[notsafeforlove]

navigation & blog introduction

WARNING: this blog contains DARK content (e.g. nonconsensual sex) that will only broadly tagged as #dark-ish or other unconventional kinks (e.g. piss kink or hunter/prey kink) that will not be tagged if it doesn't fit into the dubious consent or nonconsensual area. i will not specify each content and tag it with proper triggers. please BLOCK ME if you are uncomfortable with the topics mentioned above.

hi! this is my (main) blog used for interacting (like/reblog/sending asks) with COD writings, arts, and its creators.

FYI

this blog is a mess because i mainly read in mobile

as warned above, i'm not very specific with my tagging

i don't do recommendation list but i recommend everything i reblog so feel free to navigate it based on the tags in this post

i might use it for other fandoms in the future but i mainly read about COD these days

i do have a blog for anime content but i hardly read about them these days

as mentioned above, this blog is strictly for interacting with writings i enjoy so i will not be having fandom discourse or talk about my politics here unless it is affecting one of the creators

i believe in free palestine, ACAB, fuck the US Military (ironically lol) and its government agents (CIA and FBI included), i support lgbt rights, i am pro-choice, and i am a misandrist

TAG GUIDE

#cod — call of duty fandom

#cod visuals — images/gifs that remind me of cod

#141 — all MULTI/POLY content that will have the 141 team (price ghost gaz soap), else it will just be tagged based on who is in the content (e.g. ghoap will have both #ghost and #soap)

#price #ghost #gaz #soap — the name speaks for themselves lol

#untagged — haven't got the time to properly tag this content

#.thoughts — my rambles

18+ dividers by @mikeykuns ✦ flower dividers by @thecutestgrotto

[ceilidho]

I respect the fuck out of people that are just like “yeah sorry that ship does nothing for me but you guys have fun” even when a lot of people get into something at once

[maelancoli]

trinity santos is a study in fandom misogyny because they gave her all the characteristics fandoms usually salivate for in men, being gruff, quippy and misunderstood with a tragic backstory but a heart of gold beneath it all. they put all this into her AND let her be a lesbian. she's everything you could ever want in a character but she's not a man so half the fandom either hates her or constantly mischaracterizes her as petty, callous and aggressive while doing mental gymnastics to baby the male characters around her

[notsafeforlove]

can someone take one for the team and write a y/n who calls out doctor robby robinavitch on his misogynistic bias

[luckieangel]

some of you i feel like are very easy to be babied by your faves. some of you might put up a fight/dodge it but i feel like your fave would baby you anyway

[notsafeforlove]

trigger warning — NSFW under the cut, slightly toxic relationship, toxic codependency, big big age gap (they're in their fifties, you're not), leon is a nasty old man and ada is a kinky old lady, also feet stuff because i saw this one video on twitter and immediately thought of ada

*me jolting down my ideas to the whiteboard office style* meeting ada and leon as their live-in chef slash housekeeper because they both can't cook for shit and decided to eat healthy food some time into their fifties while getting someone to do their housekeeping because their back can't do it anymore and then ended up as their 'third' but they treat you more like a house cat.

they call you their stay-at-home wife girlfriend and call your paycheck as 'allowance'. they say you're their lover but will choose the clothes you get to wear for the day. don't even think about driving anywhere if they're around because they'll be the one behind the wheel.

you cook for them and clean for them and takes care of the place while they're away on mission.

and if only one of them is away? you get to take care of the other.

with you, leon likes to be in control because with ada, he prefers ada to be in control. most of your time will be spent on your back or on your hands and knees. if he finds you wearing panties, he will cum inside it and make you wear it around the house and now you've stopped wearing it if only the two of you are around. gets touchy if he sees you food prepping on the kitchen counter which led to you being fucked senseless (also on the kitchen counter).

ada prefers to hear you. her fingers, her tongue, her strap—even the neck of a wine bottle once. if she finds you holding back your voice, she'll put you across her lap and spank you until you're hoarse from crying. she wore a barely-see through stocking once and you complimented how sensual her legs looked. later in the evening, she made you kneel by her feet and played with your tits using them. she also made you ride it while eating her out. leon was very upset when he found out what he missed out on.

their demands don't stop when they're both away. leon would text you and ask a video to ride the giant teddy bear in the living room. ada video called and asked you to ride her strap on the bed.

strangely, they both seemed to find their decorum when the other one is around. you wondered if this is one of the many cases where a couple decided to get a third because they couldn't fulfill their kink with their significant other.

yet their occasional shared looks over your shoulder and predatory gaze they'd have while the other recalls your bonding activity tells you that it's only a matter of time before they both released their restraints upon you at once.

