#makarov cod

Vladimir is tenderly obsessive. He’s controlling, highly aggressive, paranoid, and just suffocating.

Once he decides you are his, you are everything to him—a fresh tattoo of your name inked on him, sensing a form of property to each other. Loving the idea of you having a matching design.

Of course, he is mistrustful. After all, he’s a strategist and terrorist, so he sees conspiracies everywhere. Trusting is a big pill to swallow for him, so gaining his attention, let alone an open scene of his mind, is a complex duty. Years at work, either working for or with him. An assistant he begins to laugh at with horrible, dark jokes. A soldier in the Konni Group that he directly asks for. Or, in a rare chance, a civilian whom he had a one-night stand with; quickly realizing you were too much of a unique drug to get cleansed of.

But, when he allows it, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he doesn’t hide attraction toward you. In fact, he’s very open about it. With that “gentle” smile of his, a soft pat on the shoulder, and his famous nickname being whispered in your ear, you don’t realize till it’s too late just how wrapped you are in for now. You can’t leave.

Before you know it, he’s paying everyone around you to watch you. Your landlord, who cuts your rent in half. The new coworker at your job, who is too nice, is being so sentimental with your stress. That one neighbor moving in next door, always inviting you over for brunch. Anything that can help him with information about you, especially the sensitive topics that he craves to know.

Vladimir makes you rely on him, creating tough situations where you desperately need him. Controlling you financially and environmentally. Never having a reason to leave; holding his wealth, the power he has over you. He’ll buy the apartment complex you live in, hiking up the rent till it’s impossible. Have your bank foreclose your home. Being arrested for a felony you didn’t even commit.

But of course, Makarov is there, offering you money. Safety. A wait out, forms of security where you can trust him. Deceiving you in such a way, you’ll believe him. You belong to him; everything that is yours is his.

Though, if you are smart enough, digging around and truly finding out about his true intentions, it won’t end the way you’d like. The police simply won’t help. But you should’ve known better; since when have they ever been useful?

Vladimir likes to watch. Learning silently, watching you so perfectly. Calculating everything, viewing you, and how your world functions way differently from his. It can be innocent and dirty; flipping through images of you on the live CCTV makes him smile a bit too much.

Being a highly trained individual and a violent man, his patience runs thin. Breaking his rules always results in harsh and embarrassing punishments. Spanking, forms of isolation, and strips of privacy are his main go, too's. Any form of loss of control, for you, is an immediate satisfaction for this man. Even in order for him to “forgive you,” you have to beg. Make it up. Prove to him that you truly are sorry and you want to stay with him.

As your permanent husband, Vladimir is a very possessive and touching man. He always has an arm around you, either squeezing or just there. Standing in a room, anyone could know you belonged to him.

Behind closed doors, he loves holding your hand, bringing it to his mouth, and kissing it gently. Squeezing your thighs, pulling your legs over his lap as he asks about what you did while he was gone. Playing with the clothes of your fabrics, smelling your scent.

Jealousy is thick with Vladimir. He isn’t afraid to threaten, let alone shoot his own men if they make a move on you. Flirting, even talking or let alone touching you, is forbidden. You are his—seeing you a mess is enough to make him fucking angry.

Sleeping together when Makarov is at home, he happily sleeps naked. Curling in the expensive red bedsheets, curling and sighing at the better feeling. He’ll either be loosely spooning or tracing your tattoos or beauty marks. Or, if you want space, he still maintains slight physical contact by resting one of his legs on top of yours.

Believing his paranoia, fearing that they are correct, is more than enough to push him into an aggressive episode. He often has to check up on you, calling you urgently—asking to hear your voice. Helping him fall asleep.

If all is too much, he regularly asks his men to transport you somewhere else. A safer haven where he feels you are safer. Just do what he says, and everything will be okay, yeah?

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The dim light of the candle flickered across Vladimir Makarov's chiseled features as he loomed over you, his dark eyes glinting with a wicked intensity. He traced the cold, sharp edge of the knife along your jawline, sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand gripped your hip possessively, pulling you flush against his muscular frame. "You're a rare find," he purred, his Russian accent dripping like honey from his lips. The knife dipped lower, tracing the delicate curve of your neck, the hollow of your throat. His touch was feather-light, teasing, yet the threat of the blade hung heavy in the air.

Makarov's hand slid down your body, palming the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. He could feel your heart pounding beneath his fingertips, could hear the hitch in your breath. It spurred him on, this power he held over you, this desire he ignited with mere touch. Lower still, his hand drifted over your stomach, your hip, until it rested at the apex of your thighs. He pressed the flat of the blade against your clothed sex, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat emanating from you.

Makarov leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Feeling this heat, I can tell how much you want me, how much you need my touch." He pressed the knife more firmly against your clothed sex, the cold steel a delicious contrast to the scorching ache building between your thighs. His hand slid under the hem of your skirt, fingers skating along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Higher and higher he went, until his fingertips grazed the damp lace of your panties. A smirk tugged at his lips as he felt the evidence of your arousal, the fabric soaked through.

"You're dripping, малыш (baby)," he taunted, rubbing the knife against your covered slit, putting pressure on your throbbing clit through the fabric. "Is this all for me? Tell me, who makes you this wet, this desperate?" Makarov's breath was hot against your neck as he licked a trail up to your jaw, teeth grazing your racing pulse. His hand slid the knife under the lace, the cold metal now pressing directly against your bare, slick folds. He could feel you tremble, could hear the needy whimper that escaped your lips.

