di4mondhe4d

[di4mondhe4d]

I was perusing the chronological list of Makarov's crimes and saw that sometime in 2004 he seemingly randomly kidnapped 15 students

I think this was the first time I wrote for remaster Makarov, so i feel like the vibe is slightly different bc i can't help but headcanon him as more human, I guess, than the og

I think what's powering this headcanon is that remaster Makarov looks just so fucking depressed in the introductory mugshot, whereas the og has that rabid dog energy about him in his

Like pretty much always not proofread and not finished, but could be finished in the future uwu

Your group of 15 had been split in three when the men had coralled you into the cars. You would never see the other ten again.

The car had dropped your group in what seemed, at first glance, to be an underground garage. Only two men, still armed, were managing the five of you at this point. There was no need for more. All of you followed their instructions with no word of protest and your heads bowed low, eyes trained on the floor underneath your feet. You were led to some stairs and through a few doors, with even your captors ultimately falling silent sooner rather than later.

Everything felt unreal. You felt dazed, mind blank and soul hollow, existing only in the slow, repetitive movements of your body. Time seemed to have stopped for you in the moment you caught your first glimpse of a gun. You had left a part of you in that quaint, overly-expensive café you had been ambushed in. You never even got to taste the drink you had ordered with your friends...

You were told to stop in a large, sparsely-furnished room. There were no windows, only two doors situated at the opposite ends of the rectangular space. The armed men waited until all of you took sat down on the cold floor and left the room without another word. One of the girls burst into tears as soon the door slammed shut and another followed in kind after a moment of hesitation. You exchanged a hollow, sight-less glance with the remaining girl, and then with the only male of the group, before bringing your knees up to your chest to hide your face from the others. The position was sure to become deeply uncomfortable because of how your hands were bound behind your back, but for now it worked. It was what you needed.

You don't know how long you sat there, with the only thing you could hear being your racing heartbeat and the irregular sobs coming from the rest of the girls who seemed to know each other and had shuffled together for comfort. The sound of one of the doors opening should have startled you and, truthfully, it did, but by the time you finally managed to lift your eyes the men had already reached your group. It was like the connection between your mind and your body had frayed, and now every movement was delayed and required concentration. For a while you stared at the three men who had entered without understanding where you were or what had happened. You saw them move and talk amongst themselves, your eyes followed them automatically as they walked around, surveying your group, simply unable to comprehend your situation—a moment of bliss. Only when the group finally approached you did your mind snap back into place and you were able to recognize the two men who had brought you in, now unarmed, and truly see the third unknown man who seemed to be their leader. The latter appeared to be inspecting your group, but as you met his eyes, almost obscured by the darkness of the room, you could not think of something about you that would be worth inspecting. Time passed like this, moment after excruciating moment, until understanding finally dawned that the unknown man was holding your gaze. Maybe he was unable to see the hollowness of your stare, maybe he didn't know you were barely able to discern his features in the room's poor lighting, maybe he thought you were challenging him somehow. With what still felt like painful slowness, you lowered your head once again and pressed your forehead against your knees. Only after another eternity in which your heartbeat became deafening and your breathing grew increasingly labored did the men finally walk away from your corner of the room. They talked between themselves again, in what you finally were able to recognize was Russian, their voices growing faint as their footsteps finally led them out of the room.

"Was that the guy from the news?" asked the male captive, his words marked by a very strong British accent.

"Yeah," answered one of the girls, clearly Russian by birth. "Makarov."

One of the other girls began crying once again and all you were able to do is try to curl further into yourself, with tears stinging your own eyes.

Hours passed in complete silence, the space between the five of you growing darker and darker until you could no longer make out each other's forms. The three girls remained together, which left you and the man isolated, but you couldn't find it within you to care much about that. Once your tears dried you were able to grow distant from yourself once again, and you rode this state of fugue until, suddenly, a light was lit in your room.

It's pale, too bright, neon tubes buzzing overhead, and all of you groan in discomfort at first contact. Your first instinct is to cover your eyes with your hands, but this only serves as a painful reminder of your bondage. You drop your knees and shuffle in place in an effort to assuage the dull ache of your almost numb limbs, only to freeze and crowd into yourself once again when the door closest to your group opens. The two men appear, alone this time, carrying what looks like trays. They set everything down on one of the few pieces of furniture in the room—a table—before returning their attention to your group. One after the other, your hands are untied from behind your back only to be bound once again to your front. Everything is done in complete silence, almost rushed, not that you're complaining. The trays are then placed in front of you, with your tray being the last one, but the men don't leave. You stare at the items before you, mind still sluggish but a sense of deep dread buzzing beneath your skin. There is a plate with the food, a glass of water and, strangely, a pill. You glance up at the men right as one of them checks his watch.

