pressed firmly against her temple, held steady by Ghost himself. The tension is suffocating.

The punishment for her betrayal? Pure 🔥🔥🔥"

verrrryyyy interesting set up here! i hope this is what you meant!

soap x reader

The kiss was just the beginning.

Soft lips, warm breath, the faint scent of leather and gunpowder still clinging to his skin. Soap tasted like danger and salt, his hands greedy but controlled, gripping her hips with practiced ease. She had him right where she wanted him—or so she thought.

She let herself melt into the kiss, pressing closer, letting her fingers ghost down the line of his neck, trailing over his vest to the concealed sheath at her thigh. The poison was waiting. A swift slice, a soft whisper, and Johnny MacTavish would be just another casualty of war.

But he kissed her like a man starved. Every second made her hesitate—just a moment more, just one more taste. His tongue dragged slow, coaxing, then claiming. Her heart thudded, half from the act, half from the anticipation of what came next.

She opened her eyes. And froze. That smile.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a wolf’s smile—knowing, dangerous, and entirely amused. Her pulse stuttered. And then she felt it.

Cold. Hard. Steel.

The barrel of a gun pressed to her temple. His hand steady. His body still flush with hers, as if the kiss hadn’t stopped.

“I was wonderin’,” Soap murmured against her mouth, accent thick, voice low and electric, “how long you were gonna play this little game.”

Her breath caught.

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in more. The weapon didn’t shake. Neither did he.

“I knew you weren’t here for me,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers, eyes locked on hers with a kind of heat that burned straight through the threat. “Not really. Not the way you pretended.”

Her hand trembled near the knife, and he noticed.

“Ah ah, sweetheart,” he tutted softly, sliding the gun higher so it nuzzled into her temple. “Bad move.”

The tension crackled, thick enough to taste. Her heart slammed against her ribs. He had her. Completely.

“But I’ve got a problem,” he went on, his tone darkly playful, almost cruel in its control. “Y’see… I should kill you.”

The gun shifted. Clicked. “Should end this right here.”

He kissed her again, and this time there was no tenderness. It was dominance incarnate—punishment for her betrayal, payment extracted through heat and humiliation.

“But I don’t think I will,” he growled, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “Not yet.”

The weapon vanished from her temple, but his hands remained—firm, commanding, reminding her of exactly who was in charge now.

“‘Cause now you owe me,” he whispered, his voice all fire and fury wrapped in silk. “And I collect… with interest.”

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Hehehehehe hi!!!! Was wondering if you take requests or not :D

Either way, love your writing?!! 👅👅

freak omg! I do take requests. How copy?

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hii! i just wanted to say i absolutely love your writing! i came across the ghost n reader roommate piece and from there i spiraled into reading (almost) all your other work. i also loved your graves x wife!reader (this is also me saying that if you do decide to write a graves x oc fic i will most definitely be reading it!!! the world needs more graves fics sorry not sorry) !!

YAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY!!! So happy you enjoyeddddd!!! Honestly Graves is what drew me to COD in the first place, until I fell for Soap. If I could have them both I would!

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SORRY I DIDNT SEE YOUR PREVIOUS RESPONSE TO A PT 3 TO PRICES DAUGHTER PLEASE IGNORE 🙏

Good girl…err boy?…,,,,person? thing! Good thing! 😳 (clap everyone, clap)

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Philip Graves x Wife!Reader

Graves was halfway through yelling at a rookie over a botched op report when he heard it—the unmistakable click of high heels on concrete.

He froze. Slowly turned. And there she was.

Hair glossy, sunglasses on indoors, a tight black dress that did not belong on a military base, and those red bottom heels that announced to everyone that someone was about to get their ass handed to them. And not in a sexy way.

“Phillip Dean Graves.”

The rookie took a step back, muttered, “Dead man walkin’,” and made himself scarce.

Graves blinked. “Darlin’, what’re you—”

“You signed our son up for football without asking me.” She took off her sunglasses with the slowness of a Bond villain, glaring at him like she was trying to set his hair on fire with her mind.

Graves cleared his throat. “Now hold on, sugarplum, I didn’t sign him up. I inquired. There’s a difference.”

“You volunteered to coach.”

“Well, I—okay, yes. That part I did.”

She stepped closer. “And you told Coach Murphy that I’d ‘be delighted to bring orange slices every game day.’ Phillip. Do I look like I slice oranges?”

He smiled—nervously. “No, ma’am. You look like you get paid to fire the person who slices your oranges.”

She pointed a manicured finger at him. “Exactly.”

Graves tried the southern charm. Turned it on like a switch. “Now, sweetheart, I know I overstepped. But I just got excited, you know? Our boy out there on the field, me on the sidelines, you in the stands—”

“Wearing heels on grass?”