[notsafeforlove]

to be chris redfield's controversially younger girlfriend...

[moondirti]

141 x f! READER. [3k] — AO3 dub/noncon. age gaps. pregnancy. toxic price. implied kidnapping. daddy kink. uncle kink (?). gangbang. lactation. voyeurism. oral (f! receiving). feet stuff.

The captain does not keep his spoils to himself.

He's always been that way, Kyle thinks. Even before he bound them with gossamer strings, webbing his prodigal boys together under a three digit moniker — he'd feed a little bit of his pride into every conversation. Easy to spot in hindsight, the golden broach of morning illuminating spun beginnings, dew dotted on translucent lines. He heard of Johnny before he knew him. Simon, too.

It simply isn’t like him.

But you, on the other hand—

Now he's never heard of you.

And he's sure it isn't a lapse of memory. Kyle would be hard-pressed to forget a conversation of that ilk, or the mental image of his captain with someone so fresh. Skin still downy-feather soft, the whites of your eyes bright and wet, hands unsure as the porcelain bones within them. Nescient of strife, death. The metallic aftertaste of gunpowder, or the way a scar will adopt a gnarled edge. It astounds him for a moment, to think that someone could go their whole life unburdened by these things — but then again, your neck seems accustomed to the possessive curl of Price's fingers. The bullish way he urges you forward, polished feet stumbling over each other to greet the overgrown men at the door.

Fawn-like, he resolves, as you suppress your fear with practised blinks, a grimace breaking your face when Johnny wraps a rough palm around yours, shaking too forcefully to be considered polite, jostling the cleavage barely concealed by a low-cut babydoll dress. It's a combined appraisal of your attire, the late hour, your squinted eyes — still sleep drenched — that tells him you didn't know they were coming.

Funny, seeing as they received the invite a fortnight ago.

(got something t'show you. been meaning to for a while.)

It's more than something, he'd say. Caught off guard, you cling to Price, sticky demurral ensnared by the hair of his forearm, a pace behind while he leads his men to the parlour. The light is low throughout the halls — which, if he were being honest, are cosier than anticipated. It would've been anyone's guess that the captain retreated to a house of concrete during his time off, utilitarian as he is — and Kyle feels as though he's intruding upon a dream. A surreal approximation of reality, where harsher lines blur into curves and calluses are softened like under the run of hot water.

His tongue is heavy when he swallows. Behind him, Johnny whispers something to Simon, who does not reply and has yet to speak.

No reason to. You don't ask for their poison once they're settled. Conditioned, you uncap what he recognises as Price's favourite single malt and pour three fingers worth (your closest measure to two of their own) for everyone. It gains you an appreciative pat from Simon, palm heavy on the back of your leg. A rush of noise in the unsteady silence. Too sudden, he thinks — for you jump and scamper, tucking, shaken, into an armchair's side.

Kyle feels his lungs squeeze when you pass by him, the air cradling a waft of cashmere musk and bluebell. It announces something he'd rather not voice. Something they all must be thinking. A question of pause, hesitancy, in face of the way your perfumed curves dangle blatantly before them. They're strangers to holding back. Nothing's demanded deference before — this quelling of predatory instinct. Johnny's smile gleams, his shark teeth struggling to stay clenched. Simon's eyes dry out the longer he stares, red fissures spelling out want so clearly it makes him reconsider his own.

His drink carves a path through the doubt in his throat. Flitting over to the captain, he watches for a reaction to Simon's transgression.

None comes.

So the man on trial sinks into his seat, exonerated. His mask has since been tucked beneath his chin, lips, more scar tissue than anything, contorting with amusement.

"Y'have to excuse me, lads." Price says, tugging you across the safe distance you've made and into his arms. It's even more startling a sight now, your body pinned to the canvas of his larger one. This Eleusinian contrast; Persephone, pomegranate carnage smeared over her mouth, impelled to spend her days with a force that means death to so many. Kyle wonders just which meadow he managed to pluck you from, what flowers you'd been weaving when it happened.

"Been keepin' this one from you," He walks you forward another step. "was building something... delicate, see. Had to wait until th' timing was right."

"Wuid nae blame ye, Cap." Johnny licks his lips, drying sweaty palms on denim, fingers curling in and out to work through the fervour.

"Jumpy lil thing, i'n't she?" Simon returns. "Would'a made like a rabbit in shock."

"Needed to be broken in first, naturally." Kyle breathes, stomach cramping with the enormity of his desire. His ears ring with a feverish pitch. Every time he blinks, it's a few seconds before his vision comes back to him.

