lizzah

An old lady (over 30) having the best time. mostly nsfw. 🔞 Call of Duty and Haladriel.

[lisenberry]

Lizzah's Masterlist

Feel free to browse the completed and in progress works below! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

My only rules are MDNI and keep things fun. I also try to be inclusive wherever I can. I'm a big fan of reading the tags and moderating your own experience, rather than shaming anyone else.

ALSO! Don't steal other writers' work and pass it off as your own. Weird to have to say that?! Please reach out if you see that I've interacted with something by a plagiarist.

Stay safe out there!

Haladriel: Full list here!

Call of Duty:

Song for a Winter's Night

(Part Two of Bear Shifter Price x F!Reader)

You get an unexpected surprise at the start of your second torpor.

(Complete)

I've come much too far to let you go now (please don't let me go) (Bear Shifter Price x F!Reader)

It's your first torpor with your bear-shifter mate. You're not adjusting so well.

(Complete)

The sweat on your skin is better than regret on your heart (Tattoo Artist!Price x F!Reader)

You go away for a beach holiday with your girlfriends, only to learn your loser boyfriend has broken up with you by text. After a day of drinking, a tattoo to honor the occasion sounds like a fabulous idea.

Part 1 and Ask, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 (Complete)

I'll be sailing on your deep blue eyes (Price x F!Reader)

John takes you for a ride on his fishing boat for your first date, and it's not at all what you expected.

(Complete)

We drift in and out (Price x F!Reader)

Your neighbor comes home just in time to help you through a tricky situation...the birth of your child.

Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, Bonus Ask #1, Bonus Ask #2, Bonus Ask #3, Bonus Ask #4 (Complete)

Let me loosen up your collar (Price x Stripper F!Reader)

The team drags a depressed Captain Price to a strip club to celebrate his birthday. You do your best to turn that frown upside down.

Ch. 1, 2, 3, Bonus Snippet That Somehow Has 8k Notes (Complete)

We get dirty, the world stays clean (Price x OFC)

When SAS canine handler Sergeant Sarah Kirkpatrick is injured on a mission to track down valuable intel on Makarov, Captain Price literally holds her heart in his hands.

(Complete)

Soap x F!Reader Ask (accidental pregnancy and breeding kink)

WIPs:

The Mountain is You (Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Snippet #1, Snippet #2, Ch. 3, Snippet #3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6, Ch. 7)

Posh!Price x Bootstraps F!Reader (Ch.1, Headcanon, HC#2 Bonus Ask #1, Bonus Ask #2)

Mob boss!Price x Wrong Place/Wrong Time F!Reader (Snippet #1, Snippet #2, Snippet #3)

Bush Pilot!Price x Tourist F!Reader lost in the jungle (Snippet #1)

Bounty hunter!Price x Saloonkeeper F!Reader A/B/O Western AU (Snippet #1)

[felrija]

With the MW4 trailer coming out I knew what I was doing last year when I drew Price with black hair !!!

[genderkoolaid]

hey boy don't kill yourself. green's dictionary of slang is available online and allows you to explore 500 years of english vulgarity. you can search by part of speech, source, time period, etymology, and usage. there's a whole category for gay slang. they even have specific citations listed so you can see the exact context for yourself. boy did you know that in 1927 "to kneel at the altar" was slang for "to sodomize"

[genderkoolaid]

some other hits:

Princess: an effeminate and relatively youthful male homosexual or lesbian (1931-4)

Daffodil: effeminate young man (1925)

To throw a fuck into: to have sex with (1919)

Top sergeant: a masculine lesbian (1939) [‘she takes command of the girls’ privates’]

Lily: penis (1919)

Wolf: sexually aggressive man (1847); a homosexual top (1918)

Soul kiss: a deep kiss, involving putting one’s tongue into one’s partner’s mouth (1907)

Tom: a lesbian (1909); [in 'old tom'] prostitute catering to lesbians (1966)

Church mouse: a male homosexual who frequents crowded churches in order to fondle any potential sex partners. (1941)

Discover one's gender: to accept or acknowledge one’s homosexuality (1941) / Lose one's gender: To return to living as a heterosexual

Minty: a masculine lesbian (1941)

Also a lot of early 20th century vulgarity is recorded in Letter from My Father, which is a collection of letters published by a man who's dad was, in short, a major slut and human disaster who wrote about his sex life for his son. It's insane. You can find copies of it online & it's a wild fucking read (literally!) and I think a really interesting look at the life of a person who goes against our stereotypes of what people in the past were "supposed" to be like.

Anyways feel free to add y'all's favs to this post. & if you use this for gay historical fanfic please share with the class

[genderkoolaid]

#OH THIS IS EXTREMELY EXTREMELY HELPFUL#writing#resources#saving for later#maybe i should move my 1920s story from '25 to '27 because..... bro..........

note for writers: these are dated to the first time they were recorded, not necessarily to their first use. I imagine for many of these, they came about naturally through spoken language before they were written down anywhere. This is especially true of more underground slang because it's probably being recorded (in ways we still have) the least. So if you wanna use a term but it's a little off date-wise, give yourself some wiggle room.

also gonna take this moment to highlight two more i found recently:

Best boy: a sweetheart, a boyfriend, a husband. (1893) [w the obvious equivalent term 'best girl']

Honeydripper or honeydrips: a sexual partner (1917)

Like. Honeydripper?????? That's so horny I can't stop thinking about it. We need to bring THAT back

[the-transgenda-agenda]

updates to miscellaneous page - added link to green's dictionary of slang

[boolger]

Simon had seen you before - a tad too many times, perhaps. You never announced your arrival, but you never hid yourself away from him either.

