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Im begging for more phillip graves stuff, you get his personality perfect, chefs kiss 🙏

yaaaayyyyyy!!!!! ok ok back to the barracks!!! ✍🏼 (I LOVE GRAVES!)

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Pair: Soap x Neighbor!Reader

You were leaning up on your toes to kiss your one night stand goodbye by the door when it happened again—timing, or fate, or just shitty neighbor luck.

The door across the hall creaked open, and there he was. Soap. Shirt damp with sweat, his hair matted to his forehead, jacket slung over one broad shoulder as if it weighed nothing. He paused when he saw you. Blinked once. Then that damn smirk.

"Morning," he said, with just the slightest rasp. “Busy night?”

You stiffened slightly, glancing down the hall to make sure your guest had in fact gone. He had. Thank God.

“What makes you say that?” you replied smoothly, leaning on the doorframe, the door halfway closed behind you.

Soap chuckled. “Walls are thin, sweetheart.”

That was how it started. Right there, in the hallway. What was meant to be mortifying somehow twisted into playful. You laughed off his comment, made a snarky remark back. One thing led to another, and suddenly the two of you were leaning against opposite walls, openly discussing favorite positions, kinks, dirty talk, the works. Soap didn’t hold back—didn’t seem like the type to ever hold back. You weren’t exactly innocent, either.

Still, nothing came of it. Just words, playful jabs, that annoying magnetic energy that lingered even after you parted ways.

A couple nights passed. Then it was your turn.

You’d just curled into bed with a book when it started—soft at first, then louder, more rhythmic. His voice, unmistakable, deep and raw and commanding. A woman’s moans followed, high and breathless. And as much as you wanted to be annoyed, you weren’t. If anything… you listened.

Maybe too closely.

You weren’t proud of it, but you sure as hell weren’t gonna lie about how your thighs pressed together by the end of it.

Another few days passed.

You were stepping out again, all dressed up for your second date with your prior one-night stand. Lip gloss shining, dress hugging your hips in all the right places. The elevator dinged, and you turned—

Only to nearly bump right into Soap, back from work, smelling like leather and gunpowder.

He gave you a once-over, slow and deliberate. “Well, damn. Where you headed looking like that?”

You smiled politely. “Second date.”

His brow quirked. “With the loud one?”

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a laugh. “Yes, with the ‘loud one.’”

Soap nodded slowly. Then, just before stepping past you, he paused.

“I don’t think he can fuck you as good as I can.”

The words hit you like a slap—and a slow lick of heat all at once.

You stared. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, not a hint of apology in his tone. “Just saying. I heard you with him. Heard you with me too—or rather, talking about it. And I don’t think he’s got it in him like I do.”

You wanted to deny it, throw some sarcastic quip back at him, but you couldn’t. Not when you’d heard him the other night. Not when you were still thinking about it.

So instead, you murmured, “What am I supposed to do about my date, then?”

Soap leaned in, close enough for you to smell his cologne and sweat and sin.

“Rain check,” he said. “Because tonight? My plan is to fuck you after a long goddamn day.”

You hesitated for half a second. Then you stepped back inside your apartment, grabbing his hand. You didn’t bother turning the lights on. You just backed away, slowly, into the dark of your apartment, eyes fixed on the doorway—on him.

Soap followed. Calm. Confident. Closing the door behind him without ever looking away from you.

“You’re really doing this?” you breathed, half in disbelief, half already aching.

He dropped his bag by the door and stepped forward. “I told you what my plan was.”

You opened your mouth, but your back hit the wall—and then his hands were on your hips, gripping, grounding, dragging you against him like he already owned your next breath.

His lips ghosted your jaw first. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

You swallowed. “About what?”

“My voice. My girl. The way I had her moaning through the walls.”

Your breath hitched.

“Yeah,” he murmured, lips brushing your throat. “I know you did.”

You hated how right he was.

His mouth claimed yours then—no teasing, no easing into it. Just heat and hunger, tongue sliding past your lips like he couldn’t be bothered to ask permission. You melted under him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other tugging at his shirt like you wanted skin and muscle and more.

“Dress off,” he ordered softly.