Your nose turns away, lashes stitching together to keep the tears at bay. He can almost feel the mortification spilling hotly off your flesh, pooling, sappy thick, to glue itself wantonly on their boots. In his periphery, Johnny lurches forward, fondling the lace edge of your night dress as if to console you.

"Mm. Still a ways to go, but–" Price cups your wrists in one hand, tightening only to guide them well above your midriff. "now tha' I know she won't run off, she can finally meet her uncles."

And it's that resolve, the flag bearing that has led them to bloodshed countless times, that preludes this next march. All of a sudden, what was off limits is thrust into their reach — on stumbling, wary legs, heels digging grudgingly into the dirt, but still there, for the taking.

(Jowls aching, salivate blooming heavily beneath a writhing tongue. It's like he's been clipped off the dog house. Unleashed. And no matter how hard he tries to find it — desperately, his hindbrain sifting through layers of depravity for the righteous man he once was — he cannot muster much concern for your say in it all.)

"Ye sure aboot that?" Johnny's eyes are as wide as saucers. Having since slipped off his seat, kneeled as he is, he's borderline reverent in this light. Looking above for security, for assent, crux immissa a dull gold between his pecs. Your diaphanous dress grows opaque where his fist curls through it, shivering with every tremble of flesh. It is not your permission he is asking for, of course.

Price nods.

"Take a look yourself, son. Go on." He says, hooking an ankle to keep you rooted in place. The scot lifts the fabric so quick it tears, coming apart in tatters. If he'd been more deliberate with it, Kyle would have taken the time to appreciate the reveal—

The rounded brackets of your thighs. Their fattened inner lines. How your panties barely fit over your hips, folded over so that your mons peaks over the trim. Tufts of pubic hair, not as neatly defined as the rest of your appearance but laying flat, as though they were brushed. Groomed.

They all take a backseat to your stomach.

Swollen, belly button protruding, darker line down the middle. Not nearly full term, but perhaps well into your second trimester, the baby just small enough to be hidden by loose garments. Your lips screw into a pout, wet shame slipping down your cheeks as the heart of their invite comes to light. Kyle wonders, almost angrily, what there is to be ashamed of.

(Nothing. Nothing. Not when the captain beams as he does, crows feet making a brief and rare emergence. If he could, he'd pay ten times your dues to see it up just a moment longer.)

Simon squeezes the bulge in his trousers, jaw ticking with perversion. While adjusting himself, he's honed in on Johnny, who trails open-mouthed kisses up the underside of your belly. You flail a little at the hot press of his tongue, wiggling into Price for salvation that does not come. He holds you still for the ravaging, fingers clamping around your wrists, and Kyle delights in your expression. Slow acquiescence, dawning on the realisation that there is no backing away from this.

"It's been hard so far, but would you look at what's come of it." He hums, nosing your temple until you bend. Behind the coarse thicket of his moustache, his teeth briefly gleam. Then, Kyle watches with rapt fascination as Price latches onto your earlobe. "Giving me what I've always asked for. Now, I needed to reward her somehow."

Simon barks a laugh, the jagged edge of it razing up your legs. "Congratulations." He derides. Your toes curl into the carpeted floor; finding purchase, or comfort, in the plush fibres. Used to being the end of a joke.

Price joins in, too. Just for a brief moment, something warm and all-knowing crackling from his chest, before he turns to Kyle, expectant. "Garrick?"

Only as he clears the fog in his larynx does he realise how quiet he's been throughout this ordeal.

"Congrats."

The captain does not comment on the grit in his tone.

"Isn't tha' nice?" He whispers to you instead, undoing the ribbon keeping your décolletage together. It's a wonder your breasts haven't burst from it already, tender and heavy, visibly relieved once the straps slip off your shoulders. You match their intrigue with equal parts dread, damp lashes downcast, lips a small O — unable to do anything but watch as your tits spill out into the open air.

"Gettin' harder tae forgive ye fur holdin' oot on us." Johnny groans, sitting back on his haunches to admire the view himself. His mohawk skims a nipple in the motions, scouring the flushed tissue, and you squeal. It's just the unseemly match to throw you further off kilter; Johnny's intensity is scalding, an attention so zealous it forces you to regress into prey. If Kyle focuses, he can see the quick-tick pulse drumming in your neck.

"Doesn’ matter no more, does it?" Simon says, patting his lap. "Why don't you c'mere, bird, show us your thanks. Don't tell me daddy didn' train you proper."

The last dregs of scepticism drain from his pores when Price nudges you forward, tumbling over, straight seated onto his lieutenant's lap. With all the composure of a fisherman feeding bait onto a hook, casting it out to the sharks, he finds his seat again as Simon seizes you under his limbs, adding to his drink to watch you be pried apart for the evening.