The first time he saw you, he was just a kid - now he was an adult man yet you looked exactly the same like those many years ago, when his Pa had beat the shit out of him for the first time.

He was bleeding now, the pain burning through his body as he sat up, trying to ignore the knife still lodged in his side - his enemy dead dead next to him. As steps appeared he looked up, raising his gun and —

You looked beautiful even now, so many years later. When he was a kid he had assumed you were an angel, as you surely looked like one. Ethereal in your long, simple dress, hair nicely braided, flowers intertwined with the strands, the light of the moon that shone into the shell of a building he was in. Back then, he had wanted to crawl into your arms and as you stood there, he almost felt like a child again, wanting to cry and seek comfort from you.

Johnny was speaking in his ear, but he wasn’t listening - not when you were right there.

“I can’t,” he told you softly, not getting up from the dirty floor, watching you tip your head to the side, “not now.”

“Yes, you can,” you spoke calmly, your voice slightly reminding him of his mother, love seeping into it despite the worry, “you just don’t want to.”

He ignored Johnny, pushing the comm out to hang by his neck, looking at you as you slowly squatted down, still keeping your distance.

“Not now,” he repeated with a grunt, pain shooting through him, “not now.”

“Still so stubborn,” you mused softly, your eyes shining in the light of the moon, “just like you were younger.”

“Can’t you take that bloke?” He jerked his head towards the man next to him, whose blood was spreading out on the floor and whose last breath had been taken after Simon had put a bullet between his eyebrows.

“He isn’t mine to collect,” you didn’t even look at the dead body, a sad smile on your lips, “only you are.”

“Tough job, innit?” He mumbled, “not that good at it, are ya?”

You laughed. You never laughed a lot. It was like gentleness, love that was only audible to him.

“I suppose not,” you agreed, “but you’re never quite ready when I finally come to get you.”

Simon didn’t say anything. He could hear the others yell at him over the comm that was hanging from his shirt collar.

“I’ll have to take you with me soon,” you gently whispered, before nodding towards the knife, “unless you get that taken care off.”

“‘That oll?” He asked, because he figured he would go from something different than a knife in his side. You tipped your head to the other side, like a puppy listening to something a human couldn’t hear.

“No,” you finally answered, still squatting down and you tapped the floor, “this will blow up soon.”

He grunted. Sounded more like a way he would go. The pain was there, it wasn’t the worst he had tried but it wasn’t nice.

Simon felt tired. Deep inside his bones.

“Can’t die,” he finally said, repeating himself as he added a “not now.”

You watched him for a second, before nodding. It had taken him a couple of times before realising that you weren’t an angel, but some sort of death. You never answered his questions when he asked about it.

“I can’t help you downstairs,” you sounded apologetic and you rose, “but I can lead the way.”

You were humming gently as you lead the way, a tune that reminded him of something his mother used to sing. As he staggered after you, keeping his eyes on your somewhat shining self, he wondered if you had picked up Tommy or if he had been collected by someone else - and his mom. Would you even let him know if you had? Simon wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure where exactly he would be brought by you when he would finally agree to go, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t any form of heaven.

He followed you through the back door, tumbling out behind you, though you made sure to always stay far enough away so the two of you wouldn’t touch.

Simon felt sick, blacking out for half a second now and again as he followed you, doing his best to not keel over. He pressed against the wound despite the pain, attempted to focus on the sound of your humming. Gunshots, explosions, screams all nearby, yet you walked with such confidence, never jumping or flinching at any of the sudden sounds.

Finally you reached a tall wooden fence and you stopped, pointing to a spot at it. As he let himself fall down onto the spot, an explosion nearby happened, confirming the house he had just been in had indeed blown up. It burned in his ears and he felt his breath go ragged from the impact. His eyes flickered up to find yours. You were smiling. It was a little sad but it was still a smile.

“Kyle will come around the corner there,” you pointed to the right, “in a couple of seconds. He will get you to safety.”

“ ‘ank you,” he managed to slur out, tongue heavy in his mouth, “again.”

“Of course, Simon,” you smiled again, a little less sad now, “I’ll see you, sweet boy.”

Sweet boy. He blinked and then you were gone - as he tipped his head to the side, towards the corner where you had pointed to, he wondered when exactly the two of you would meet again. If you would ever respect a future no if it was too late.

“GHOST!”

There he was. Kyle was yelling at him, but he didn’t care - a moment later his friend helped him up on his legs, calling for evacuation over the comm. Simon wondered if you were still looking at him, seeing how leaving him behind yet another time was worth it. That it would have upset Kyle if he had been dead - that he wanted to return to his team.

But though you had disappeared once again, Simon also knew it was only a matter of time before he met you again.

[ottervii]

Beach episode ❎ Lake house episode ✅

[my-peaches-are-ruined]

[lisenberry]

The mountain is you

Ch. 7 - You called my name in the dead of night

3.4k/E/nsfw

The beginning of the end.

Call of Duty Price/Reader, Ghost/Reader

CW: All the usual bdsm suspects. Angst. Subdrop.

(start from the beginning) (ao3)

He was devastated.

You could tell that much as he silently carried you to the bathroom.  As if he wasn’t sure what else to say.  As if he didn’t trust himself to speak.  You could feel it in the way he held you a bit tighter than usual. 

“I’m okay, really.  I didn't call you off.  I didn’t use my safe word,” you offered lightly, pressing your forehead into the heat of his chest.

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he answered, gruffly.  Like the words themselves were rocks he needed to dislodge from his throat.

“To be honest, it was so much better than I thought it could be.”  Earthshattering, you could have just said. 