You stepped back and peeled it off, slow, letting the straps fall one at a time. Letting his eyes trace every inch. He let out a low whistle when it hit the floor.

“Fuck me,” he said under his breath, licking his lips. “Didn’t know I was comin’ home to a goddamn fantasy.”

You rolled your eyes but blushed anyway. “Then hurry up and do something about it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He had you pressed to the wall again, this time his hands roaming, rough palms sliding over your waist, your ass, down your thighs.

“Wanna hear how good you sound up close,” he rasped, fingers slipping past the waistband of your panties. “Bet you’re already soaked.”

You whimpered as he touched you—right.

“Christ,” he growled, two fingers sliding easily against you. “You are. This for your date?”

You shook your head. “For you.”

“Damn right.”

You barely had time to process before he was picking you up—effortless, strong, like he knew you wanted it that way—and carrying you toward the couch. He didn’t even bother stripping himself all the way. Just pushed his pants low enough, teeth clenched with restraint as he lined himself up.

“You sure you want this?” he asked, voice hoarse against your neck.

“Been wanting it since the hallway,” you breathed.

That was all it took.

He pushed in slow, stretching you with a grunt, your breath catching at the delicious pressure. He filled you deep, staying there for a moment, just enough to feel the shudder ripple through your body.

And then he moved.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw—like all that tension, all that teasing between you had finally snapped, and neither of you wanted to waste a second pretending you weren’t starving.

“Fuck—Johnny—” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Say my name again.”

He hit something devastating inside you, and you obeyed.

“Johnny—”

“Louder.”

“Johnny—!”

He didn’t stop until your moans echoed the way his had a few nights ago. Until the couch creaked beneath the rhythm of his hips. Until he had you trembling, unraveling, gripping him like you never wanted him to leave.

And when you finally came—shaking, gasping, helpless—he held you there through it, voice low and filthy in your ear.

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

You were still catching your breath, clinging to his shoulders as aftershocks rolled through you. His forehead rested against yours, both of you slick with sweat, hearts pounding like you’d sprinted through a warzone.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Just breathing.

Then Soap pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Soft. Startlingly gentle after how hard he’d just taken you.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, voice husky but careful.

You nodded against him. “More than alright.”

He chuckled, lips curving against your skin. “Didn’t break you, did I?”

“Not even close,” you teased, though your legs were still shaking where they wrapped around him.

He shifted back, keeping one arm tight around your waist while his other hand smoothed your hair back, tucking a damp strand behind your ear. His gaze flicked over you—face, neck, lips—with something almost… warm.

“You’re still tremblin’,” he murmured. “C’mere.”

You didn’t resist as he lifted you again, carrying you with the same ease over to the couch’s throw blanket, still half-crumpled from earlier. He grabbed it, wrapped it around your shoulders, and sat down with you straddling his lap. He was still half-dressed, but you were bare and enveloped in his warmth now—his hand rubbing soft, idle circles on your back, the other slipping around your waist.

You exhaled into his neck, your body still humming from what he’d done to you. Still drunk on the taste of it.

“Didn’t think you were the cuddly type,” you murmured.

He tilted his head to grin at you, all teeth and heat, but his hand never stopped its gentle rhythm against your spine.

“I’m not,” he said, mock-serious. “This is strictly tactical. Keepin’ your legs from giving out when you try to walk to the shower.”

You laughed softly, hiding your face in his neck.

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Aye, but I’m right.”

He kissed your temple, almost absentmindedly, like he didn’t even register the intimacy of it. You felt your chest ache at the tenderness threading through his earlier cockiness.

After a moment, he leaned back to look at you again—messy, flushed, and still in his lap.

“So,” he said. “Still goin’ on that second date?”

You snorted. “Pretty sure I already did.”

His grin widened. “Hope I made a good impression.”

“You made something,” you muttered, shifting slightly—and making him groan.

“You keep doin’ that and I’ll have to make you another one.”

“Johnny—”

He pulled you closer, voice softening again as he brushed his lips along your cheek.

“Relax, love. You’re not goin’ anywhere tonight. Let me take care of you a bit.”