His paws look huge against your torso, stationed there to haul you by the chest so your back conforms to his front. Scarred knuckles ripple, thick fingers kneading into fat, disfiguring your tits to mirror the ugly skin stretched over his fists. Beyond saving after countless burns and cuts, cursed to a lifetime of spoiling everything he touches, too.

It's intentional, though. Cruel, but subdued. Simon does not use his strength when he catches your nipples between rough forefinger and thumb. Your breasts are already sore, raw and tender with the changes your body's going through. He only exploits that, fondling the swollen masses like toys, shoving his tongue down your mouth when you pitch your complaints. Plucks them, rolling the knotted peaks so that it gets too much by ways of overstimulation.

"I know they 'urt. Yeah, fat fuckin' jugs like these need to be milked, else it gets too much. Poor pet. Daddy's a selfish man, huh? Keepin' you from the attention you need." He huffs, nipping the thin skin over your jugular. If the degradation isn't enough to keep up with — which it is, your little legs kicking to combat the humiliation churning your stomach — Johnny's hunger etches itself plainly upon his face. Pupils the size of the sun, drool slicking the cracks of his chapped lips.

Kyle spoors his interest to the space between your legs.

(A competitive flame lights in him, kindled by the knowledge of what Johnny wants. It sears him out of the voyeuristic stupor he's kept so far. All too suddenly, his teeth ache with the same violent desire, the sight of your pussy trapped behind soaked cotton the only meal he can ever imagine wanting.)

Johnny pounces.

Blinded by his holy grail, he does not dodge your foot when it aims for his head. You — trapped, dazed, in the process of being devoured by their lieutenant — only catch him from the corner of your eye, tongue sucked over your shoulder, eyes incessantly teary. Kyle knows you do not mean to hit him, only to ward him off with your flailing limbs. But your vision is impaired, and your heel makes contact with his chin, anyway.

It's about the worst thing you can do for yourself.

The scot moans, hips bucking into nothing. Like a dog, his impulses easily deflect, new sights set on the foot you so graciously offered him. His mouth unhinges, tongue extending as far as it can to lave over the sole, nipping around its pillowy edge. Your toes, perfectly manicured, attempt to flick him away, sternum caving as you hold back desperate little laughs at the sensation. It draws his attention upward, eyes flitting maniacally to and from your face, lips popping around your innermost toe and assessing the way you react. Sucking it into his mouth when you're not as enthusiastic, one hand cradled around your twisting ankle, the other palming clumsily at his crotch, growing more and more erratic the shorter your breaths get.

Kyle takes his chance. Folds his collar, and unfastens the first few buttons of his dress shirt. No one pays much heed to him — not Simon, whose hands remain fixed on your heaving tits (leakin' like a bloody cow, pet. look'it it, drenchin' my palms); Johnny, seemingly endlessly enthused by your feet; or you, your work cut out between the two of them, back arched, round stomach thrust up. Skin glossy no matter where he looks; heels covered in spit, legs in sweat, tits and stomach in breastmilk.

He faces Price.

The captain has not faded from the foreground. Though he sits, perched in an armchair across the parlour, Kyle still feels him weaving iron filigrees of influence around their every limb. Like he's standing above them, puppeteering — or, rather, making good of the years of practised obedience, their bodies whittled into vessels for his will. The cool pour of it fuels this system, lends them strength to do what they've never trusted themselves to do. It is just as good as his hands groping your chest, his mouth at your feet. His passion they lay onto your poor flesh.

And they are just as good as his, in turn.

His shoulders stretch wider when he turns back to you. His voice a little clearer. "Thanks for the opening, mate." He taunts Johnny, snickering at the defiant twitch of his brow, before sinking to his knees.

The gusset of your panties is near translucent, drenched with arousal. Kyle takes a moment to admire how your pussy twitches, clit pulsing, white cotton slipping over it in concert with every spasming muscle. He can see it all like this — the oil-spill slick webbing your inner thighs, the swollen lips slowly engulfing the fabric on either side, the gentle flutter of your vulva. Pure hunger compels him forward, lips pressing over the sloppy mess, nose crushing into your mons and taking a lung-mangling whiff.

Tangy. Underpinned by a certain earthiness, like molasses but bittersweet. Your scent darts through his cerebral cortex, bridging synapses together until everything is that much clearer. Tunnel visioned, dead set on lapping it until your taste becomes a tangible weight in his stomach. Kyle's cock, already hard and leaking, jumps suddenly against the constricting button of his trousers, balls aching, looking to release the pleasure ballooning in his pelvis.