“Well—yes.”

She folded her arms. “You just decided this without me? Again?”

Graves winced. “I was gonna tell you—”

“Oh? Before or after I showed up at the first game dressed like the Real Housewives of Nowhere, Texas?”

“…that was the plan.”

She glared. “Fix it.”

“But I already ordered the mini jerseys…”

“Phillip.”

“Okay, okay! I’ll call Coach Murphy.” He held up his hands, surrendering. “But I’m tellin’ you right now, baby, the team’s gonna lose without me.”

“They’ll survive.”

He sighed dramatically, then grinned. “Y’know, when you bust in here like that, it does somethin’ to me. Like… disciplinary action, but in a way I enjoy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I will end you.”

“God, I love it when you threaten me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Call. The. Coach.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turned toward his office, muttering, “Can’t wait to marry you all over again in hell.”

“What was that?”

“Nothin’, darlin’. Just, uh, dialin’!”

(He still ends up coaching. She still brings orange slices. But only because their kid asks. And she does wear heels on the field. Red bottoms, naturally.)

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A judgmental officer’s wife sneers slightly as she sizes up Price’s younger girlfriend—dressed in worn denim and a fitted tee, clearly out of place among the polished military spouses. The woman asks with faux innocence: “So… why are you with him? I mean, he’s old enough to be your father. Don’t you want someone who’s, I don’t know, less complicated?”

Price’s girl doesn’t flinch. She sets down her water bottle, meets the woman’s gaze, and answers without hesitation—calm but with a raw kind of loyalty in her voice:

“Because no one’s ever loved me like he does. He’s not easy, no. He’s hard as hell, actually. He’s stubborn, closed-off, rough around the edges—and sometimes I have to remind him how to let someone in. But he’s also the most loyal man I’ve ever met. He’d burn the world down for the people he loves, and he’s never once made me feel like I had to earn his protection. He just gave it without question. He doesn’t do romance the way people expect. But he notices everything—like when I’m overwhelmed, or when I’m pretending I’m okay and I’m not. He won’t say much, but he’ll fix it quietly, in the background. The kind of love he gives—it’s not soft, but it’s steady. And that’s rare. So yeah, he’s toxic sometimes. A lot of history. A lot of ghosts. But he never lies to me. He never makes me feel small. And no one—not a single person—has ever made me feel safer or more seen. That’s why I’m with him.”

She shrugs, tone even, unfazed. “If that’s too complex for you to understand, that’s fine. It’s not for you to get—it’s for me to live.”

The silence that follows says everything.

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And another thing re: toxic boyfriend price, you break up but obviously he doesn't let you leave him. How do you possibly escape from this man? More importantly, why do you want to? You know he's the only one to put up with the total brat you are, so he has to show you that like he thinks you forgot.

You were still pinned against the wall, his hand between your thighs, but instead of melting like you usually did, you gave him a little smirk—lip swollen from his teeth, eyes glittering with mischief.

"You’re getting slow, old man," you taunted, breathless but defiant. "Thought you used to have stamina."

Price’s whole body went tense, eyes narrowing like you’d just declared war.

"What’d you say?" His voice was low, dangerous—but underneath, there was that flicker of heat. That tell.

You grinned wider, pushing at his chest just enough to show you weren’t scared. "I said maybe that new boy I’m seeing could do a better job. You know, someone younger. Someone who doesn’t need a smoke break halfway through—"

You didn’t get the rest out before his hand was back around your throat, squeezing just tight enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"You think this is a fucking game, love?" he snarled, voice rough with barely leashed fury. "You wanna keep running that bratty little mouth?"

Your pulse pounded, heat pooling low in your stomach, because you knew exactly what you were doing—and so did he.

You let your tongue flick out to wet your lips, gaze locked on his. "Maybe I do. What are you gonna do about it, captain?"

His jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking, and then suddenly you were spun around, chest pressed against the wall, his weight pinning you from behind.

"You wanna act like a fucking brat, I’ll treat you like one," he growled, voice hot against your ear. "Always begging for me to put you back in your place, aren’t you? Can’t help yourself."

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as his hips ground into your ass, hard and punishing.

"You like this, don’t you? Like when I get rough with you. Like when I remind you who you fucking belong to."

Your only answer was a breathless, broken moan—and his dark, victorious chuckle.

"That’s what I thought. Mouthy little brat until I’ve got you crying and shaking for me."

His hand slapped against your thigh, yanking it up higher around his waist. "Now beg for it, love. Beg your old man to fuck you better than that pretty boy ever could."

Liiiikeeee, what? I just think if you like really toxic messy guys, toxic Price is the best of the best. UGH.

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I love love love love love love love love love love love your writing as always!!!!

yaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! me tooooooo!!!!!