And just like that, the cocky soldier was gone again—replaced by the man with warm hands, calm eyes, and a firm hold that felt like the safest place you’d ever landed.

And maybe you didn’t mind the sound of his voice through the walls anymore.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Pair: Soap x ExFWB!Reader

[Voicemail — 2:06 AM] CONTACT: Johnny MacTavish Soft chuckle, but there's no humor in it. Saw your post. You and him all wrapped up like it means somethin’. Guess it’s official now, eh? You finally upgraded. Guess I’m just the warm-up act.

Pause. He clears his throat, his voice drops a little. Funny thing is… I remember when you first started seein’ him. Real sweet about it, like you didn’t want to hurt me—but you still showed up at my place with your panties in your pocket and my name on your tongue. You remember that?

You were in my bed between his dates. All that blushing and actin’ shy like you were some good little girl—then ridin’ me like I was your last breath. You think he’d still smile like that in your photos if he knew you were moanin’ for me two nights before he took you to dinner?

Beat. His breathing picks up slightly.

Tell me—does he touch you the way I did? Does he even know what to do with you? Or does he play it safe, slow, sweet… like he doesn’t wanna ruin his perfect little girlfriend?

’Cause I ruined you, love. I made sure of it. Every time I had you cryin’ on my cock, shakin’ in my sheets—I was makin’ it harder for anyone else to ever measure up. I branded you. And you fuckin’ loved it.

Another beat. The sound of shifting fabric, a subtle breath through gritted teeth.

You know what the worst part is? It’s not just the way you looked underneath me, or the things you said when your head was thrown back and your nails were in my back—it’s your voice. The way you said my name when you meant it. When it came out like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He laughs quietly—bitter, breathless. And now I’m sittin’ here, hard as a fuckin’ rock, just thinkin’ about it. About you. About your thighs around my waist. About the way you’d shiver when I said your name right up against your ear. Right before you fell apart.

There’s a pause. Then, slowly, deliberately: My hand’s on my cock now. You did this. Not him. You. Just from thinkin’ about the way you tasted… the way you begged me to keep goin’ even when your legs were shakin’. You remember that night? You said it was the last time—lied right through your teeth—and I still bent you over the sink before you could leave.

Breathing gets heavier, words start to falter slightly between low grunts. Fuck, bonnie… I miss that mouth. That heat. I miss you.

Just come over. One more time. You know you want to. He doesn’t have to know. Let me have you. Let me wreck you for him. You know you’ll be thinkin’ about me anyway when he’s on top of you.

There’s a sudden shift—his voice turns raw, a whisper through clenched teeth as he groans. Jesus Christ… ahh… fuck— Long exhale. Silence. Then a soft, broken laugh. This is so fuckin’ pathetic. What am I doin’? You’re probably listenin’ to this in his bed. This is… this is so fuckin’ embarrassing. Just delete this, yeah?

[Voicemail ends]

[Your phone stays clutched in your hand, screen gone black. You’re still breathing like he’s whispering in your ear. You hate how much you miss his voice. How easily he crawled back under your skin. "One last time," he said. Just one. How bad could it be?]

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"COMMANDER PHILLIP GRAVES IS CIA OPERATIVE RUSSEL ADLER'S SON!!!!!!!!!!!!" I scream as they drag me back to my big white noise-cancelling sensory padded room.

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Pair: Russel Adler x Reader x Phillip Graves

You sensed something was wrong the moment you stepped inside.

The house was clean, orderly, just like Phillip. But it didn’t feel like him. There was a coldness in the air—calculated, deliberate. No warmth in the walls, just a kind of tension that felt older than the paint and stronger than the liquor it carried.

Phillip had a hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the entryway. His voice was careful, like he was preparing you for something he didn’t know how to explain.

“We don’t really do this kind of thing much,” he muttered. “He’s not… the easiest man. But I want you two to meet.”

You smiled, gently, supportively. He deserved a chance at something close to normal, even if he wasn’t sure how to ask for it.

Then came the footsteps. Measured. Heavy. Slow.

And when he stepped into view—when your eyes met his—your blood went ice cold.

Russel.

He stopped dead in the hallway. You froze.