He nips, pulls your panties away with his teeth, sucking the spoiled cotton into his mouth to make the most of the slick you wasted on it. It isn't nearly enough, not as tart as it would be undiluted by his spit, so he snaps it to the side only moments later to dive face first into your cunt.

And it's a warm welcome. Balmy heat glides over his nose, spilling into his mouth like manna out of heaven. It's a feverish kiss, akin only to the throb of a wound about to fester, heartbeat about to erupt out the surface of your skin. Kyle would be concerned if not for the folds he had to explore, the dip before your insides pulse open for him, the tributaries drawn from your centre. His tongue twists your clit, grinds it under pressure, lifts the hood and targets a point that feels like too much. Your moans grow into whines that grow into sobs, air clotting with a symphony of lewd sounds. Tacky schlicks, slobbering, panting. The clink of ice in Price's glass. Simon's ceaseless insult to injury, degradation a molten river out his mouth.

"Crying, an' we 'aven' started on ya yet. Poor baby. Isn' a slut s'posed to be good a' this? Jus' gonna sit 'ere and wail for yer daddy, all while we do the heavy lifting." From his vantage point, peeking beneath his brows, your tits seem to have grown used to the lieutenant's abuse. A little less swollen, doughy in his big, nasty hands — though what they now lack in ripeness, they make up for in a hundred little bruises, already purpling. Dark and vibrant, the milk still trickling from your puffy areolas borderline pearlescent in contrast. "Look'it them."

He grabs your cheeks, forcing you to peer down at the men stationed below. Kyle, though occupied, does his best to smile. He feels Johnny puff up behind him — when he worked his way up your leg, he doesn't know.

"Nnnghhh."

"Say it." His nose crooks where he thrusts it against your temple, lip curling cruelly over your ear. A vein splits the planes of his jaw, arm bulging to reach up for your neck. Your face turns a shade darker, mouth puckering the deeper his tongue thrusts up your pussy. The words lodge in your throat, teeth chattering uselessly around unshaped air. Johnny hovers behind him. Price burns approving holes onto his back.

He doesn't expect it to happen as it does.

Your ass tenses, suddenly firm, lifting you off of Simon's lap. Kyle's hands smooth up his erection, his fingers digging into the plush crests of your pussy. Spreads them apart to be able to drive his maw further in, searching for just the right spot inside you.

But in the end, what does it is the accidental graze of his incisors over your clit. You burst, floodgates dissolving straight into his mouth — soaking the entire lower half of his face, the buttons he undid serving no other purpose than having exposed his chest to your mess, matting the dusting of hair over his pecs.

You don't look at any of them as you come down. Instead, your eyes prune shut, crusted in tears yet still snivelling wretchedly, trying to sniff and take back all that unfolded. Something buried in his heart twinges; resonant but stifled under layers of arousal. His cock spits pre-spend over his boxers, too heavy now to stand upright.

Simon does not take pity on you, flicking an oversensitive nipple.

"Still waiting." He says.

Your voice is barely legible. Raspy and whistle-toned. It occurs to him, as you sit there and muster enough energy to voice what's expected of you, that Kyle has yet to hear you speak.

"Thank you."

"Na fair." Johnny huffs against your cunt, eyes rolled to the back of his head, scleras foggy with desire. He's since shouldered his way beside him — the two sergeants sat between your spread legs —hopelessly chasing the climax Kyle managed to syphon out of you, mouth opened just in case you squirt again.

"You won't get very far with that, mate." His ego feels imperishable, amassing like a star before death. It cramps his ribs, makes him feel like nothing will ever amount to the way it crowds his chest. A smug smile stitching his lips. They both know that the half-dazed efforts won't amount to much. "Jus' focus on what you're good at, yeah?"

Not ones’ for subtly with each other, he guides Johnny hand to wrap around his width. The scot perks up, looking at Kyle's hard-on, then you, then his hard-on, then you.

"Dinnae want tae save your energy for the lass?"

But Simon's already unleashed his own cock — ruddy, angry, monstrous — lining it up to your exhausted hole. The head alone spans the space between your thighs, and judging by the panicked look wringing your little face, he shrugs.

"Think it'll be a while before he stretches her out."