“We don’t cross hard boundaries here.  This isn’t a place for you to work out your problems.  That’s for therapy.  Not for me.”  He reached out to turn on the stream of water, opting to fill the bathtub instead of running the showerhead.

“You think I need therapy?” you asked.  You meant it as a lighthearted quip, but his face held no humor.  There was no light in his signal fire eyes.  Just cold calculation.  Or stark fear, maybe.  You still weren’t thinking clearly enough to tell.

You didn't necessarily not need therapy, but coming from him, it felt wrong.  Like an insult.  You’d let yourself believe that there wasn’t any judgement between you.  That he didn’t look too closely at you outside of the lens of your arrangement.  You didn’t ask him about his marriage or his work, and he didn’t ask you why you were the way you were. 

You were you and he was him.  You needed each other for something and that was the end of it.

“I think you’re a very lovely person.  With some really hard kinks.”  His rough thumb grazed your chin as he tilted your head up and side to side.  Looking for any marks he may have left behind on your neck.

Fucked up issues, he might as well have said.

“In subspace, you’d let me do anything.  You were too far gone to understand,” he continued.  Seemingly trying to absolve you from something but only succeeding in making you feel worse. 

You only liked to feel helpless.  You were there, too.  A willing participant.  You could have said no at any point.  You knew the rules.  Were prepared for the consequences if something went wrong.  You were only human.

And so was he.

“I wasn’t even in subspace until after,” you started to argue, but he cut you off.

“It shouldn’t have happened.  Period.”  When you flinched at the hard edge to his tone, he pinched the bridge of his nose before adding softly, “I’m not blaming you.  It was my fault.”

If he was assigning blame, that meant that it was wrong.  But how could it have been when you’d gone higher than you ever had before?  You didn’t just feel alive, you felt free.  A weight that you’d been carrying your whole life had been lifted.

Maybe he was right.  Maybe once you came down, and came to your senses, you’d regret it.  Feel the betrayal he was projecting onto you. 

Even still, you wondered if there was more to it.  If perhaps it wasn’t the broken boundary that he was beating himself up over, or simply an aversion to the intimacy of it.  The vulnerability you’d trusted him with.  It wouldn’t be the first time he pulled away when you’d gotten too close.

He went through the motions of aftercare despite the uneasy energy between you.  He sank you down into the hot bath and washed your hair while you tried to stay hazy for just a little longer.  Despite your best efforts, as he carefully rinsed out the soap and massaged in the conditioner, you almost shook him off and offered to do it yourself. 

Only something about it felt like it would be the last time, and you weren’t ready to let him go just yet.

*****

“I let her tie me up,” John confessed to Simon, in between chats about the match and the goings on with the business.

“Yeah?” he inquired skeptically.  “You alright, mate?”

Simon Riley was the only person in the world who knew the things that scared John Price.  Who’d been privy to the file that mapped out what made him tick.  The traumas and the losses.  The caves he’d been left to die in, the scars that didn’t heal when he’d come back to the light.  To the living.

“It was bloody...grand,” John conceded.  “She was so sweet about it.  I couldn’t say no.”  He let himself smile briefly at the memory before draining the last of his beer.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I got so caught up that I,” he paused while he found the nerve.  “I forgot one of her hard lines,” he mumbled like a damn private before his superior.

Someone in his position, with his experience, should've known better.  A lapse in judgement that could cause irreparable harm.  Not just to a client, but someone he—what exactly?

“Fucking hell.  You choked her?” Simon asked quietly, but still managed to spit the accusation like venom.  As close to anger as John had seen the man in a long time. 

Not since another life.

He stood from his barstool and slipped a cigarette between his lips to signal he was going outside for a smoke.  John, taking the cue, followed closely behind with one of his own.

“She said she was fine, but I don’t believe her.”

“She gets a fucking panic attack if her bloody necklace is too tight.”  The accusatory tone made his accent even rougher, blurring words and curses together as Simon lit the end and sucked in a deep lung full of smoke.

“I know.” John agreed with a nod and took a long pull off his.  The familiar burn was not nearly enough to melt away the fist that had tightened around his chest.

He'd found himself smoking less since he'd started seeing you.  He drank less as well.  He'd started to wonder if the pretty tears and dazed whimpers during your sessions were the only vices he needed.  Along with your cheery smile and sharp sense of humor in the precious time you shared after. 

Only for him to fuck it all up.  As he did everything eventually.

He pressed his eyes shut tightly, as if it would staunch the haunting visage of you pleading with him breathlessly as you tucked your face weakly into his shoulder. “I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.”

Instead, another voice took the place of yours, “You make it impossible to love you, John.”

“I’m here for you, mate,” Simon cut through the spiral of John's thoughts.  “But I was the one who referred her to you—”

“That’s why I need your help.  You know her better than I do.”

“Do I?  Seems you've gotten awful close these last few months.”  If there was a slight stiffness there, John didn’t press it any further.  It was no secret that he was fond of you, and any jealousy he may have felt would only help Price’s cause.

“She trusts you.”

“What are you suggesting, Cap?  You want me to come in as a fluffer?  A bloody palate cleanser?”  He let out an amused puff of smoke through his nose.

With any luck, it would put some distance between you again and return things to an even keel.  The one that had served you so well.  He was getting too close, too emotional. 

Seeing you with someone else, hearing you cry and beg for anyone but him would hopefully cool the intensity of his feelings.  His need to please you, even beyond what you’d asked for.  To know you.  Be with you.

Painted with his lieutenant’s marks, his best mate’s cum if need be, it would remind him that you weren’t his.  And then, just maybe he could start the slow process of earning back your trust.

Assuming you even wanted to see him again after you came to your senses and realized the magnitude of his transgression.  It wasn’t just crossing a line.  It was selfishness.  John had forgotten his duty while he’d been consumed by his own gratification.