There was a flicker of recognition in his face, gone almost as fast as it came. His brow lifted just slightly, and then the calm returned. Composed. Cool. As if he wasn’t the man who had once gripped your hips and left bruises on your throat in the dark of a hotel room. As if he didn’t remember the way you moaned his name.

But you remembered. And you weren’t built for this kind of stillness.

Your smile slipped, just barely.

Phillip didn’t notice.

He stepped forward, giving Russel a firm, awkward pat on the shoulder in what passed for affection between them.

“Dad—this is my girlfriend,” he said, then turned to you with a proud, easy grin. “Darlin', this is my father—Russel.”

The name hit like a gunshot.

Girlfriend. Father. Russel.

You’d known Phillip was older than you. But not by that much. It had never even occurred to you that the man you spent one reckless, unforgettable night with would be his father.

Russel’s eyes didn’t move from yours. Dark. Controlled. Unreadable. He remembered. Every second. Every sound. Every time you begged.

Phillip pulled out a chair and motioned to the table. “Come on—let’s eat.”

So you sat. Across from the man who once had his mouth on your throat. Beside the man who thought you might be something real. You barely touched your food. Your fork trembled against the plate. Your wine was the only thing you could get down and not fast enough.

Dinner was strained to begin with. After that, it was silent enough to bury a body.

Phillip made the first attempt. “So, uh… you still working at the range?”

Russel took a sip of bourbon, then nodded. “Here and there,” he said. “Picked up a few hobbies lately.”

You didn’t dare ask what kind.

Not when his eyes lingered on you like they had back then—slow, assessing, and deeply familiar.

Phillip noticed. His expression tightened. He looked between the two of you. Something flickered in his face. Something wrong.

“You two… know each other?” he asked, voice cautious.

You answered too quickly. “Yeah—uh, we ran into each other once. At a bar.”

It was the worst lie you’d ever told.

Phillip frowned. “What kind of bar?”

You and Russel spoke at the same time.

“Coffee bar,” you said.

“Whiskey bar,” he said.

Phillip froze.

A beat passed. Then Russel added casually, “She looked familiar. Probably just passed in town.”

It might’ve worked. If your hands weren’t shaking. If your eyes had met Phillip’s. If Russel hadn’t clenched his jaw just a second too late.

Phillip leaned back slowly, staring at his untouched food. His knuckles whitened around his fork.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

You opened your mouth to speak—but he raised his hand. Didn’t want to hear it.

“You fucked my father.”

He wasn’t asking. He was stating.

And just like that, the air was gone from the room.

Russel didn’t defend you. Or himself. He stood, poured another drink, and walked out like he’d just stepped away from a three-car pileup. Quiet. Detached. Unmoved.

Phillip stayed in his seat, jaw clenched, throat working like he was trying not to throw up.

He didn’t look at you. Not until he stood and braced his hands on the table, eyes still locked on the center of his plate.

“Get out.”

“Phillip—”

“Get the fuck out.”

No yelling. No slammed fists. Just cold, clean heartbreak.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

I hope u know that I think of lockjaw at least twice a week (probably alot more) and its literally the inspo for so many of my posts lol. Ur an amazing writer and I love that series <333

- @rawme-price

omggggg thankyousomuchhhh!!!!! lockjaw is my roman empireeee!!!!! im totally biased in believing she is soaps perfect woman idk.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Pair: Russel Adler x CIAAgent!Reader

“Eyes up.”

The sharpness of his voice slices through the silence in the safehouse. You’re supposed to be reviewing the op layout, tracing enemy movement patterns on a map Adler just handed you. Instead, your eyes have been locked on his mouth for… God knows how long.

That voice—gritty, deliberate, laced with quiet command. Every syllable he utters crawls under your skin and sets your nerves on fire. You barely hear what he’s saying anymore. Not really. All you can do is picture him saying other things. Things he shouldn't say. Things no mentor should ever say to someone like you.

“Hey,” he says again, a little more forceful this time. “You hearing me?” Your name spills off his tongue like a match struck to flame. You shiver.

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly, too breathless. “Say it again—”

His eyes narrow. Fuck.