[oceantornadoo]

persephone (simon riley x f!reader) age gap, a bit coercive, dark

—

it started with fruit.

you were simon riley’s secretary, working for a man clouded in darkness and gold. you’d hear whispers on the street, see pitying faces when you mentioned who you worked for to strangers. to them, he was a cold, hard beast. to you, he was a king.

he started by bringing you fruit, pomegranate seeds and ghost-white pears. small quips about eating healthy now while you were still young enough. ms twenty something meets mr not-yet middle aged, the lines of his face just starting to crease but the beer belly nowhere to be found. he mined diamonds, you heard. he owned cemeteries, said another secretary. they call him ghost, whispered a personal assistant. you didn’t care, didn’t need to when that wasn’t your job.

he had scarred hands, craggly things winding into the cuff of his midnight black suits. didn’t wear a mask but always seemed to be covered in darkness, his face unrecognizable in half lit rooms and empty offices. he always stayed late so you did too, indulging in the extra car he ordered for you, his driver called charon. simon never held long conversations but simply beckoned you, some string in your belly pulling tight at his recognition. at least a third of his day spent with you, murmuring soft nothings, inquiring about your mother and the upcoming winter, the beauty in the death of the trees. “y’ smell like spring, love.” he’d said one morning, and you resolved to wear that same pomegranate spritz indefinitely.

and then it moved to jewels. congratulations on your one year preceded by a tennis bracelet. a trinket of a three headed dog, something small to keep on your desk. the hours draw on later and later, canceled plans with your mother and nymph-like friends piling up like leaves. his touch starts lingering, hard calluses on soft skin.

a hand on your back, guiding you into a conference room. your hair brushing against his torso, the intimacy of it jarring. you twisted your ankle one day, the height of your heels overindulgent. ended up on the couch in his private office, his hands massaging your foot. “like a delicate flower.” he’d murmured, rewarding you with an anklet of diamonds once the pain wore off.

three years in, an invite to his private island. no service, leave your phone at home. sign an nda, we’ll work remote, gone for a month maybe more. pack some nice clothes, maybe a white dress if you’ve got one. take my card if you don’t.

stepping off the helicopter, charon at the helm. you weren’t there against your will but the hairy arm around your waist was heavy, a reminder of the cost you’d paid to visit the underworld. two weeks in and you couldn’t even act surprised when he proposed, on one knee with a glint in his eyes. “you and me, love, against th’ world.”

and if you said yes to the fruit, the diamonds, the care, the attention - saying yes to this was just the next step. an elopement, he’d already drawn up the license - “why wait, dove? y’r so fragile already.” you’re not, have a hidden strength under you, but ghost doesn’t care, ghost takes what he wants, and you, legs spread and eyes soft, are it.

when he fucks you, that’s when it’s settled. cunt dripping on his fingers, his face, his cock. he mutters something about a vasectomy and you’re taking him bare, making eye contact with a ghostlike gardener who walks past the window. your jaw unhinged, drool at the corner of your mouth as he fucks you from behind, one hand on your throat.

“such a good secretary, hm?” and you nod ferociously like the three-headed puppy on your desk. you’ll never work again, too busy with his cock in your mouth or his remote vibrator in your cunt at dinner. the jewels drip into a roar - diamond encrusted toys you’re not sure are entirely safe, bejeweled handcuffs, glittery collars. he’s pluto, the riches of the earth following his orders when he chases you in his private woods. simon’s presence is otherworldly, taking you with the strength of a god as you squirm against his grip. his oldness disgusts you but makes you gush all the same. “gonna be good for daddy?” and you agree vehemently at the king before you, on his knees.

[heartstakes]

price letting his girl drink a little at a small event with the rest of the team and almost immediately she's getting sleepy and clingy. practically glued to his side and he thinks maybe its not so bad letting her drink every once in awhile.

[fuckleon1]

price who bends you over his desk, fingering you with his thick fingers, and you think he's going to fuck you, but really he's just getting you ready for simon.

he knew simon wouldn't have the courage to start this with you, and john has no problem helping out, so his lieutenant can finally get what he wants.

his daughter.

[heartstakes]

PRICE AND HIS WIFE WITH MOMDAUGHTERDAD UGHHHH

[glossybutdarker]

HNGNDNFKDBDSNFMENDSN

[heartstakes]

HEY. DONT HIDE THIS IN TAGS!!!!!!!!!!! IM GOING INSANE

[glossybutdarker]

HEEHJEJSH 🤭

“aw, don’t be like that, baby. open up for mommy.” she forces her thumb in your mouth and pries your mouth open before shoving a nipple in, cooing about how cute you are, and “don’t tell me you don’t miss this.” you look up at her with teary eyes while your tongue accidentally laps at her nipple.

your dad pries your legs apart and pulls your underwear down to reveal how sticky you are between your thighs. he chuckles. you must want it then. you accidentally whimper around her nipple when you feel his calloused palm cup your slick mound.

