#cod 2011

[coddingaway]

Yuri Volkov x Reader x Vladimir Makarov smut - 18+ MDNI

TW: smut, mdni | threesome | piv | fem!reader | porn with a liiittle bit of plot if you squint? | Makarov, he is a redflag himself | not proofread, typos might very much exist, sorry in advance | english is not my first language, there might be awkwardly worded sentences

The meeting ended about two hours ago. Everyone from the Inner Circle left the perimeter, only Yuri remained there, since he was responsible for your safety. Well, he and Makarov, who you've been arguing with for the last two hours. If anyone asked, neither of you would say it was an argument at all. Strategical discussion, maybe.

Neither of you raised your voices, as both of you took deliberate care to dissect the others reasoning, finding the smallest cracks in them. Yuri —bless his calmness— left the room about half an hour ago, while Zakhaev left more than one hour ago. He had enough of the two of you for today.

You were there as an advisor, mainly a political one, as Zakhaev tried to maintain a good image— he sucked at it by himself, he knew. But you were an excellent political advisor, and you accepted his offer. Money was good, and it was a real challenge for you to make this man and his ideas look good.

Makarov was his right hand man, and a great advisor of his own, but he succeeded more in warfare than politics. But more often than not the two walked hand by hand. If Zakhaev wanted his plans to work, he needed them to be good in both directions. If he attacked someone, it might've been a good move by warfare standards, but a terrible mistake for his political image, and vica versa.

So more often than not Makarov and you argued for literal hours until you found some common ground where Zakhaev can walk and look good while the business stayed good too. Poor Yuri was the one who always stood there by the door until you both finished, because Zakhaev always left early. He would absolutely not watch this thing you did, what was probably a very fucked up foreplay for you two.

Not that you ever touched Makarov. There was always a heavy, charged atmosphere around you two, especially during arguments that lasted longer than an hour. You two inched closer as both of you were explaining reasons, while the other listened. Yuri was there to make sure neither of you end up dead or heavily injured at the end of the argument discussion.

But this time something changed. When Yuri came back from the kitchenette not far away —he desprately needed coffee after listening to you two—, he heard a soft thump from the room you two was in, and god did he ran, because he was sure one of you had finally enough of the other— in a permanent way. But boy, was he wrong.

When he burst in through the door he was ready for blood, a drawn weapon from Makarov, hell, even for you to wield your high heels as a weapon. Those things looked painfully pointy. But what he saw made him stop in his tracks.

You were laying on the heavy oak table, legs sprawled open, your dress hiked up to your waist, your butt barely on the table. Your underwear was laying on the ground near, from the looks of it it was torn down from your body. And Makarov? He was between your legs, pants unbuckled and zipper down, cock buried to the hilt into your pussy. One of his hands were holding your hips —gods, it looked painful enough, his knuckles were almost white as they held your flesh—, his other hand on your throat. Not forcefully enough to completely close your airways, but enough to make you a little dizzy.

Both of you panted, seemingly started this more than a good few minutes ago, as small droplets of sweat was covering your brows, your eyes hazy, pupils blown wide as Makarov moved between your legs. Makarov looked less touched, no sweat yet, no sign of exhaustion, just a deep hunger in his eyes as he watched your face and the sheer pleasure on it. An almost invisible smile was playing on his lips. He was proud of himself, if Yuri needed to guess.

When you two heard the door swing open, you both looked towards it, but absolutely not falthered. Yuri seemed frozen in place for more than one reasons.

First, he liked you, like genuinely. In a "I would like to call you onto a date sometimes in the future" way. Not that he ever said that to you, but Makarov, the bastard he was, saw the signs, he knew Yuri better than his own hands. He also knew that Yuri was a coward and he was afraid of your rejection.

Second, he never saw you even remotely naked or flashing too much skin, as you were always dressed elegantly and modestly. Seeing your bare thighs dangling around Makarov's hips, hearing just how utterly wet you were as Makarov pounded into you made his head spin a little.

Third, not to mention the fucked out expression you looked at him with— cheeks rosy, eyes hazy, sinful moans leaving your mouth as you watched Yuri, and God help him, you extended your hand towards him, and his pants became insufferably tight from the sight alone.

Makarov gave a cold laugh towards Yuri, his movements not stopping or falthering the slightest. Yuri saw Makarov in many positions before, in many states of undressed and completely naked back in the day when both were in the military and showered. The sight of Makarov did not bothered him and it did not bother Makarov that Yuri watched. What probably annoyed him was the fact Yuri was still being a coward.

"Come on now, Yuri. Have a taste. She doesn't mind at all" he said, giving you an extremely hard trust that made you almost cry out, as you bounced upwards a little on the table. Yuri still stood completely still. What made him break that was you.

