Hiyaaaa~ You can call me Hare or Heresy (any pronouns)! I made this sideblog as the outlet for my recently developed Taskforce 141 hyperfixation. I've started making progress through the games but I'm obsessed with all the drabbles and fanfic on here so I wanted to participate :3
MDNI - I'm nasty and dark with my posts and reblogs
This is a solidly anti-AI blog!
I don't fuck with the military irl
Ask Box Is Open!
Will write: fluff, smut, angst. I'll write most things, including dubcon, noncon, fauxcest and piss
Will not write: Scat, gore, vomit
Also feel free to just leave your own thoughts, comments and headcanons :33 Anons welcome, just don't be a dick <3
Now imagine being prices kid with the biggest crush on nikolai...
You met him later in life, after your dad finally showed interest in actually being a dad, maybe that's why you saw him more potential partner than parental figure.
Nik, with his thick torso, rough hands, that scent of work never quite hidden under the cologne. Fuck, maybe university stunted your dating life a bit, because your crush was bursting at the seams. Following him around your apartment when he visited, just wanting to be near the man.
He knows. Of course he does when you practically throw yourself at him the first time he visits without john.
Which is how you end up in your hallway, back to niks hairy chest, one large paw wrapped around your hip. "Such a greedy thing, yes? Just needed me that bad?"
"Nik–! Nik, please– please, I want it–" you whine, the hand cradling your throat—not squeezing, simply adjusting your posture—keeping you arched.
His cock slides wet and hot between your cunt, the head of it just barely grazing your clit with each stroke. You can feel his coo against your back, "you are a price. I cannot betray John's trust, can't fuck his kid. Just hold still."
You whine more when his hand slips lower to cup over your pussy, creating a tight space to drill his cock into. Friction so good you never want it to end and yet never enough to get you over the edge.
Nik finishes on your back, thick spurts of cum you're sure would beat any pill you could take.
And to think you're supposed to see him and dad at dinner next week...fuck.
warnings: noncon, anal, ignored safeword, mentions of noncon breeding.
thank you to @the-californicationist and @bythegraceofathena for beta reading ♥
Consent is tricky—not always as clear cut as one might think.
Trust is trickier still, delicate like a ringlet curl and melts away as easy as candyfloss on your tongue.
You trusted Nikolai, he was a gentleman.
His hand on your back never strayed too low, there was never a question when it came to who would pay for dates, and he was tactful but open when it came to his line of work.
You thought the openness was maturity, now you see it was a warning.
You're naked as the day you were born and entirely on display, your vulnerability offered up on a platter.
Perhaps it was a bad idea, offering it up so soon, but you felt safe.
Nikolai had been guiding you, as a wise older figure, as an experienced man, deeper into this lifestyle of thrills and taboo.
So here you were, bound at his mercy for the first time, safeword rattling around your brain, waiting in case you needed to pull the trigger.
“Not too tight?” His voice purrs as he secures the final rope in place with soft but insistent tug.
You shake your head, before correcting yourself with words. “Nope.”
Your cheek is pushed into the mattress as your arms are pulled beneath you and bound together, your arse wiggles high in the air, the only part of your body with any real freedom.
Nikolai taps you, encourages you to struggle against your binds and smirks a wicked grin when you struggle just to do that. “Perfect.”
There's a moment of silence then, stillness as the anticipation builds like a quiet storm.
The burn of his stare is heavy, inspecting you, and the weight of it makes your body react without even a single touch.
Finally, a curled knuckle nudges up your folds, teases your pretty little nub, and a delighted chuckle leaves the Russian as you jolt under his gentle caress.
And then the softness fades, replaced by hungry hands that curl next to the sensitive folds of your cunt, they pull until your lips are parted and your apex is completely exposed. “Such pretty holes, milaya.” He coos, wasting no time as he moves for further exploration.
His hands paw upwards, grabbing at your cheeks and pulling much the same, revealing to his greedy eyes the hole you'd already denied him.
Knowing he's there, hovering above you with his eyes glued to the one thing he can't have, you shiver like a leaf, tremble like prey.
“Fuck.” You mewl, the sensation of his hands already so good, melting you down into a puddle.
“So sensitive.” The grin on his lips is audible in his pleased words, a grin that only grows as he dares to move upwards, rubbing his slicked finger across your puckered hole. “Here too? Feels good?”
“It feels…” You buck as his touch intensifies, the pad of his finger toying with your entrance.
Despite everything, your hesitancy, your refusal—it feels fucking good.