And that would not do.  Ever.

“You sure about this?  You'd give her up?”

It was for the best.  A risk he'd have to take.

“I can't lose her,” John stated as a fact, a mission objective, as he stomped out his cigarette on the pavement below his boot.

*****

You busied yourself with work for the next month and a half.  It was longest you'd gone without seeing him.  It wasn't that you didn't want to.  You really did. 

You were in a constant state of restlessness and unease.  And you missed him terribly.  But more accurately, you had the sneaking suspicion that you’d started to drop.  It wasn't as dramatic as you'd read about in the pamphlet Life Connect 141 made you sign before you began your first session way back when.

It was more like a slow slide.  One day you were fine.  A week, and then two went by without a full night's sleep.  By the third you'd realized you hadn't been to the gym in several days.  By the fourth, you had trouble making it to work on time in the mornings, but you'd stay later and later at the office until you were caught up.

You told yourself it was just burnout, and you'd take a mini break once you closed the next deal.  You didn't need John and you didn't need help.  You just needed to get through another day, another week and you'd shake yourself out of it.

Plus, you'd only ever called him.  It was supposed to be mutual arrangement, but he'd never once called you first.  How long would he let you go without reaching out?  He'd been so worked up during the last session, nothing you said could convince him you were fine. 

You’d tried to talk to him about it, but he’d shut down.  Just like he’d done when you’d asked about his marriage.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.  That includes talking,” you’d said.  How much you wouldn’t give to know what he was thinking now.

Maybe it was the end.  No matter how much you insisted, he wasn’t going to believe you, anyway.  He wasn’t going to let you change his mind.

It was probably for the best, no matter how much his silence hurt.  Better it happened sooner than when you’d really fallen in love with him or something…

It was right about the time that you’d finally given up and figured you’d scared him off for good when he texted you.  The drop had started to level itself out and you were gradually feeling like yourself again.  Or at least, moving on to rekindle whatever life you’d been living before you met him.

Hey, sweetheart.  How are you? 

You were in the middle of a meeting, so it wasn’t hard to resist typing back right away.  You waited until you were alone at your desk and having a quick tea before you responded nonchalantly.  After a bit of chit chat back and forth, he finally asked the question you’d been hoping for.

Up for a session this weekend?

There it was, the invitation you’d been secretly waiting for.  You hadn’t pushed him away after all.  You began typing back your answer when another bubble popped up first.

Ghost will be there too. 

Your fingers paused over the screen, and you reread the sentence several more times as you steadied your pulse. 

He was giving you a choice.  A warning.  It was certainly a surprise.  Was this his way of apologizing?  Or was he trying to put you back in your place?  You briefly thought about declining, but your curiosity got the better of you before you could overthink it.

Not long after you set up a day and time, you received a two-word text from Ghost.

Can’t wait. 

*****

John had given you the same directions as he always did.  Outfit on the chair.  Pillow on the floor.  Shoes in the basket.  Lights turned low.

You hadn’t expected to find a white button-down blouse and gray herringbone pencil skirt on the back of the chair.  Or a pair of black lace panties and matching stiletto heels.  It brought you back to another time and place, and you smiled at the memory.  How cliché you’d been.   An overworked girl boss in need of a big, strong man to give her release.

It made you cringe as fervently as it still turned you on.  Your nature at odds with your evolution.

As you stripped down and put it on, your bare breasts grazed against the cool poplin fabric of the shirt.  The skirt fit snug and pulled tight as you lowered down onto the pillow, and the heels dug into your backside as you kneeled back against them.

Within a few minutes, the door opened and the heavy footsteps that you came to know by heart had a different cadence.  Two lefts and two rights, of varying beats. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, dove.”  Ghost appeared first, shaking his head approvingly.  He wore his mask, crisp and clean, along with a dark suit and tie.  His arms and thighs bulged against the slim fitting, well-tailored fabric.

A stark contrast to the soft greens and browns of John’s flannel shirt as he shrugged off his distressed leather jacket and hooked it on the coat rack.

“Ghost is going to take good care of you, sweetheart,” he said, as he crossed over and leaned down to place a kiss on the top of your head.  “I’ll be in my office.  You two play nice.” 

And then he disappeared behind the glass French doors that separated the main area from his private rooms.  To a place you’d never been.  Off limits.  It was fitting, really.  It wasn’t to be apology then.  It was indeed to remind you of your place.

To put you back where you belonged.

But it was John’s house, and John’s rules.  You’d always been clear with him that your choices ended when you walked through the door.  The session would be between you and Ghost, and that was it. 

Tie in or tap out.

“Daddy’s home, little dove,” Ghost cooed, as he slipped his thick trigger finger inside your mouth, turning your head obediently towards him.  “Don’t look at him.  Look at me.”  A clipped command, bringing you back to your center.

And John didn’t look at you, not when Ghost tied you up and hung you from the hook on the rafters, or when you sucked his cock hands-free while he lazily dripped hot paraffin wax between your straining shoulder blades. 

The dewy heat ran like molten rivers, reshaping in its wake.  Your muscles relaxed and your brain emptied as you surrendered to it.

“Bloody hell, Cap,” he called out over his shoulder to the other room.  “Is she always like this?  This is what I’ve been missing?  Taught her to give a good head, you did.”

John still didn’t look up from his paperwork when his friend took turns slapping your ass and the backs of your thighs with his familiar crop.  As strings of drool and slick dripped to the hardwood floor like a leaking faucet from both ends of you. 

John had never used a vibrator, didn’t have one in his box of tricks, so Ghost manually worked you over with his gloved fingers and his hungry tongue before slipping himself inside.  Thicker and with more of a curve than John’s, it carved out its own space inside you.