“I mean—uh—Sir,” you blurt, straightening so fast your chair creaks. “Sorry. I’m listening. I just spaced.”

He takes a slow step toward you, those steel-blue eyes not missing a goddamn thing. You watch the cigarette shift between his fingers, the flicker of amusement behind the cool mask he wears.

“Say it again?” he repeats, voice low. “You wanna clarify that, soldier?”

Your stomach flips. You swear the air gets hotter. You shake your head, flustered. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He leans in, just slightly—close enough for you to smell the smoke and gun oil on him. His smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Careful. Daydreaming on my time might get you in trouble.”

“Sorry, sir,” you say quickly, looking away.

He lingers a moment longer, then backs off without another word. But as he turns away, you swear you catch the faintest curve of a smile. And now you're not sure which fantasy is worse: the ones you’ve had before… or the ones he might be having, now.

You try to refocus, really you do, but your mind’s still stuck on how close he got—how his voice dipped, how he didn’t not like it. The silence between you stretches thin, filled only by the rustle of maps and the drag of Adler’s cigarette.

He finally speaks again. Low. Almost bored.

“You ever been in a compromised state during a mission?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Distractions. Weaknesses. Temptations,” he says, eyes on the table but voice pointed directly at you. “Something that clouds judgment. Gets people killed.”

You shift in your seat. “No, sir.”

“Mm,” he hums. “You sure about that?”

Your pulse trips. “I said I’m sure.”

“I heard what you said.” He flicks ash off the cigarette without looking at you. “Just not sure I believe you.”

He finally lifts his gaze. Holds yours. “You gonna tell me what had you so dazed earlier? Or am I supposed to pretend it didn’t sound like you were about to beg for something?”

Your mouth goes dry. He’s not teasing. He’s not joking.

You scramble for an excuse. “I was tired. That’s all.”

His stare hardens. “Try again.”

You exhale, frustrated with yourself. “You said my name and I… I got distracted. Just caught me off guard.”

“You always this reactive to the sound of my voice?”

You hesitate. That’s not a question he’d ask unless he already knows the answer.

“Only when you use it like that,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

And then it’s too quiet.

Adler walks around the table and stops directly behind you. You don’t dare turn around. You can feel his presence, warm and looming, practically burning into the back of your neck.

“You got a mouth on you,” he murmurs, his voice grazing the shell of your ear. “Problem is, I think you want me to do more than talk.”

You swallow thickly, hands tightening on the edge of the table. “What if I do?”

A long pause.

“Then you better learn to keep it together when I give you orders. Because if you slip like that in front of anyone else, it’s not discipline I’ll be handing out. It’s a fucking warning.”

He steps around you now, his face inches from yours, tone dipping into something darker—silk over steel.

“Earn the praise you’re fantasizing about. Make me want to say your name the way you really want it.”

You stare up at him, heat curling low in your belly. You’re breathless. And you hate how much you’d let him ruin you if he really wanted to.

“Understood?” he says.

You nod, quietly, almost reverent. “Yes, Sir.”

He smirks. “Good. Now focus, before I start wondering if your punishment needs to come before the mission.”

TWO DAYS LATER – SAFEHOUSE, NIGHT

The op went clean. Textbook. You were sharp, fast, locked in. But not once did Adler look at you afterward. Not on the exfil, not during the debrief, not even when the others cleared out. He didn’t say a word. And that silence was worse than anything else.

You’re alone now—boots unlaced, bruised, and restless. You should be sleeping. But there’s no peace in you. Not when you know he’s just down the hall. Not when your skin still hums from the sound of his voice two days ago.

Your hand’s on the doorknob before you even realize what you’re doing.

You knock. Once. Twice.

Then his voice, flat and unreadable: “Come in.”

You step inside and shut the door behind you.

Adler’s at the desk. The only light in the room is a half-dead lamp throwing a golden halo across his face. His coat’s off, sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Doesn’t look pleased either.

He just says, “Well?”

“I did everything right,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You saw it.”

He doesn’t respond.

“I kept it together. I followed every order.”

Adler leans back in the chair, studying you like you’re something on the end of his barrel.