“Mmm, Nik!” You squeal, as just moments after you feel it: the wet hot press of his tongue, laving your precious entrance with reckless abandon. “I—”
“Shhh.” He mumbles between your cheeks, stubble catching sensitive flesh as he tries to quiet your pointless commentary.
His tongue returns with vicious fervour, tasting all you have to offer and more as slick noise fills the air, mingling with the man's moans to form a taunting melody.
“Just a taste, maybe a finger.” His voice is soft, a trick to try and soothe you, his pleasant grumble an attempt at distraction.
“N—” You try to reaffirm your boundary, to keep him away from what you refused to give him, but such an action is pointless.
A hand eclipses your head, shoves your face further into the too-expensive mattress until the sound is muffled.
It works just as well to muffle the scream that follows, as Nikolai plunges a finger in, deep and probing, curling against you in ways you never wished to feel, and yet your body reacts like it's been waiting for it all along.
You shiver and shake and moan and shout—the pleasure, the pain, the intrusion, and the intimacy all overwhelming your fragile little brain.
It's not long before the lust takes him, the hunger and the fire and the impatience. He laid his trap, and waited so long for all the pieces to fall into place, placated you with numbing sweetness all for the jagged teeth to sink into you before you have time to realise.
The jaw has closed, there's no escape.
He shuffles behind you, and you freeze in fear, knowing what comes next.
First his belt, then the rustle of his jeans, and before long you feel it, that thick, heavy, gorgeous cock rubbing against your slickened hole.
With his hands focused on shifting you into place, you can crane up your head, cry out one more time. “Nikolai, red, please!”
He grows tired of your pleading, your denial of what is best for both of you, and shoves the boxers he just stripped himself of straight into your protesting mouth—then he taps you on the cheek, twice for good measure.
“Dumb little thing, nyet?” He scoffs as he returns to his rightful place at your rear. A quick rummage around his beside table produces the lube he's prepared just for a night like this.
He flicks the cap, squeezes a plentiful amount on you, on him.
After all, he's a gentleman; he doesn't want it to hurt… too much.
“Just like the other girls. Won't do anal, will do bondage. Can't say no, now, hmm?”
He ruts against your hole with the head of his cock, gentle pushes that tease and taunt.
And then he breaches. You hiss, he groans, slowly sinking in until each fat inch is swallowed by your greedy, untouched hole.
He can hear the choked-back sobs, feel the way your body trembles and your entrance chokes him.
“I know, first time. But this is your fuck hole.” He coos his explanation to you with sickening condescension, like you just needed a big, smart man to finally show you the way.
Mercifully, a hand sinks lower, curls round to toy at the spot where his balls meet your other opening. “This? This is baby box. Only fucked when breeding. An honour, not fit for just any girl.”
You shouldn't shiver; you certainly shouldn't gush the way your cunt does at that moment.
He takes a moment to push in that final inch, sheathing himself fully in your virgin arse, his new home.
“But you're taking me so well. Asshole made for me.”
Despite the attempt at preparation, it burns, and yet one of Nik's hands pets your head like it's all an act of love.
“Maybe for round two, then I fuck you full of child, hmm?”
Nikolai allows himself many comforts in life. Expensive alcohol, a nice collection of watches, good quality kitchen knives and a man who makes his head spin with his tongue.
The softest he allows himself is his daily conversations with Peanut.
Whether he be on the couch with her sitting on his lap, making biscuits against his belly and clawing little holes into his favourite t-shirt. Or standing in the kitchen, cooking a meal as she peers down at him from on top of the fridge.
On a rare occasion, it occurs when he's in the shower and she's bullied her way into the bathroom to screech at him from her perch on the bathroom sink.
"Did you enjoy your morning watching the birdies, sweetheart?"
"Mrrrp."
"You're right, I did see the robin. Well spotted."
"Nik- "
"Fuck off, I'm having a conversation. Wait your turn."
"Mreep."
"Exactly, the English and their impatience. You understand. Now, tell me about your time watching the birdies and I'll tell you what type of Dreamies I bought in Tesco."
John Price’s favorite position is a mating press because he’s a fucking dirty old man with a raging breeding kink. The position allows him to fuck you real deep, kiss your cervix just so with his fat tip so that he fills your womb thrust after thrust.
And he keeps you there long after he’s finished, legs pressed to your shoulders, cock keeping you nice and plugged with his seed, muttering something breathless and ragged about ‘making a baby stick.’
John MacTavish’s favorite position is cowgirl because he’s obsessed with you and it gives him the perfect view of everything you. How your face scrunches when you sink all the way to the bottom or the way your tits bounce with each new thrust.
How your weight feels on top of him, so you’re in control. And the way you look at him, eyes determined, when he starts to get overstimulated, and begs you to stop, but you just fuck him harder.