"Take it now," comes the order.

Your hands are shaking so much that it takes you a moment to be able to pick up the little white button. When you finally get it you rush to pop it into your mouth and wash it down with a big gulp of water that nearly causes you to choke. This seems to satisfy the men who finally leave the room, leaving the five of you to eat in peace. You allow yourself to cough and quickly set the glass back down.

"Do you have pills as well?" you ask, voice betraying a sense of panic that feels very far away from you when you're alone with your thoughts. "Did you... ?"

The girls say no and the man nods no, and this leaves you staring into nothingness long after they give up on you and start eating their portions. When you finally snap out of it and take your first bite it feels like you're eating sand. You force yourself to take a few more bites, knowing very well that this is likely the only food you will be getting, but ultimately give up after the fifth mouthful and wash everything down with the water that also feels wrong somehow. When you look up no one but the man has finished his food, and this makes you feel a bit better in a strange way. Feeling exhausted, you return to your distant refuge within you, moving a bit away from your abandoned dinner. When the two men return they comment over your tray specifically, sounding quite displeased, but your understanding of Russian is still too rudimentary for you to know what they are saying exactly. You could ask the Russian girl, but you don't think you really want to know.

When the lights shut off sleep comes slowly and doesn't stick, but the hours do pass. You remain hovering in this state of half-sleep for a long time, until the sound of the door opening wrenches you back to lucidity. Dazed, you watch as one of the two men who have become quite familiar at this point marches towards you and pulls you up on unsteady feet. You are given no time to react. He turns you around and your eyes are covered with a blindfold, after which he starts pushing you towards the door. It takes you some time to come to your senses and start walking on your own, but once you do the man's grip on your arm loosens somewhat.

He leads you slowly, through what seems to be countless rooms, up some stairs, and through more rooms after that. By the time you have finally reached your destination you are panting and wondering to yourself just how big this building really is. The man leading you loudly knocks on a door very close to your face, making you flinch, but doesn't wait for an answer, instead opening the door himself and pushing you into this new room. The door closes behind you and you are left hovering, struggling to process just how suddenly you had been freed from his hold. You don't know where you are, but you realize pretty quickly that you are not alone when you hear footsteps approaching you. Your mind seems to be back to its usual processing speed, but you're not sure if that is of any use for you right now.

You remain frozen in place where you are standing until you feel a hand grab your right shoulder, bypassing the too-wide collar of your shirt to latch directly onto skin. Whoever this is, they pull you further into the room you have entered and you follow their lead because, really, you have no other choice. You have to move quickly to avoid being dragged along, which doesn't help when you're already feeling so very tired. When the hand guiding you releases its hold and you are finally allowed to stop walking you sigh in relief, momentarily distracted from the other person in the room. This is probably why, when you are pushed quite violently down onto the table you had apparently stopped in front of, it comes as a complete surprise to you. The hand between your shoulders remains planted there, putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on your upper body and crushing your own bound hands against your chest. Terror overcomes you, its edges still somehow dulled by a sense of inner distance. It's like you no longer want to care what happens to you, because deep down you are fully aware that there is nothing you could do to change any of it. So when the hand holding you down begins dragging down your back in a motion that is almost languid, although you feel yourself starting to hyperventilate, you force yourself to make no attempt to move. When the hand becomes hands which grab your hips to drag you a bit lower, until your feet can touch the ground again, you can almost convince yourself you're greatful. And when the hands move lower still, taking your shorts and underwear along with them, although your body starts shaking like a leaf, all you allow yourself to do is to move further away into your own mind until your skin starts tingling and you feel like you're beginning to lose feeling in your extremities. You can't fully separate from the situation however. You feel very cold and the man touching you feels too hot, and this contrast anchors you to your body. The point of contact between the two of you feels scalding, but when he moves even closer, in spite of the layers of clothing separating him from you, his body heat bleeds into you and that almost feels good. It doesn't stop you from shaking, far from it in fact. The closer he gets to you the worse you shake, to the point where your teeth start chattering when he leans almost completely on top of you. You snap your mouth shut and try to keep it that way, but this proves very difficult. One of the man's hands returns to your hip, fingers pushing into the hollow of your hipbone. After another moment his other hand covers your mouth completely, his grip so tight that it forces you to unclench your jaw. With him so fully on top of you the pressure on your hands becomes too painful to ignore and although you very well know that it is objectively a bad idea, you can't resist pushing back against him, desperate for some space that would allow you to reposition your arms. All things considered, you are met with very little resistance. The new position is still very uncomfortable but at least you no longer feel like your fingers are ready to break off.