[maskosis]

a bit morose, but this was originally an original idea (shocker, i'm sure) which was slowly repurposed as i realised there was no place for it outside of scribbled lines in a notebook. but.

an effort to find your biological father after your mother passes leads you to a man named John Price. he doesn't quite fit the hazy memories you have of her slurring out her heartache between sharp snick of a lighter, the acrid stench of cheap, unfiltered cigarettes, and the monotonous drawl of early morning cartoons, but still. you won't know unless you try.

your meagre inheritance is sponged up when you book a flight to the last known place he lived, showing up at his doorstep unannounced with nothing but a backpack, a photo album, and faded dreams of a man you don't know. haven't ever known. he takes you in, but viciously combats this notion of paternity—especially with your mother. a woman he briefly knew, but never had. or that's what he tells you, anyway. letting you believe these rotted lies, half-truths, and you come to grips with the realisation that there is a very real, very poignant attraction to this man. one who could very well be your father.

not that you'd ever know, of course. Price gets the results back a few weeks after you show up.

he shredded it after looking it over.

[heartstakes]

18+ !!! warning for incest/pseudo-incest and dub-con. ( daddaughter with price and the rest of the 141 feeding into it. )

being price's daughter means having the rest of the 141 jokingly calling themselves your uncle (ghost) or brothers (gaz and soap).

honestly, since your dad suddenly came back into your life, the three other men seemed to be the only other friends you could keep. one day, you'd be talking with someone nice you'd met on an errand and then the next they'd vanish.

the only constants in your life now, ironically, were thanks to your dad. not knowing it was him and the boys' fault you couldn't talk to someone for more than a day.

overprotective on behalf of price and just as possessive.

of course, you get pent up and frustrated. of course, soap and gaz are the first to catch on.

it's not your fault when soap and gaz convince you to let them help. sitting on your bed while soap helps you grind against gaz, your sleep shorts soaked and sticking to your skin.

not your fault that your dad can hear your whimpers and moans from the kitchen and goes looking for his little girl.

and when he knocks on your door and you try to pull yourself off the fingers stuffed in your cunt, gaz just shushes you sweetly. whispering in your ear, won't you let him see how good they're taking care of you? while soap goes to open the door.

[nastydogpublishingco]

rick grimes who is not going to give you a fucking hickey

rick grimes who is 15 years older than you, goddammit, and well past his “hickey days”

rick grimes who dismisses your pouty bottom lip with a wave after rebuffing your 12th whiny opine of the day about why you think he should stain your pretty throat with as many hickeys as possible, because honestly, he’s trying to maintain some fucking level of respectability around here

rick grimes who’s already had it up to here with the whispered gossip and dodgy looks he’s been getting since the group found out about y’all’s relationship, partially because of your substantial age gap (which, jesus, it’s not like he feels particularly good about that either, but he just couldn’t fucking help himself, ok?), but also because it’s common knowledge that he shares you with daryl, which…ok, yeah, maybe it’s a little unconventional, but it’s the fucking apocalypse! who has the bandwidth to care about shit like that anymore?

rick grimes who’s really, seriously not going to give you a fucking hickey, you need to stop asking him, he’s gonna get well and truly pissed off soon if you don’t stop —

rick grimes who sees a hickey on your throat one day.

clear as day, right beneath the soft hinge of your jaw, a bruise blotched into the otherwise flawless expanse of your long, pretty neck. and when his gaze dares to skate a little lower, wouldn’t you know it — there’s another one, on the other side, where the column of your throat melts into the rest of your shoulder, vivid and offensive.

you say they’re from daryl. you blink your long lashes and screw up your plush lips and fold your arms, like rick’s the one being ridiculous, like you didn’t just waltz in front of him with another man’s mark on you —

and listen. he loves daryl, honest to god. that’s his best friend, his right hand, the man he’d trust with his life one hundred times over. and daryl is a good man, so rick’s never minded sharing you with him. he knows you’re safe, knows you’re happy, yet all of that means dick the second he sees the evidence of daryl’s mouth on your body

rick grimes who is just a man, at the end of the day.

rick grimes who hefts you up and against the wall, his mouth latched onto your pulse point before you can finish asking him what the fuck he’s doing, his hands batting yours out of his fucking way because you like to fight him, you like to push and squirm and whine like he’s not doing everything you beg him for, because you know it makes him feel like a fucking pervert, but all the fight wheezes out of you like a deflating balloon the second he scoops your wrists into one large palm and thwacks them above your head so you stop fucking trying to push him away

rick grimes who scratches his way down your neck, sucking, biting, licking, the coarse scrape of his beard rubbing you raw, giving you what you fucking asked for, camouflaging the marks daryl oh-so-generously gave you with livid bruises of his own because he’s a bad, possessive, jealous old man who cannot stop himself

rick grimes who grinds himself against your ass while you whimper for him, high and strained in the back of your throat, like a cornered prey animal about to be gnashed between the foaming jaws of a predator, and maybe that’s what he is, maybe he’s a sick fuck because it makes him so fucking hard when you do that