Kyle Garrick’s favorite position is doggy because he’s an ass man after all and your hips are the perfect handles. He can’t stare at the way your ass recoils off his hips for too long or listen to the loud smack or else he’ll finish too quickly.
And he doesn’t even have to tell you; you just know he likes it when you bury your face into your arms and arch your ass that much higher. You don’t ever run too, just take the way his balls slam against you, meeting him with each deep thrust.
Simon Riley’s favorite position is prone brone because he can’t look at your face without immediately needing to finish. He’d rather take you this way, with your body trapped under his, weight suffocating you, so you have no option, but to take it.
Likes curling his hand around your neck and burying his face against your shoulder. Likes the way your legs kick out even more when he’s fucking you too roughly hands scrambling to find purchase on anything.
22!Soap x 09!Soap (so confusing, so Johnny and John respectively)
Meeting your doppelganger from another reality was a mind fuck. Being bent over and pounded stupid by said doppelganger was insane in just about every reality.
"Captain..." Johnny whined. Panting against the older mans lips. Breath hitching with every powerful thrust.
Despite this man also supposedly also being 'John MacTavish', he was very different. A grizzled older soldier. Scarred and rough and so much larger than Johnny himself. He reminded Johnny strangely of his own father. He would have to unpack that later.
Seeing his own face, older and heavier, covered in hair, twisted in pleasure, was incredibly strange. This clone's brows pinched in exactly the same way Johnny's did when he was close. But his groans came out much lower. Gruff from years of smoking and yelling over gunfire.
"Ye like that, lad?"
Johnny nodded, eyes rolling back in his head as John's much thicker cock stretched him open. Hitting his prostate hard with every thrust. Sending pleasure shooting up Johnny's spine until he could barely think, let alone answer.
"Pathetic... ye ken?"
Johnny let out a confused whine. His legs starting to ache as they were pushed further back. Pinned down by the full weight of his doppelganger.
"Ah never once took cock this willingly... and ye fuckin' love it. How do ye think ye'll ever be captain when yer this much of a cock whore..."
John laughed loud at the pathetic sob he got in response. Slowing to grind his cock deep. Flicking the younger mans cock until the sob pitched up into a cry. Johnny's dick twitching as he came over his stomach between them.
Johnny grabbed your arm right as he threw the grenade. Dragging you around the corner so the blast wouldn't hit you. But still covering you with his whole body anyway.
After the explosion you glanced up, confused to see the eager grin on his face. Out of breath and excited as he took your hand in his. Sliding the grenade pin onto your finger.
"Marry me..."
You giggled. Tilting your hand so the oversized ring clinked against the gold already adorning your finger.
"We're already married, baby."
He cursed softly. Cupping your cheeks to kiss you gently.
Simon learning simple magic tricks as a way to recover after roba, both mentally and with dexterity, getting to use those skills years later on a terrified group of children the 141 rescues.
They're all sat waiting on transport, wide eyed and teary, a couple of them full on shaking, and Simon can't stand watching it, so he crouches down and pulls a coin out. Makes it vanish. A couple of them stop crying long enough to watch. It's a start.
He does the ear trick next, coin appearing behind one of the kid's head, and that gets an actual reaction, this hiccupy little laugh from a little girl. So he keeps going, throws in the handkerchief thing too, the one where the coin somehow passes through, and by now a few of them have gone from crying to just watching him with their mouths open.
When he asks if they want to see it again, they give him so many nods and little disbelieving smiles. His best audience by far—and also his first.
One of the braver ones, an older kid, maybe ten, asks how he did it. Simon doesn't even think about it, just shows her and slows it down so the kid can see how. Then has her try it with her own hand. The kid's fingers keep fumbling it and she drops the coin twice, but she's not crying anymore, tongue stuck out the side of her mouth in concentration.
That gets two more kids crawling over wanting a go, and now Simon Riley, skull mask and all, is sat on the floor of some extraction point teaching a handful of traumatized children how to palm a coin, patient as anything. Gaz watches from a few feet off, smiling softly as the whole room seems to ease at the lifted weight.
Ghost with a million scars over his back is so important to me.
Price sees it for the first time helping Simon out of a sweat damp t-shirt and into a shower after an injury that left him unable to pull the top over his head himself, and his head reeling just enough to call to John with a hesitant "help?"
Still stuck slightly in that weird limbo of seeing John as both his captain and savior, though he won't admit that. He leans into him, Price holds him up. He sinks, John pulls him back out of the water. Some strange middle ground between tender and devastating.