Far from the cold and sanitized nature of your previous encounters at Life Connect 141.  He barked out oaths and moaned praises like he’d been given a gift so treasured, he would hide it under his pillow.  Carry it with him everywhere.  Wear it to the point of ripping apart like a too tight, worn-out set of trousers.

“I knew you’d be a gem, dove.  Such a sweet little pet.  So good for me, aren’t you?  No wonder the boss is so smitten.”

His enthusiasm was so contagious that you came just like that, on his cock before he pulled out and painted your blistering ass with his spend.  You could tell the skin was broken in places by the way the salt in his seed stung and burned as he spread it around like a cruel salve.

If he touched your clit again, you wondered if you could come a second time at the fresh sensation of it.  But you were too tired to ask.  Too drained to speak.  Wrung out and soiled like a mop that had scrubbed the bathroom floor.

It was everything you’d wanted from Ghost...once. 

While you were struggling to get your wits back, it was John who reached out to hold you up, while Ghost carefully untied you.  Finally showing some notice, some attention. 

Too late, you thought.  Once freed, you turned into Ghost instead, on wobbling ankles and numb knees.

“I’ve got you, dove.” 

He carried you to the sofa, wrapped you in your robe, and traced circles on the back of your head as you slowly came down.  It wasn’t a true subspace, but it was nice anyway.  You laughed into his shoulder as he joked about being ruined for the 141 for good after that.

But before long, he looked at his watch and gave you a quick peck to your cheek.  Lips mostly covered by his mask. 

“That’s my time,” he muttered reluctantly as he lifted you up and helped you sit on your own.  The ache along your backside was not nearly as strong as the one in your heart. 

It never was. 

“It was good to see you again, Simon.”  You smiled and squeezed his hand once before letting him go. 

For good.  The transaction was finished.  The job completed.

You sat there, quietly, in the living room you’d come to know so well while John followed him out to the hallway.  Their voices were too low to hear what they were exchanging.  A sudden, frigid dread crept along the back of your neck, despite the coziness of your thick robe. 

The chill turned to a quaking, as your teeth chattered and you fought to still your hands.  An adrenaline crash, you recognized then.  A sub drop, just as the pamphlet described.  You’d been wrong before.  It wasn’t slow or manageable.  It was quick and harsh.  Overwhelming in its grief.

But it was just a game, wasn’t it?  It couldn’t really hurt you.  It shouldn’t hurt you.  But there you were.  Alone with it.  A sad, dark hole threatening to swallow you up.

Before John could come back and see your sorry state, if he even came back at all, you fled to the shower and turned on the stream.  Willed it to heat up faster while you tested it with trembling hands. 

“You need any help in there, sweetheart?”  His voice was too soft, too concerned.  You couldn’t take it.  Not from him.  Not at that moment.

His silence, his indifference had felt like a punishment.  You’d displeased him.  He gave you to Ghost because you’d done something wrong. 

You didn’t want to think about what had just happened.  The consequences.  Why he’d done it.  Why you’d agreed to it.  You just wanted to go home. 

How’d things get so wrong?

It was you, you realized.  It had always been you.  With Ghost.  With John.  With every fucking relationship you’d ever had.  You wanted too much.  You were so needy and stupid.

Couldn’t even take care of yourself. 

So, you faked it.  Like you did everything when you didn’t have the answers.  You wiped away your tears, ignored the burn of the water against your skin, and dried yourself off.  Willed your hands to stop shaking and your back to straighten.  When something was only in your head, it was easy to manipulate.  Overcome. 

Like a dream you could wake yourself from and slip back into at will.  Your feelings for John were no different. 

You dressed in your clothes and left the silly costume Ghost had torn off you in a pile on the floor.  Ignored John the way he’d ignored you. 

You hoped it stung.  Hoped it hurt. 

“Sorry I can’t stay,” you gritted out behind a shrug and a quick apologetic smile before turning for the door.  “I made other plans.”

A shitty way to say, ‘I hope I never see you again’, but you really never did learn.

[staytrueblue]

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Price and Simon play kick about.

cw: hint of poly if you squint

The afternoon hung over RAF Akrotiri like a curtain, turning everything a hazy gold and stifling everyone on base with a sticky heat.

The airstrip shimmered in the distance, empty but for the low, hulking figure of a C-17 being prepped for refuelling. Near the hanger, Simon and Price had turned a tiny strip of cracked tarmac into a makeshift pitch, a well-loved ball between them; its once shiny surface worn down to the raw leather in some areas, its branding long since faded away.

They had stopped off halfway home. Nik's Black Hawk needed repairs and the station commander owed Price a favour or seven. With a few days down time and intel for their next move thin on the ground, the 141 had grown restless. Garrick and MacTavish had headed into town to enjoy the nightlife, leaving Simon and Price to their paperwork. Or so they thought.

Nik watched on from the top of an empty ammo crate, his heels drumming against the painted wood, a cold beer propped on his knee and a cigarette hovering over the other. Price tapped the football forward, a sly grin creeping across his flushed face. “C’mon then. Let’s see if yer more than jus’ pub talk.”

Simon rolled his shoulders and swaggered up with exaggerated nonchalance, his boots scuffing over the concrete. The smell of fuel and heat hung thickly in the air, and their t-shirts were stained a shade darker with sweat around their chests and under their arms. “Yer about to get a lesson straight outta Etihad.”

Price smirked. “Amateur then.” He tapped the ball forward, coaxing it ahead with the inside of his boot. Simon rushed him, but Price twisted, sliding the ball through his legs with a cheeky nutmeg. Simon let out a bark of laughter as Price darted around him, arms raised in triumph. “Oi! Be ‘avin’ it! Straight through the uprights.”