"Yuri, please" you breathed out, your eyes tearing a little from the pleasure Makarov was giving you as you pleaded for Yuri to come closer. Makarov let go of your hips and pulled out of you when Yuri finally stood beside you, his hands—slightly trembling— undid his buckle and pulled down the zipper. He was nervous.

Makarov sighed in annoyance and helped you sit up and then get off the table, before he picked you up from behind by your thights, and Yuri needed to almost catch you. You instinctively wrapped your legs around Yuri, arms clinging to him. He held you up easily— he had heavier gear on himself before than what you weighted. As Yuri lined himself up at your entrance, you carefully missed him, earning a low growl from him and instead of the gentleness he wanted to take you with, he pushed down your hips onto his cock with one motion. You moaned into the kiss from the feeling of being filled to the brim. Makarov wasn't small by any means, but Yuri seemed to be a little thicker, yet shorter, but the way he moved made up for it entirely.

Makarov waited a few seconds, before he stood behind you, helping angle your hips a little more upwards and helping Yuri to hold you by your waist. He spat onto his fingers before he found your butt and started to ease one finger in slowly. He prepared you normally, he wasn't that much of a brute to not do.

Once he deemed it good enough he lined himself up too, while Yuri was already losing himself in you. Once Makarov entered you too, you felt impossibly full, and you cried out from the feeling, your head resting against Makarov's shoulder, as they both moved in sync. Makarov was already vlose enough from earlier as he pounded into you, and Yuri was close enough already. You, on the other hand seemed like you'll die in heaven any second, and soon you cried iut their names as you came undone, your body spasming and your holes trying to milk both men as they kept up their eork through your orgasm.

It did not took them long to finish, as you convulsed sround them— Yuri was the first to come with your name on his lips, then a hard kiss to your lips as he fucked his cum deep into you— not even a drop to waste. Makarov followed seconds later, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder as he groaned into your skin, his hips stuttering as he stuffed you full with his come too.

"Really?" You three heard coming from the doorway, and as you turned your head towards it you saw Viktor Zakhaev standing there, an annoyed look on his face. "Freaks. I need to wash my eyes with bleach after this." He said, as he walked away. He was probably looking for his father to discuss some matters. Instead he got himself a boner instead and some nightmares, because he definitely didn't wanted to watch Yuri AND Makarov like that.

[callofdudes]

Captain MacTavish gifts for your Christmas viewing:

[c0ffe3c4t]

❝ SEX WITH SANDMAN ❞

COUPLE : Sergeant Major Sandman x Male! Reader

WARNINGS : Explicit and detailed sexual content, depiction of sexual dynamics involving consensual dominance and submission, descriptions of adult intimate relationships, including anal sex scenes, explicit language and vulgar expressions, themes of care and consent in sexual relationships, not suitable for readers under 18 years old.

GENERAL OVERVIEW —

Sandman wasn’t an impulsive man when it came to sex. He didn’t rush, didn’t go straight for release. With Reader, he liked to take his time — observe, touch, read his body language before making any serious move. He made sure Reader was comfortable, present, and fully in sync with him.

But patience didn’t mean slowness. Once he felt Reader was ready, he took control without hesitation. He’d position him exactly how he wanted — face down on the bed, straddling his lap, or laid out with legs spread — and start fucking him with a steady, deep rhythm that didn’t stop until Reader was left shaking. Every thrust had purpose. Every movement was intentional. There was no wasted energy; Sandman knew exactly how to make him feel every inch.

He paid attention to how Reader responded — how his back arched, how his hands clenched the sheets, how soft noises escaped his lips when he hit the right spot. Sandman watched everything, and he used it.

If Reader was too tense, he didn’t rush things. He took his time — with fingers, tongue, whatever was needed. He prepped him thoroughly, whether with lube or spit, and never pushed in until he was sure Reader could take it — and enjoy it.

He didn’t talk much during sex, but when he did, his voice was low, rough, and right against Reader’s ear while he thrust into him:

“ That’s it… so fucking good for me. ”

“ Look at me. I want to see your face while I’m inside you. ”

Sometimes he’d grip Reader’s chin, tilting it just enough to keep their eyes locked. Not in a demanding way — more like a silent claim. A way to make sure Reader knew: this was his. This moment, this connection — all theirs.

When Sandman was under stress — after a mission, after a long week — sex could become more intense. Rougher. He’d grab Reader by the waist, press him down on the bed, and fuck him hard and fast. No teasing. No pretense. Just the raw need to feel alive again. And Reader knew — it wasn’t about violence. It was about release.