"You can speak English."

You're not sure why his voice terrifies you so much. Maybe because it confirms just how close he is to you, maybe it's because of how strange it sounds.

[di4mondhe4d]

I've named this draft "car sex" and it's 5k+ words of... my kind of smut, with the flimsiest excuse for a plot I could conceive of. It is finished but also kinda unedited, so pls keep that in mind uwu

I have this unhealthy need and/or want to write smut for every variant of the original Makarov. This one is for the MW3 one, the... main one I guess you could say (the other two fics I have from this series were posted directly to ao3). The italics/asterisks *in* the dialogue means Russian is being spoken.

The actual name has gotta be "Bite" to fit the series, but biting ain't as prevalent as that would imply :///

Edit cause I always forget SOMETHING, I usually don't do this but for plot reasons the Reader is dressed as either a stewardess or a secretary, whichever you personally find hotter. "Plot reasons" lmao

The inside of the car is dark and the man with whom you are sharing this space frightens you. It's warm though, warm enough that your clothes are almost dry by now, but the cold has already seeped deep underneath your skin, threading through your muscles and curling around your bones. You can't stop shaking. The fact that you are currently being observed remains at the forefront of your mind no matter how hard you try to push it away. You want to dissociate from everything that's happened, everything that's currently yet to happen, because you know that whatever is to come can only bring you suffering.

The plane had been highjacked because of Alena's father, that much had been obvious to you even before you understood the extent of the attack, but then why would have they taken you? Vorshevsky himself had been captured. The two of you shared the helicopter ride that had taken you to this unknown place, you'd listened to him try and fail to reason with the man who had seemingly orchestrated all of this, all the while struggling with the feeling that you were actively freezing to death. You surmised from their conversation that Alena had gotten away and this afforded you some temporary relief, although you could feel the stranger's focus shift to include you every time she was mentioned and this, naturally, made you very nervous. As soon as you'd landed you were separated from Vorshevsky, who was coralled into a larger car with a group of heavily armed men. It seemed obvious to you that the man who'd orchestrated his kidnapping would be part of this group, but instead he was here, with you. The stranger was finally referred to by name during this time, so you had an idea of who he was now. This knowledge did nothing to help ease your worries given the current situation.

You observe him as best you can in the window's dark reflection, unwilling to properly look at him but knowing it is best to make sure he stays on his side of the car. His own observation of you is far less subtle and the weight of it makes your skin crawl. With a pained exhale you hope is silent, you press yourself further into the door you are leaning against, desperate for even a few millimeters more of space between yourself and the man.

Either you're not silent enough, or not subtle enough, or perhaps he incidentally grows tired of waiting at that very moment, because you immediately feel a gloved hand wrap around your upper arm. You can't even hope to move away, having unwittingly cornered yourself in your futile attempt at creating distance. He drags you closer so violently that you practically topple onto his lap, and his fingers latch onto the back of your neck before you can try to push yourself back up. This hold on you paralyzes you to the point where you have to consciously force yourself to resume breathing once captured, but it is also the only thing currently keeping you off of him. You have no way to properly support your upper body yourself, as there is no space within your reach that he doesn't currently occupy, and you don't dare or wish for any further physical contact between the two of you.

You expect he would say something, that you've been put in your current predicament for a reason, for some purpose, but as time crawls by the silence only grows heavier. Fearful, very much so, you nevertheless risk glancing up at him after some time, driven primarily by your growing discomfort. There's no way to be subtle about it, due to how you are being held up, but you still try even though you expect you will fail. You find that he is not even looking at you, not that he'd be able to see much at this point, but rather staring straight ahead at something you, after slowly and carefully turning your head in that direction, are unable to discern yourself. Distraught, you dig your nails into the skin of your palms in order to stave off the ever-increasing urge to simply push yourself away from him, regardless of the risks, and instead turn to glance back up at him. It goes without saying that you were very much expecting to find him the way you'd left him, as little sense as that makes, so when instead you find his eyes meeting your own, the shock you feel is both genuine and intense enough that you unthinkingly wrench yourself out of his grasp and away from him before your rational mind can even conceive of how ill-advised your actions really are. Your back hits the car door with a loud thump and, in spite of the pain this causes you, you only press yourself further against it, no longer trusting your safety enough to risk turning away from Makarov.