Simon snorted, dodging left and then right, trying to intercept. “Old dog’s got some tricks.”

Price laughed, rolling the ball around with his toe. “Textbook. One for the highlight reel.”

Simon lunged playfully, missing as Price danced the ball away with exaggerated flair, knees high, tongue out like a kid on a school playground. Dust kicked up as they darted to and fro, Price rolling the ball back and scooting it away from Simon's feet before moving forward into the open.

Price tried to keep control, dribbling the ball with fast, sharp taps, weaving through invisible defenders like he was playing at Anfield. His boots scuffed against the tarmac, grating through gravel with every pivot as he showed off to not only Simon, but Nik as well.

Simon closed in again, this time more measured, waiting for an opening. “Ya know ya’ve got the touch of a bin lid, right?”

“Jealousy’s an ugly emotion, Simon.” Price went for a stepover, but Sinon anticipated it, sweeping in with a low tackle that took the ball and half of Price’s pride along with it as he stumbled over Simon's leg.

Price threw his arms up and turned towards Nik. “Oi! Ref! That’s a red!”

Nik rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “You are not bleeding. That makes it a clean tackle, no?”

Simon scooted the ball away, cracked leather scraping over gravel, offering mock commentary as he urged the ball back in the opposite direction. “And Riley, against all odds, wins possession… Price is left wonderin’ where it all went wrong.”

Price barked another laugh and danced back, soon catching up. They scuffled, legs tangling in an illegal tackle that ended up with Simon's head in a lock under Price's arm, Simon trying to keep his feet on the ball but knocking it away instead. They ended up in a heap on the dusty concrete, cussing each other out through breathless laughter.

Price threw his hands behind him, legs stretched out. “‘M claimin’ victory.”

“Like shit you are. Play dirtier an’ you fight,” Simon said, kicking at one of Price's boots.

“Pullin’ rank. One nil t’ me.”

“Cheeky wanker…” Simon slumped onto his back, running his fingers beneath his balaclava to scratch at his jaw, skin prickling with sweat. When his hands returned to his chest, he gazed at the expanse of sky above, the darker blue of night time bleeding through the oranges and reds. “Mad, innit? Feel normal… jus' for a bit.”

Price hummed, and knocked his boot against Simon's again. “That a good fing?”

Simon sat up on his elbows and stared down the length of tarmac towards the buildings; hazy, uniform grey blocks fading in the twilight. He looked next at Nik. The pilot had shrugged his jacket off and was basking in the warmth, his head tilted back, aviators reflecting the ombre sky.

The three of them were lingering in a pause; a suspended moment in time where nothing mattered and the weight was gone. Simon looked back at Price and felt something warm and sweet tug in his chest. With his hair wild and auburn, his blue eyes bright, Price looked striking in the failing light. Simon couldn't help but savour the sight. “Yeah,” Simon said finally. “Reckon it is.”

Price rolled to his feet, dusting off his backside with his palms. “Alright, one-nil to me. Winner stays on.”

Simon followed him, jogging over to retrieve the ball from where it had fallen into a pothole in the concrete. “You wish. Lookin’ a little tired there, old man.”

“Less lip more action.” Price gestured a come on with his fingers, feet spread, knees bent.

And just like that, the world paused again. They weren't lieutenant and captain, but, for another hour at least, they were just two northern lads playing kick about with a battered old pigskin.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Simon looks at the scuffed old ball in his office before he deploys from Credenhill to hunt the man that gifted it to him after they left Cyprus.

The feeling in his chest indescribable, his mind defaulting to business to avoid dwelling on what Price might force him to do. Wondering how much of his captain is left beneath the twisted tangle of grief, and rage, and revenge. Whether there will be anything to save in the end.

He has to try. He has to. He owes Price that much.

Fuck my life I hurt my own feelings.

[anneofgreengabagool]

141 as newspaper clippings | 141 headcanons

gaz

ghost

price

soap

[romanceslasher]

CAPTAIN PRICE Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 4

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

"You broke a lot of rules, Price."

"No more rules."

---

CALL OF DUTY: MODERN WARFARE IV (2026)

[azaablue]

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

[warmfrequency]

type of guy you divorce and remarry three times over

[yumethefrostypanda]

Ghost, MW4

veins

[allthespoons]

ai could simply never create a body of fanfictional work that is so revealing about the author that it borders on humiliating.

[lisenberry]

I tried to get this one in for the one year anniversary, but it didn't work out. It was the push I needed, though.

Mind the tags.

The Mountain is You

Ch. 6 - Only way's up, no going around

Call of Duty, John Price/Reader

E/2.7k

CW: bdsm, dom/sub, power dynamics, choking, breathplay, mildly dubious consent, mommy issues (you).

(start from the beginning) (Ao3) (Ch. 7)

“How can you stay so hard for so long?” You neglected to add the ‘sir’ for the second time that afternoon.

Hence why you were in your current state. Sitting in his chair, impaled on his lap with your back towards him, legs splayed wide over his knees as he kept you from squirming with his big dumb hand to your hip.

“I told you any punishments would hurt me more than you, sweetheart,” he said. The gravel of his voice sent a fresh flush of heat to your cheeks and a wave of slick around his painfully solid dick.

At the current angle, it pressed up against your g-spot like a stick poking a bruise. You swore if you could just bounce once, twice at the most, you would come to pieces in a sloppy, pathetic puddle.

The thought alone made you moan out loud, and the slight huff of breath against your bare shoulder was the only indication he’d heard you. That he wasn’t completely as unbothered as he let on.