Even at his roughest, he never crossed the line into real brutality. If he felt Reader tightening up or holding his breath, he would slow down instantly. A hand would slide to his chest or his cheek, grounding him, making sure he was okay.

He’d murmur in that gravelly voice:

“ Relax. I’m here. I’m not gonna hurt you. ”

And that was what made it different. Sandman could fuck him hard enough to leave him sore for hours, but he was always present, always careful. He never got lost in the pleasure.

For him, sex with Reader wasn’t just physical. It was one of the only ways he let his guard down. If he allowed himself to be that vulnerable — panting, sweaty, trembling, curled up with Reader afterward — it meant he trusted him completely. And Reader knew it.

When it was over, Sandman didn’t pull away. He stayed inside, laying against Reader’s chest or wrapped around him from behind, breathing steady and slow as their bodies came down from the high. He didn’t talk much, but his hands never left Reader’s skin — firm, warm.

SEXUAL STYLE —

Sandman had a dominant style, but he never needed to raise his voice or use brute force to take control. He made it clear from the start — he liked being in charge, and he showed it in the way he moved Reader, guided him with firm hands into whatever position he wanted: face down, straddling his lap, or flat on his back with his legs wide open. He didn’t ask permission with words, but everything he did carried an unspoken, unmistakable respect. He knew what Reader liked — and more importantly, what he could take.

When he wanted it rough, he didn’t hold back. He’d grab Reader by the hips, pull him into place, and sink in deep with a single thrust, knowing Reader could handle it. Once he was in, he fucked with purpose — deep, steady strokes that kept the pressure exact. No wasted movement, no frantic rhythm. He made sure Reader felt every inch of it, again and again, until his arms gave out or his knees started to shake.

He wasn’t big on dirty talk, but when he did speak, his voice — low, rough, right against Reader’s ear — hit like a punch to the gut:

“ That’s it… just like that. You’re fucking perfect for me. ”

“ Look at me. Don’t look away — I wanna see your face while I fuck you. ”

When he was moving inside him, Sandman kept a hand pressed low on Reader’s back to hold him still, or slid both hands under his thighs to adjust the angle and go deeper. Other times, he sat Reader on his lap and made him ride at his pace, holding his hips down while watching every reaction without blinking.

And if Reader tried to look away, Sandman would gently grip his jaw and bring his face back into focus — locking eyes like it was non-negotiable.

He knew when to slow down, too. If Reader was overly sensitive or struggling to keep up, he’d pull back on the intensity immediately. Not because he wasn’t still worked up — but because control meant taking care of the person he was with. Sandman didn’t just want to get off — he wanted to see Reader come apart under him. He wanted to hear his moans, feel him shake, watch him fall apart and then ask for more.

He was physical, expressive, and completely present. He liked to touch — neck, thighs, jaw, back, wherever he could reach. If Reader was underneath him, he’d grip hard enough to leave bruises on his hips. If they were face to face, there were usually bites to the neck, hand on the throat, fingers pulling his hair back just enough to keep him open and breathless.

And when he came, he didn’t pull out right away. He liked to finish deep, stay inside, body pressed down on Reader’s, both of them soaked in sweat and breathless. Sometimes he’d even keep moving — slow, lazy thrusts — while running a hand down Reader’s back, grounding him through the aftershocks.

If Reader clung to him or whispered don’t move, Sandman wouldn’t go anywhere.

That was his style : Controlled, physical, focused, and fully centered on the shared experience.

FANTASIES AND PREFERENCES —

One of Sandman’s favorite fantasies—and one of his most frequent practices when he can—is having sex in the shower. Especially after a long, tough day, when his muscles are tense and his mind is overloaded. He’s not looking for rushed or mechanical sex. What he wants is skin-on-skin contact under hot water, where he can touch, fuck, and relax all at once, without saying much.

Reader already knows how it starts: Sandman pulls him close with a firm hand on his waist, positioning him in front of him, steam fogging up the tiles, and slowly caresses his back down to his hips, testing if he’s ready. When he pushes him against the wet wall, it’s never rough, but there’s an intense need to be close, to feel inside him with nothing between them but the warmth of the water.

His thrusts begin at a steady pace. They’re not wild, but they’re firm, deliberate, deep. His wet body aligns with Reader’s, one hand holding his hip, the other pressing his chest against the tile, as he fucks with clenched jaw and taut muscles under the water.

Sometimes he stays like that, barely moaning, lips pressed to his neck. The sound of their bodies meeting, mixed with the running water, is the only thing filling the bathroom. It’s a fantasy he repeats whenever he can.

Another weakness he never hides—though he never speaks of it—is seeing Reader wearing only his military shirt.