He doesn't immediately react, but that only serves to increase your barely contained agitation. When he does, it is by reaching out for you again, slowly this time, likely secure in the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop him. He grabs your ankle and you immediately become aware of just how bad of an idea it was to have remained frozen in the position you managed to scramble into initially. Not only is it easier for him to reach you like this, but it also leaves you with no real point of support that you could use to push against, to prevent him from pulling you back. You are dragged closer to him once again before your legs are forcefully shoved away so that he can pull you back into a seated position, and you remain stock-still throughout, offering no resistance aside from this helpless rigidity. His hand closes around your upper arm again. You acknowledge that you are already as close to him as you could possibly be, ask yourself where else he could want you to go, and realize you are being dragged onto his lap in what feels like the very same split second, already too late for your struggle to really mean anything.

He restrains you immediately, almost before you actually start struggling, one hand moving to cover your mouth while the opposite arm wraps around your waist, forearm digging right underneath your ribs until breathing becomes difficult, more difficult. You try taking his hand off of your mouth first, however don't even succeed at scratching him due to his gloves. Their efforts unsuccessful, your hands then move to his arm, but your attempts at freeing your body are already weakened by your own understanding of their futility. Makarov barely reacts to what you're doing, seemingly content with letting you tire yourself out as he watches, peering down your body from over your shoulder. You give up pretty quickly, unwilling to waste more energy you are well aware you are likely to need in your immediate future with something so obviously useless. Your arms slide down along your body and you allow your momentarily unseeing gaze to settle on the dark wall seperating your side of the car from the driver's. Not that it matters, you don't doubt the driver would've been of no help to you even if he could see what was happening. Why would he be?

Makarov's grip tightens and shifts slightly for a split second, enough to jostle you but not enough to actually move you in any meaningful way, so you choose to allow yourself to ignore it. A moment passes before the process repeats, and this time it is done in such a way as to cause you pain. Frowning, you try to turn your head to look at the man. He does not allow this. All you can do is to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You can't see much, he is actually far too close for that to be a possibility, and while he obviously does not suffer from the same restrictions you do, he does not turn towards you either, not even to look at you. The motion nevertheless repeats a third time, lifting you up a bit this time before letting you drop back down. Your hands do return to the arm around your waist at this, but you can't even lodge your fingers between it and your body without hurting yourself, so after some half-hearted tugs at his sleeve you abandon your efforts once again. You hear and feel him exhale as your arms drop back down, but you don't want to even try thinking about what that could mean, if it means anything at all. Existing alone currently requires an inordinate amount of energy. You simply can't afford to think.

When the arm around your waist begins moving, at first, you don't react. The borderline painful amount of pressure it is exerting remains consistent, and that is more than an adequate distraction, but you do, in fact, understand what is happening. That very pressure makes it so the trajectory of the movement is so clear it's practically transparent. Still, you stupidly insist on pretending you *don't* understand until you feel his hand force his way between your thighs. A sound of distress escapes you in spite of yourself and in spite of the hand covering your mouth, and one of your own hands attempts and fails to wrap around his wrist even as you try to deny him further access by closing your legs. Unfortunately both of these avenues get you nowhere and perhaps even manage to make things worse. The man's gloved hand presses against your cunt, hard enough that you can't help but wince. Your fingers slip against the leather as you try to pull it away and, understanding that you will not be able to succeed like this, you instead try to turn your head to look at him. You are allowed a very limited range of motion this time, but it's enough. However much is visible of your face is schooled in as clear a mask of despair as you can manage and, as you meet his eyes, you try nodding no. This only causes your head to be brought back to its initial position more roughly than was probably necessary, and you once again hear and feel Makarov exhale, same as before. Frustrated, you do the same.

The pressure does not start out as pleasurable, but you understand it will become so with time. Makarov's hand does not move in the traditional sense of the word, but the pressure does shift focus several times and this prevents it from becoming outright painful. You realize, at some point, that your hand is still holding onto his even though you have long abandoned any attempt at pulling him away, and you immediately shake it away like you've just realized you were touching a venomous snake. He pays you no mind other than momentarily driving his forearm down against your hip, like there was ever a possibility for you to accidentally dislodge it, and you think you see that his eyes are closed before your head is forcefully turned to face away.