There was no clock in front of you. You had no idea how much time had passed. It just felt like forever. He was the one keeping time, probably counting down some number in his head. What was he doing back there, anyway?  

Meditating? Scrolling his phone?

When you turned your neck to look behind you, he clucked his tongue in disappointment.

“Now we have to start over,” he stated, matter-of-factly. Frustratingly unbothered.

While you were trembling to feel any sort of friction and getting more pissed off by the minute. You hated being ignored.  

You hated him.  

Except you didn’t. Just his stupid fucking mustache. His asshole voice. The annoying way he smelled.  

“Come on, please. Just let me move a little bit. Just for a second,” you pleaded rationally. But not in the nice way that would get you what you wanted.

You were being a brat, and you knew it. You wanted him to hurt you. Wanted him to rip you off his lap by your hair, hold you down and spank you until you apologized. Maybe call you names while he fucked you face down into the floor.

It really wasn’t so much to ask. But instead, he just hummed his indifference and waited.

Well, fuck him. You could wait too.  

That didn’t stop you from letting out a strangled whimper when he started counting out loud.

“One,” followed by the longest pause ever. And then finally, “Two...”

And he didn’t say how high he was counting.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise that you were in a mood. As you sat staring straight ahead in a failed attempt to empty your brain and behave, all you could think of was your last conversation with your mother. The one that prompted you to quickly text John to schedule a session as soon as he was available.  

The beautiful man that he was (when he wasn’t being a stubborn ass) had texted you back within a few minutes and cleared his schedule for the whole day.  

In hindsight, it wasn’t the best idea. You should have just called up a friend and gone out to lunch, but it had left you feeling so deeply lonely and outside of yourself that you needed something stronger than coffee and a club sandwich.

Your mom had been having health problems since before you could remember, but the full effects of her hard living had caught up with her a few years ago and left her permanently disabled. She required twenty-four-hour care, and in an effort to keep her comfortable at home, you managed to make it work with a shifting team of paid caretakers and nurses.  

For the sake of your sanity, though it often strained you financially, you kept your own flat not far away, but you took on a certain number of hours each week to lighten the load. It had been your day to stay with her when she’d decided to shift from her usual self-pity to pitying you instead.

“I don’t want this to come off the wrong way, but why are you so content to be alone?” she asked, as if you were emptying her bedpan and meticulously counting out her pain meds because of your own poor choices and not hers.

“It’s completely natural to be single. People do it all the time. Happy people,” you assured her. Determined not to let her bait you into an argument.  

“I only ever had you, darling. And look how that turned out.” She motioned around at her circumstances like it was your fault.

A statement had never been both so true and untrue at the same time. She’d had many partners over the course of your life, but none that you would call reliable. The father that you’d never really known. The dead-beat boyfriends who came and went. Was she so surprised that you had no desire to follow the same path? That sharing your life with someone didn’t come easy for you. Or was it harder to believe that you’d stuck around when you could have run off and left her in a care home?

“I’m sorry it’s been so terrible for you,” you deadpanned. You soaked it in sarcasm and topped it off with a smile to soften the way it stuck in your throat.  

“That’s not what I meant.” It was exactly what she meant. “You need someone. Friends, hobbies. You just work and take care of me.”

But you did have friends and hobbies. You just didn’t share them with her so she could nitpick them apart. ‘Well, there is this one guy named John...’ You were certainly not going to go there.

“I’m okay, mum. Don’t worry about me.” You’d left it at that, but you couldn’t help but feel like shit about it ever since.

You’d never complained about your lot in life. You just kept going. Did your best in school. Got a good job. Tried to be a good person and take care of yourself. That it still wasn’t enough for the woman who’d never once put you first, after everything that you had been through together, seemed like a slap.  

And not the fun kind.

“You’re obviously in a temper today. And if you’re not going to tell me why, I guess I’ll just have to work it out of you,” John’s voice cut through your thoughts.  

“Really?” you asked, perking up with hope that the beatings and degradation were still on the table.

“You want to be the boss, do you?” he grated, evenly. “Think you know better than me? Fine. You’re in charge.”

He lifted you off his lap and deposited you on your feet in front of him. You were happy to be done with your punishment but immediately missed the contact with his warmth. You shivered in your confusion and emptiness as you turned and looked down at him. Your clamps jingled delicately with the movement. They’d already been on so long that your nipples and folds ached and tingled deliciously.

“What do you mean?” This was something new. You liked surprises, you reminded yourself. And he knew what he was doing. Didn’t do anything without a reason.  

He wasn’t abandoning you.

“I’ll sit here and you can take what you want. Burn off some of that stubborn attitude.” He titled his chin down to his chest and flexed his arms over the sides of the chair. He was still clothed, but for his erection still rosy and dewy from your well of slick rising like a pillar from his zipper.

You got a little thrill to see a clear bead of precum collecting at the opening of his head.  

“What you do want me to do?” you asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Don’t be shy now, sweetheart. You started this. You haven’t listened to me all day. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”  

Oh god, he was a devil when he smiled like that, you thought. And you had started it. He’d turned the tables and asked you to take control. You were being punished with power.

You smiled back at him then, understanding the game he was playing, and motioned to the box where he kept all of his toys with a nod of your head.

“Dealer’s choice, love. Do your worst.” The glint of danger in his eye almost had you on your knees at his feet, begging for forgiveness. Promising to be good.

Almost. You weren’t there yet, too intrigued by what it would feel like to take out your frustrations on him. Work out your feelings on his body. See how far he’d let you go before he pulled you back. Like a puppy on a leash.

He would never let you cross a boundary of his. He had way too much control for that. If you pulled out something he didn’t like, he would tell you. And that trust set you free. Gave you the confidence to tip toe over and open it up wide. 