He trusts John to be gentle as he pulls the shirt off and lets it fall to the floor.
Angry scars gather at his back, John would assume his front matched the painful display of raised, neglected scars. If not to a slightly better degree than what faces him now. His ribs weren't spared either.
The captain knows better than to touch, but his hand lingers only for a moment. Just over his soldier's hip while his eyes look over the plethora of scars.
Whips, cattle prods, knives, nails, fire, surgical tools... He doesn't claim to know what Simon faced, but he can get an idea of the state of him by these marks. The scars that don't seem like they'd fade, the burns that Simon winced at when he turned in his sleep.
A loopy part in Simon's tired mind lets him open his mouth.
"They left me there with 'em on me..." He mumbles, shaved head tilted down to the ground. The captain doesn't ask why he insists on keeping it buzzed, nor why he shakes when he watched him hold the trimmers.
"With what, son?"
"A battery. Kept me tied down." His tone remains flat, eyes stuck on a peeling part of caulk in the open shower. Is it trusting, or spilling the answer to a question to avoid the moment John would inevitably ask at some point?
"Oh, Simon." Price sighs, slow and steady. Level, the best he can manage for Ghost's sake.
The way Simon shrugs is purely detached. Every inhale is delayed a little too long, his cheeks a little too red each time he holds that breath.
"Still hurts?"
"No." Ghost answers too fast for the sights John has seen more than occasionally. The scratching at healed scars, the winces when a hand pats his back in any capacity, the tears that well in his eyes when his guard drops just enough for John to see Simon.
So John nods and merely helps him out of the rest of his clothes. The shower water runs warm, and Price pretends to not hear the distance curses or pained whimpers from the next room.
When price has to take his sweet, beloved baby to be vaccinated, he cries more than she does.
"It'll be okay, sweetpea, just be strong for dada, okay?" He rumbles, baby tucked to his chest in the exam room. She's so small and excited, wide eyes taking in the new room, no idea what's about to happen.
But price does, and it tears him up inside.
The nurse has the needle out, and price has to fight the urge to tuck his little girl against his chest and hide her away. Instead, he nods with his face already red in upset and forces out "okay. Do it."
The reaction is instant, baby's hands curling into fists and face twisting with a cry. Wet, innocent eyes turning to stare at her papa as if asking why he did that to her.
The rest of the day, price is inseparable with her.
Keeps her cuddled up in his arms or right in front of him, eye's glassy with remorse. Even when you point out how your daughter has clearly moved on, smashing her toy trains together, he just furrows his brows.
Maybe this was the first reminder.
That some thing's he can never protect from pain. Not even his daughter. Not even you.
When he comes home to an empty house, gutted and trashed with bullet holes in the plaster and no signs of you or his kid, he will think of that exam room.
How he had to hold his daughter in his arms and hurt her, seeing the needle long before she knew what it was.
You look from your place in bed, glasses almost sliding off of your nose. You glance around the room once before pointing at yourself. Simon gives you a dead-serious nod of his head, drilling holes into you with his eyes.
“Huh, what’d I do, Si?”
“All that. I’m tellin’ you t’ stop bein’ a tease.”
You take yourself into account. You are sitting in bed in your ugly, mismatched pajamas, reading a book with everything about you totally undone. You were just nodding off when he walked in. What’s Simon on about?
“I’m-… Are we playing around? Joking? I don’t get it.” You’re about as un-sexy as you can be.
He huffs and walks up to the edge of the bed, reaching under the covers to wrap a large hand around your ankle and pull you to the edge, locked under his gaze as blankets crowd around you. “Look at ya, love. Quit playing games.”
You finally find it in you to laugh at his ambiguity, watching the corners of his mouth quirk. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably, tightening his grip around your ankle. “I don’t understand. I’m very unattractive right now. Startlingly so.”
“Don’t say tha’.” He mutters, leaning over to shove his face into the crook of your neck, humming in relief as he presses into you. You wrestle your arms free to throw around him, curling into his heavy body. The moment goes on sweetly until his hips roll lazily against you, exhaling shakily.
for the anon that wants to know how the 141 eat pussy. mdni.
Gaz enjoys a slow, intimate 69 laying sideways. He can watch you suck his dick, touch more of you, finger as he licks.
Ghost likes it on his knees with your legs over his shoulders, arms supporting your ass and bracing you against the wall. He loves that you can’t wiggle away.
Soap is a face sitter. He wants you to crush him, to squeeze his head between your thighs. The man wants to die eating pussy.
Price is as traditional as they come. He’ll grab your ankle and yank you to the edge of the bed, go down on his knees, and have himself a feast.
CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist // main masterlist