You remain in silence and this, coupled with the fact that you pretty much have to face the window at the moment, makes you realize that the car is no longer running. That the realization is unpleasant would be an understatement, so you swallow thickly and close your eyes, unwilling to continue looking at the darkness outside. This, in turn, has the unfortunate consequence of drawing your attention towards your sense of touch, a somehow even less enviable position to be in. You feel that his breathing is harsher now than it was before, that the changes in the pressure of his fingers against your cunt have become cyclical and that their speed is steadily increasing. Perhaps your breathing has changed as well. It's only a matter of time now, maybe it's been all along. The thought makes you uncomfortable and the discomfort pushes you to shift in place. You freeze half-way through the motion, quickly understanding your mistake, which is only underlined by Makarov's palm finally moving away only to quickly return in a slap that would've probably hurt if not for the layers of fabric cushioning the blow. The hand covering your mouth also releases you in favor of tearing open your shirt, something which is made very easy by your unfortunate decision to wear a button-up for the occasion. You try to stop him but once again your efforts are futile and come much too late. All you manage to do is to scratch your own skin in your attempts at pulling his hand away, hand that has already latched onto one of your breasts and began squeezing. You abandon your attempts quickly in favor of trying to dig your nails into his arm, through his sleeve, when his other hand finally forces its way past your rolled-up skirt, under the waistbands of your nylons and panties alike. You grow still immediately, eyes wide and trembling hands raising, unconsciously, like you're trying to placate a dangerous animal. He doesn't immediately try to penetrate you, which is almost surprising, but unfortunately the both of you can feel quite clearly that even if he did, you're wet enough that you'd likely be able to accommodate, even with his gloves still being on. You grimace at the realization that his gloves are, indeed, still on. Their presence isn't too bothersome now, while his fingers are just gliding against your clit, but you know it could be. You know it might actually be.

A small sound of pain slithers past your grit teeth when gloved fingers close against your nipple and squeeze tightly, pulling away before your breast is finally released. Your body lifts up slightly and your stockings are shoved down while you try and fail to pull his hand out of your underwear or at least to make him stop stimulating you. He pushes back quite noticeably against these attempts, perhaps unsurprisingly at this point. You try to lift your leg and push against the edge of the seat in an attempt to slip away now that his hold on you is not as oppressive. Unfortunately, the tight waistband of the nylons being half-way down your thighs make such movement more difficult than you expected, and your attempt is immediately noticed by the man who rushes to regain a more secure grip on your upper body. You do succeed in that he does pull his hand away from your cunt to shove your leg back down, but the feeling of your own slick smearing against your skin almost makes you wish you didn't. The both of you grow still for some time, panting, you more so than him and likely for different reasons. His hand remains on your thigh, thankfully also still, but you think you would much rather he take it off of you altogether. And it's like he can hear you thinking. The forearm pressing down on your chest stops trying to cave in your sternum and the hand on your thigh pulls away, beginning to travel up your body. At first, you expect he will stop at your chest and while he does cup one of your breasts on his way up, he doesn't settle there. He makes it up to your collarbones before you understand his real intentions, and you immediately try to pull away, turning your head as much as you are able to. His other hand immediately grabs your jaw, forcing you to face forwards once again. You can't help but mumble a very miserable and very meaningless "C'mon... " which obviously does absolutely nothing but make it easier for him to shove his fingers in your mouth. Biting does nothing because of the glove and because of the death grip he has on your jaw, and you are eventually forced to suck in order to avoid drooling on yourself. Once you do, he presses down on your tongue until the discomfort forces you to try and bite down again, and uses this to pull his hand free of the glove. You immediately spit the leather out with a grimace.

His arm lowers again to wrap around your waist and you feel him shift in place under you. You're certain it won't do anything, but you push back against him nonetheless, hoping to at least inconvenience him. His grip grows so painful that you scramble for support when he lifts you up and holds you there, and you are left to watch his glove-less hand dissappear under you. You hear and feel him pull out his cock and you tense up, once again expecting immediate penetration. Once again, it seems you are wrong. He lets you drop back down, and you find yourself caught between the urge to open your legs further in order to avoid touching him and the desire to clamp your thighs shut in order to keep him away from your cunt. You're not left to contend with this dillema for too long, as the feeling of his fingers moving along your hipbone, very clearly heading straight back between your legs, shifts your focus. Unfortunately, you feel pretty stuck. Anything you do right now will inevitably have some kind of negative consequences. Even knowing this, you nevertheless still attempt to struggle when your panties are pulled aside.