You’d never seen inside it before, only what he took out. There were a few things in there that caught your eye, but in the end, you didn’t want to hurt him. You didn’t get off on inflicting pain or humiliating your partner. You were a good sub at heart, who just wanted to please. You saved the hardest things for yourself.

You always did.

So instead of the ball gags and the studded plugs, you picked up a dainty length of pink braided silk ribbon and turned back to him. While his eyes remained amused and encouraging, you noticed his nostrils flare and his throat bob up and down with a deep swallow.

“Anything you want to say before we get started?” you asked quietly, mimicking words he often said before each session.

“No, ma’am,” he answered, his gaze finding a spot on the wall behind you. Defiantly.  

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” you corrected, with a raise of your brow.  

His eyes met yours slowly and your chest tightened. So, that was why he did it. You felt an intimacy like you’d never known. Submission was a heady thing. You’d only ever been on the other side, but having someone look up at you...waiting for you. It was a connection so strong, you almost tapped out then and there.

It was just a game, you reminded yourself. It wasn’t real. He was only pretending for your benefit. Hoping to reverse psychology your bratty sub brain.

As if he sensed your hesitation, he leaned forward and placed his hands behind his back. Reading your mind and taking the first step before you lost your nerve. You forced your feet forward and tied the ribbon around his wrists, not very tight.  

“I like to start with an inspection first,” you said, clearing your throat, as you stood between his knees to undo each button of his shirt with calculated motions.  

It fell open to reveal the fuzzy expanse of his chest. You ran your fingers across it, scratched at his pecs with circular motions that curled the dark hair in patterns to match. His nipples hardened to points under your touch and his cock grazed stickily against your thigh.

He leaned forward and pulled at the chains of your clamps with his teeth. 

You gave him the small victory of a sharp hiss before you slipped a finger inside his mouth to discourage him with a cluck of your tongue. He sucked at it for a moment before giving it a playful bite. When you didn’t pull away, he continued, taking two of your fingers to the back of his throat.  

Fuck, you thought, as you felt the saliva pool around his tongue and he suctioned the blood to the surface of your skin. It was utterly enthralling, watching his cheeks hollow, his jaw flex and his lashes flutter against his cheek.

You only stopped him so that you could finish pulling his pants under his ass and down below his knees, freeing him up to straddle him anew. To satisfy that ache deep inside of you he’d awoken earlier. To use him as he’d told you to.  

He’d wound you up and set you loose. Promised you relief, if only you had the guts to take it for yourself. Your greedy, selfish cunt shuttered for the chance. It didn’t know fear like you did. It growled and purred at the sound of his voice. The smell of his skin. The scrape of his mustache along your ribs as you lowered yourself slowly down onto him.

And he was good for you, too. Kept his eyes on yours as you rested your arms atop his shoulders, threaded your fingers through his hair. It was nice to touch him, you didn’t get to do it enough, and you seemed to draw power from the places your bodies met.

Intimacy. The exchange of weakness and strength. Give and take. Did he feel less lonely when he held your pleasure in his hands? As you did when you rose up and down along his length, slow enough that you surprised yourself.

You suddenly wanted to savor it, to draw out every last drop. He'd made you wait. You'd make it last forever.

You'd told him you couldn't feel this way alone. That it only worked when he did it. Did he get something out of your sessions too? Was he feeling anything more than just sex as he kissed your neck and suckled at your breasts? 

Hot and hungry. Equally both furious and tender.

You almost asked, almost broke and said something stupid. Something that would ruin everything, but before you could, you felt him tense along his shoulders.  

He broke first, or at least the ribbon you'd tied around his wrists snapped as he wrapped his arms around your middle and thrust up hard enough to chatter your teeth.  

“There you are, John,” you said aloud. Forgetting all pretense. You weren't supposed to say his name. He wasn't supposed to say yours.

But he did, more as an oath. Like a prayer, as he pistoned up his hips to meet you. Trapping you to him and taking back any allusion of submission.

And with it, leaving behind the shattered remains of your control.  

You didn't notice at first, not until he kissed you so hard it robbed the air from your lungs, that he had you by your throat. His big calloused palm under your chin.

You’re okay, you reminded yourself. It was John. You could trust him. He wouldn’t hurt you. You emptied your brain and let his grip absorb your panic.  

And as you did, it was better than any subspace you’d ever known. If you were able to get release from overcoming something painful, there was something even stronger in surviving your biggest fear. His fingers were tight around your neck, a thumb one side and the rest on the other. And you could...breathe.

It didn’t cut off your air, but it was something else. A dull pressure, a steadying hold. He had you. He was in charge of whether you lived or died. The very blood to your brain.

And yet, you were still alive. It broke you down and built you back up again into something new. Finally, like you’d been holding onto it for years, the orgasm you’d been chasing flooded you and you collapsed against his chest in defeat.  

In triumph.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir,” you sobbed into his neck as you let the foggy bliss take you. You were sorry for doubting him. Sorry for everything. Because there was no room for any of that self-pity where you were going. You gave up and gave in. Shed it all behind you with every lingering aftershock that racked your overstimulated body.

Your soul.

Never to be the same again.

You felt the abrupt absence of his hand as he pulled away with a gut-wrenching moan, like he’d touched something hot as he filled you with his own spend. As it pumped into you of its own force, you felt him shift again to cradle your face instead. Sweet, frantic brushes of his lips as he kissed your cheeks and wiped the tears from your eyes.

Somewhere deep under, you heard him say, “Fuck, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to. Fuck! I’m so sorry.”  

But you were too far down to remember why he was trying so hard to pull you back.