Makarov's fingers pushed the drenched fabric aside, exposing your glistening sex to the cool air. He could smell the addictive and sweet scent of your arousal, could see the dewy essence coating your petals. A low, approving growl rumbled in his chest as he traced a finger through your slick folds, gathering your juices.

"Such a needy little девочка (girl) you are," he purred, bringing his finger to his lips and sucking your essence off his finger. "Mmm, you taste divine. I could feast on you for hours." He pressed the knife's tip against your swollen clit, not hard enough to break skin, but with enough pressure to make you gasp. At the same time, he plunged two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your aching cunt, pumping them in and out at a punishing pace.

Makarov's lips captured yours in a bruising kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure. His tongue delved into your mouth, claiming you, conquering, possessing you utterly. He drank down your moans, relished the way your body clenched around his invading fingers, the way your hips bucked against his hand, seeking more. He tore his mouth from yours, a string of saliva connecting you in a sinful manner.

Makarov's lips curled into a wicked grin as he took in your debauched state, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his brutal kiss, and your essence dripping down his fingers. He brought his glistening digits to your mouth, tracing the seam of your lips. "Taste yourself, девочка (girl)," he commanded, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Taste what you do for me, how much you crave me."

As you parted your lips, he thrust his fingers into your mouth, making you suckle and lick your own arousal. His other hand never ceased its relentless assault on your sex, the knife's tip circling her clit, the blade's edge teasing your dripping entrance.

Makarov leaned in close, his breath scorching your ear as he whispered, "I'm going to ruin you. I'll fuck this tight little cunny until you can't walk straight. Until my name is the only word you remember." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his fingers, driving them deep and curling them to hit that sensitive spot within you that made stars explode behind your eyelids. His thumb rubbed in a merciless circle. Makarov's eyes darkened with lust as he watched you succumb to the pleasure, your body writhing against his touch. He could feel your walls fluttering around his fingers, could sense you rapidly approaching climax. But he wasn't ready for this to end, not yet.

Abruptly, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you whimpering at the loss. Before you could protest, he gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your stomach. He pushed your skirt up over your hips, exposing your panty-clad ass to his hungry gaze. "Keep your hands on the table," he ordered, landing a sharp smack on your rear. The sound echoed obscenely in the room, followed by your startled yelp. He smacked you again and again, until your ass was a rosy red and you were squirming beneath him.

Makarov soothed the abused flesh with a gentle caress, fingers trailing over the curves of your ass before dipping between your thighs. He pushed your panties aside and plunged two fingers deep into your dripping cunt, pumping them at a brutal pace. His other hand, still gripping the knife, trailed up your spine, the cold steel a delicious contrast to the heat inside of you. Makarov's fingers continued their relentless assault, plunging in and out of your dripping sex. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as he finger fucked you hard and fast, his palm slapping against your sensitive clit with each thrust.

"You're mine," he growled, teeth clenched as he rutted against you, his clothed erection grinding on you. "This pussy belongs to me. Your pleasure belongs to me." He punctuated his words with a sharp nip to your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slid up to wrap around your throat, squeezing lightly, just enough to make you feel the threat of his power, the danger he posed.

"Come for me, малыш," he demanded, fingers curling inside you, rubbing that sweet spot that made you see stars. "Let me feel this hot little cunny spasm around my fingers as you scream my name." He teased

Makarov could feel your body tensing, your walls clamping down hard on his plunging fingers as your climax approached. He growled, a feral sound of pure male satisfaction, as he fucked you harder, his fingers slamming into your sopping wet cunt with brutal force.

You couldn't hold back any longer.  He could feel your desperation growing with each passing second, your body crying out for more. But he held back, determined to leave you wanting and craving.

"Please," you gasped, hips bucking urgently against him, trying to take what you needed. "Please, I can't... I need..." your words dissolved into incoherent pleas and whimpers.

Makarov just chuckled darkly, amused by your desperation. "Not yet," he taunted, pulling away completely. He stood up, looming over your trembling form, a sadistic grin on his face. "I want you to stay like this, on the edge, craving my touch. Let that need consume you, drive you mad with want."

Makarov traced the knife under your chin, tilting your head up to force you to meet his ruthless gaze. "Think of me, as you touch yourself, as you fuck yourself with your fingers.” Makarov's eyes, half lidded, glinted with wicked amusement as he took in your debauched state, your chest heaving, your thighs trembling, your sex dripping and aching with unfulfilled need. He had reduced you to a desperate, wanton mess, and he reveled in it.

Leaning down, he brushed his lips against yours in a mockery of a kiss, his voice a low, mocking purr. "Until next time. Think of me as you lie here, high and dry and hungry for my cock." With that, he straightened up, tucking the knife away. He gave you one last dark, promising look before turning on his heel and striding out of the room, leaving you alone with nothing but your racing thoughts and your throbbing, unsatisfied body.

The door clicked shut behind him with a sense of finality, leaving you in stunned silence. You remained there, half-naked and quivering, as the cruel realization set in that he had left you high and dry, denying you the release you so desperately craved. It was a cruel twist of the knife in the wound, a reminder of who held the power.

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