“And you want a reward for that?” “No. I want the truth.” “About what?” “About whether you meant it.”

He stands slowly, eyes never leaving yours as he rounds the desk. You feel small under the weight of his attention, pulse roaring in your ears.

“I meant all of it,” he says. “I meant it when I said you needed discipline. Meant it when I said I could say your name in a way you’d never forget.”

You breathe in, shallow and sharp. “Then do it.”

He stops in front of you, a hand coming up—not touching, just hovering close enough to your throat to make you burn with the need for it.

“You really want that?” he says. “You want me to praise you like a good little soldier? Or do you just want me to break you open until all that smart-mouth defiance melts off your face?”

Your breath catches.

“I want you,” you say, eyes wide, honesty spilling out like blood. “I want whatever you're holding back.”

A beat of silence.

Then Adler finally, finally, touches you—his hand cupping your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek like he’s trying to memorize what you look like right before you fall apart.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, almost a whisper.

“Then show me.”

He kisses you. Hard. Controlled. Like a punishment. And you melt into it like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this exact kind of ruin. His mouth is rough, possessive. When he pulls back, there’s a low, dangerous smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t call me Adler in here,” he murmurs.

You stare, dazed. “Then what do I call you?”

He leans down, lips at your ear again. “Sir will do just fine.”

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

I rarely see any soap fics where he's a lil older you're doing the lords work 🙏🙏

Ong thank you!!!!!!! Yesssss I’ve recently started thinking about older soap bc the OG soap got pretty old before he died so it makes it sadder new soap died so young bc older new soap (🤨) would be such a zaddy

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

Won’t Go Home Without You | Soap x Reader

The pub door slammed behind him, the bitter taste of whiskey still stinging his throat. The streets of London stretched dark and wet under yellow streetlights, but Johnny MacTavish barely noticed.

She left. She really left.

His boots hit the slick pavement hard as he paced the block, scanning every passing face, every car. He knew you’d walked out not ten minutes ago, your voice breaking as you told him you were finished, done trying, done waiting for him to figure out what he wanted.

But he knew. God, he knew the second the door shut behind you.

And now he couldn’t breathe.

Pulling his jacket tighter against the cold rain, Soap shoved his phone in his pocket without dialing. You wouldn’t pick up. Not tonight. Not after the way he’d snapped—after the careless words that cut deeper than a knife.

"You deserve someone who doesn’t live like this," he’d said. "Someone who’s not broken."

But you didn’t want someone perfect. You wanted him. Even broken. And he’d been too blind, too afraid to let you in.

Not tonight. Not like this.

He turned the corner toward the river, chest tight, every breath burning like guilt. There you were, standing under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, staring out at the water, hair clinging wet to your face, arms wrapped around yourself like armor.

“Lass.”

Your shoulders stiffened, but you didn’t turn.

“Don’t,” you warned, voice low and raw. “Don’t follow me. Just let it go, Johnny. Please.”

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat choking him. “I can’t. I won’t.”

Silence. Except for the rain pattering on concrete.

“I said things I didn’t mean.” His voice was rough. Honest. “I thought pushing you away’d keep you safe. But all I did was lose you.”

You finally turned, eyes shining—not with rain. “I begged you to let me stay. You shoved me out.”

“I was wrong.” He stepped closer, slow and careful like you were glass. “I thought this job meant I’d never be good for anyone. But I’m worse without you. I can’t go back to that flat, that life... not if you’re not there. I won’t go home without you.”

The fight in your chest wavered. His hand reached for yours—hesitant, shaking like he never did on the field.

“Johnny—”

He gripped your hand tight, pressing your palm to his chest. “I’d crawl, I’d beg... hell, I’d bleed if you’d stay. I’ll do it right. I swear.”

The rain ran down both your faces like quiet tears. Your heart stuttered, cracking under the weight of him—all his regrets, laid bare and trembling.

“Take me home, then,” you whispered.

His breath hitched, a broken sound of relief as he pulled you close, rain and guilt and hope mixing between you.

“Never lettin’ you walk away again,” he murmured into your hair.

And he meant it.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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???? 🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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)

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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)

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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 🤣) 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

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