Big and loose, falling over his thighs, with the collar slightly open, revealing his collarbone or the edge of his underwear peeking out underneath. That alone can stop Sandman dead in his tracks.

If Reader notices him frown, quietly close the door, and approach silently, he already knows what’s coming: Sandman will gently push him onto the mattress, pull his shirt up over his hip with one hand, and take him like he’s been teasing him all night without saying a word. He doesn’t say anything. His breath says it all.

Though naturally dominant, Sandman doesn’t fear role reversal in bed—but only if he completely trusts Reader. It’s rare for him to let go of control, but when he does, it’s a total surrender.

In those special moments, he likes to lie on his back and let Reader guide him: ride him, kiss him, touch him at his own pace. While Reader looks down at him, Sandman keeps eye contact without breaking it. He’s vulnerable, yes, but calm and steady. He doesn’t feel less of a man by letting himself be cared for; on the contrary, for him, surrendering like that is proof he belongs to Reader in a way deeper than physical.

IN THE PRIVACY OF HOME —

When they’re at home, out of uniform, away from reports, missions, and the weight of command, Sandman changes his pace. He’s in no hurry. He’s not looking to release tension. He wants to savor everything.

And that includes sex : Long, slow, deep, and completely focused on Reader.

He likes to start slowly. He doesn’t just dive in. He kisses. He touches. He runs his hands along Reader’s back, across his chest, slowly down to his thighs, as if he has all the time in the world. He wants Reader to be relaxed, open, willing—not out of urgency, but because he desires it.

When he slides between his legs, he does it gently. He eases in the tip first, feels him give way, stays there a few seconds, caressing him inside with barely noticeable movements until Reader fully wraps around him.

And then he starts moving.

Not fast. Not wild. But with measured strength and steady depth. Long strokes that go all the way in and pull almost all the way out, only to fill him up again and again, until Reader can do nothing but cling to him, nails digging into his back.

Sandman doesn’t just want Reader to feel him—he wants him to remember. To have his legs tremble. To struggle to speak. To not be able to stop moaning, even if quietly.

And he likes to be looked at. If Reader looks away, Sandman reminds him—hand on his jaw, or simply :

“ Don’t look away. I want to see everything. ”

His movements are rhythmic, controlled, but undeniably sexual. He likes to lean on Reader, chest against his back or face to face, holding him tight by the waist or with a firm hand on the nape of his neck.

And when the climax approaches, he doesn’t rush. He changes the angle, picks up the pace slightly, watching how Reader twists, how his abdomen trembles, how he calls his name with a broken voice.

That moment when Reader surrenders, gives himself completely, and lets him finish inside—that’s one of Sandman’s most intense pleasures.

And it doesn’t end there.

Sandman doesn’t pull out after finishing. He likes to stay inside Reader, close, without separating their bodies. Sometimes he continues with gentle thrusts just to prolong the contact. Other times he simply breathes against his neck, hand on his waist or intertwined with Reader’s fingers, as their body heat slowly fades.

He loves to sleep like that—still inside, embraced, completely wrapped in the other’s intimacy. If Reader falls asleep first—as often happens—he stays quiet, breathing slowly, caressing his back or hair, not moving an inch away.

And although he never says it aloud, one of his secret pleasures is watching Reader open up to him without fear. How he looks at him, lets himself be guided, arches his back, sighs his name without holding back. Sandman doesn’t show it with exaggerated expressions, but his eyes always give him away.

It’s his way of loving—with his body, with control, with absolute presence.

AFTER SEX —

Post-sex care with Sandman doesn’t involve big words or dramatic gestures. It’s quiet, but absolutely present. After coming inside Reader, he doesn’t pull away or roll over. He stays right there—breathing heavily, body still pressed to Reader’s—unbothered by the sweat, the heat, or the exhaustion.

Without saying a word, he pulls Reader into his chest with one arm. Firm. Steady. The kind of strength that doesn’t ask for permission, but never feels forced. Reader ends up curled against him, face resting on his neck or collarbone, while Sandman wraps himself fully around him. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t ask questions. He’s just there.

His hand never stays still. It runs down Reader’s back, slips into his hair, or gently presses against his waist—just to remind him he’s still there. If Reader shivers, he steadies him. If his breathing shakes, he adjusts his grip. And if he feels his body go too quiet beneath him, he touches him again, seeks out his skin, keeps him close.

Reader usually falls asleep first—which happens often—and when he does, Sandman quietly shifts their position to make him more comfortable. He’ll move a pillow, pull a sheet over his back if the air gets cold, or drape a leg over Reader’s to keep him anchored in place.