rick grimes who wasn’t going to give you a fucking hickey, but now he’s given you five in places you couldn’t hope to hide without a turtleneck sweater and a thick scarf wrapped up to your ears, and he can’t stop himself, doesn’t want to, and if the way you’re panting and bucking and mewling for him means anything, he’d reckon you don’t want him to stop either

rick grimes who fucks you filthily, right there, against the wall, jeans halfway down his thighs, your skirt rucked up around your tummy, eyes spinning like pinwheels and drool silvering the corner of your ruddy, open mouth as he scuffs his teeth down, down, down, past your collarbones and into the soft give of your tits, because if you want fucking hickeys, he’s going to give you as many as he damn well pleases, wherever he damn well fucking pleases

rick grimes who cums in you, buries himself inside you so deep you choke on every thin sip of air you try to take, and your cunt spasms like it’s trying to push him out as he unloads, and he can feel it overflowing, can feel liquid heat welling around his cock and dribbling obscenely down your pretty thighs before it splatters onto the ground, and that should be enough, but oh, boy, it’s nowhere near

rick grimes who sets you clumsily back on your feet and catches you by the hips before you stumble forward, because he’s sunk to his (creaky, crackly) knees and hitched one of your legs up and over his shoulders so he can get straight to work sucking hickeys into the sinfully soft give of your lush inner thighs, and two of his thick fingers start methodically pushing his cum back into your drooling little hole, because it’s not enough to wear his marks on your skin, suddenly, you need to be wearing it on the fucking core of your being, as well

rick grimes who wrings one, two, three more orgasms out of you that way, who makes you cum until tears have mapped out a path down your red cheeks and pooled in the hollow of your throat, because your delicate pleas for mercy don’t change the fact that he’s decided your orgasms belong to him too

rick grimes, who in fact gives you so many fucking hickeys that daryl has the gall to look scandalized when he sees you next, like he played no part in the whole ordeal, and who’s selfishly, darkly, perversely thrilled about the way you tilt your head back and display your marred throat proudly, like you couldn’t be happier, grinning like the cat who got the cream

just. rick grimes

[groovyangelkisses]

rick “just the tip because she’s 15 years younger than me and shaking like a leaf with big, blown out pupils and sweat & lip gloss sticky lips puffing out as she waits for me to slip inside” grimes, i love you ꨄ

[dmitriene]

simon riley makes you dependent on the ghost of his touch, the heavy weight of his hand that is always somewhere across the curves of your body, so when he's not near, or just doesn't reaches out to squeeze and tug you in close, you'll feel uncomfortable, as if something important misses, a part of you, now.

the feel of his large, rough hands chasing you, the warmth of his touch that sears through you, tracing and pressing into every nook and cranny, calloused, long fingers fanned out along the small of your back, right at the little dip he knows are hides beneath your clothes, memorized by now, alongside every other, always encompassed by the breadth of his palms.

when simon is not there, it nearly feels cold, freezing through your bones with a deep, dull and chilling sensation, there's an emptiness, wherever he once touched you, now, a feeling as if your skin was being torn out, leaving an through hole by it's place, and it's makes you needy, aching, yearning for more, for what you consider as lost, so you chase his touch.

it fills him with a strange sense of pleasure, seeing how much you thirst for his touch, and there's nothing better than tying you up like that, seeing you melt under his arms, practically purr like a tamed cat, nuzzling into his chin with needy, messy kisses, small, stinging nips, rubbing all over the hard planes of his body, arching sharp into the feel of his large palm crawling up your rippling spine.

simon's blunt nails almost permeate in through the upper, doughy suppleness of your thigh, pads of fingers splayed over close to your clothed cunt, and it's impossible to miss, the smoldering, twinging need that waits him there, almost burning over the thick skin of his scarred hand, when he cups over your mound, squeezing, making your hips buck forward, jumping harsh, and your teeth part to release a wanton moan.

when he reaches over where you need him the most, the part that cries with oozing, viscous slick and soddens through your panties, you part your legs wide open for him to explore, pinch and rub over, trembling on top the tense muscles of his thighs, as he circles and thumbs at the engorged, overly sensitive nub of your clit, making you sob and blabber desperate pleas for more, and he wouldn't tell you no.

not when you unravel so rawly just from his touch alone, parting your mouth for simon's plundering kisses, the snaking tongue that invites itself into the wet, drooling heat of your mouth, as you whine into the feeling, from the pleasure that mounts higher and higher up from below your belly button, stomach churning, knotting, and it's all because of him.

main masterlist. quidelines.