He never asks if Reader’s okay. He knows. He can feel it in the loosened muscles, the slow, deep breathing, in the way Reader completely gives into his arms after every time they fuck. And that, more than anything, tells him he did exactly what he needed to do.

Sometimes, if Reader wakes in the middle of the night, he finds Sandman exactly the same—not having moved an inch, his arm still wrapped around his torso, body still pressed against his back. It doesn’t matter if he’s uncomfortable, doesn’t matter if he has to get up early. Sandman won’t let go until he knows Reader is completely rested.

That’s how he cares. No promises. No sweet talk.

Just being there. Touching him, holding him, staying with him—even when nothing is being said.

[bellsofficialbalaclava]

yeah price you DO deserve a cigar after all that. jesus christ

[coddingaway]

Why the original Makarov as main content

Believe it or not, OG Makarov is one of my comfort characters as fucked up as it sounds 💀

What attracts me in him?

More than one thing: his unwavering loyalty to his (and before that Zakhaev's) ideas. This man believes in them like a small child believes in Santa Claus, with every fiber in his body.

Yes, I love his design and voice, I'm a sucked for it.

But I'm also attracted to the fact he's a strategist and a mastermind, how he toyed with everyone. How he managed to do all that shit without being caught until the Hotel Oasis in Dubai.

I'm attracted to morally grey and villain characters— he is the second category, of course, that wasn't even a question.

I don't really kniw why I think about him as a comfort character. Maybe I simply think that his loyalty would extend to his relationships too, since loyalty is almost everything to him. If he trusts you, then you'll be a part of everything he is. I think he would fight for his loved ones till his last breath. Ofc it's just my thoughts, we'll never know, since the Reboot Mak is completely different. But the idea of it is comforting for me that this can exist in fiction.

Also, he's older than me and I'm a sucker for (not horribly big) age gaps too, and stubble, heterochromia, and for dome readon I like russian fictional men like Makarov, Yuri, Ronan (from the 'The Darkest Temptation' book) for example 💀

[coddingaway]

Soo uhh, Hi? Maybe I should write an intro too now that there's followers here? More than I ever though will be interested in my writing 😭❤️

I'm Betti, but I'll listen to a simple "B", also I'll listen to Makarov's bitc-, okay, no, no, not that one, jk 😭

I turned 30 recently. I was a graphic designer for approx 8-9 years, currently I'm home with my baby (there's a 2-3 year paid maternity leave here, so I'm lucky).

I'm a she/her, a mamabear, a houseplant killer, a F1 lover, I mained a mage in WoW (many years ago), I liked to play games but currently I don't have time for that.

I've been writing (in my native language) since I was 10. I never learned English in school, only from fanfictions and video games, so my grammar isn't perfect, but I try my best.

Whatelse— I want to share my CoD headcanons and writings here, because my mind is always working on something and I have a shit ton of ideas. And currently -for over two years now- I have a mainly OG CoD obsession.

I absolutely loved the original (2007-2011) Modern Warfare games, but I like the new one too (the campaign, I rarely played multi). I fuckin love the OG Makarov and OG Soap, and the Reboot Price and Reboot Ghost. I mainly write for them, but I have id as for others too, and I will publish them sooner or later.

My masterlists will be at the top of this post for rasier access. When I have some time to edit it again 🤣 Feel free to ask whatever if you want or share HC's or ideas, I'm open to them and I might write a short something about it if I think it fits ❤️

[coddingaway]

I beg your finest pardon— there is no Viktor Zakhaev x Reader fanfiction here???

Am I the only one who thinks that bastard deserves some fanfiction too? I mean yeah, he barely had screen time, he has almost zero canon things but that's the best opportunity, an almost white canvas to paint on, come oooon 😭

Do I really need to do this? Why do I always pick the ones with the smallest fanbases 💀

Get ready for some Viktor x Reader beside Yuri, Makarov, Nikto, Krueger and Nikolai, because currently they are the ones I feel the need to write for. I love the TF141 guys (OG and Reboot), but they get so much love, and the other ones so little that I feel like I should write for the less loved ones instead of the popular guys.

[coddingaway]

THE KINGMAKER MASTERLIST

What is The Kingmaker? - short description

Parts: soon

Shorties - short stories thats set in the Kingmaker world, but doesn't necessarily follow the story :

Flowers - Vladimir and Yuri often gives you flowers, always odd numbers. Once you ask why.

Unnamed smut - Vladimir & Yuri threesome with you, minimal plot

After the funeral - part 1. - Vladimir & Yuri accompanies you after your father's funeral.

After the funeral - part 2. - Vladimir & Yuri threesome with you. W.I.P.