"*Put it in.*"

Wide-eyed, you instantly freeze, barely even breathing at this point. You definitely shouldn't, you need to figure out how to get out of this situation, you should've at least tried to get out of the car when you first noticed it was stationary. You fucked up, bad... . Maybe you could lie.

"I don't speak Russian."

"*Yes, you do.* Put it in."

You could cry right now, but you're genuinely worried he'd enjoy that. Desperately, you scramble for something, anything else, but fear is already clouding your judgement and the more you stall, the more the arm around your waist tightens its grip. Not moments later, he begins bouncing one of his legs for an even more overt indication of his impatience, as if that is needed. You can't convince yourself he's not doing it consciously, perhaps trying to destabilize you to some degree, rush you. It just doesn't feel like something he does naturally.

The pain gets the best of you eventually. Slowly, you raise your arms a little, wrists aching and fingers trembling very visibly. He stops moving but does not relinquish his hold at all, so going through with it is even more dreadful than it would've been without the pain. At first you try to do it without touching him with more than the tips of your fingers. You're also not really willing to *look* as you do it, so perhaps it is no surprise that your initial attempts fail quite miserably. You can practically feel his already clearly limited patience withering away. Wheezing, basically unable to breathe at this point, you finally reach down to wrap your hand around his cock, wincing at the feeling of it. The first time you try, it doesn't work. Obviously. You're still incredibly tense, and it turns out the two of you don't quite fit together that well anyway. You try not to think too much about the pleasure this failed attempt brings you. Carefully, you push against the arm threatening to crush your ribcage for support and try again, from this new angle. Again, you fail. Miserably. You *do* feel very miserable. Your clit throbs at the feeling of his skin dragging against it once again due to your failure and the groan that slips through your sealed lips is as much pleasure as it is frustration, but you do figure out a way to help yourself. You lean forward as much as you are allowed and carefully spit in your open palm before you can think better of it. Closing your hand into a fist helps distribute the saliva without you having to get any more of your own body involved, for now at least. Finally, you reach down and wrap your hand around his cock again, giving him a few very awkward strokes before making another attempt, this time very nearly hoping it will work so he can hopefully let you resume breathing. There's no way to go about this situation without it resulting in some form of suffering, but you'd prefer to survive the night, and most certainly would prefer not to die in the position you are currently in.

You succeed this time, fortunately and unfortunately. You're still terribly tense, you are shaking, and it's very hard to accomplish the very controlled descent you need so as to not hurt yourself any further. He lets go of you then, at the worst possible time, and then finishes off what you started and gravity continued by grabbing your hips and dragging you the rest of the way down. You are finally allowed to breathe again and this, coupled with the pain, makes it so that thin scraps of your voice accompany every desperate inhale. Your first instinct is to try to get off, although that would likely cause you even more pain. He probably sees it coming, so he digs his nails into your hip and his still gloved hand crawls back up to your chest. Pacified by the possibility of even more pain, you instead press your fists into your thighs and close your eyes, leaning your upper body forwards in search of an angle that is less uncomfortable for you. He responds by pressing down on your chest to make you fall back against him and you acquiesce with very little protest. Maybe you're supposed to be grateful that he's willing to give you some time. You're not sure you have it in you, though.

You let your head drop back against his shoulder, keeping your eyes sealed shut. Your body is rapidly cycling between attempting to relax in order to spare your aching muscles the suffering and trying to get him out of you with sudden twitches of your hips that are completely outside of your conscious control. Both are causing you pain, but it's different kinds of pain. The feeling of pressure is by far the worst though, because it is constant and inescapable. Makarov's hand finally releases your hip, and you feel it move until the palm is laid flat against your abdomen. You release a shuddering breath and grit your teeth even before he starts pressing down, already expecting the worst from him anyway. It's more painful than you thought it would be, honestly, so much so that you try to get away again, same as before, by pushing against the edge of the seat. You almost expect your leg to be shoved down again, maybe hope for it if it means he'll let off the pressure, but it's his other hand that moves. He generously moves off your chest without causing you pain this time, sliding his arm across your upper body until he can grab ahold of your opposite shoulder. The both of you move at the same time, with him sliding lower as you try to raise your other leg to push against the seat as well. Your efforts are immediately undone, naturally, and even worse, this new position forces your thighs together and locks them between his own. His other arm wraps around your waist again and you are moved slightly further up his body. Your own arms are left completely free so you can use them for support, pressing against the car door on one side and the seat on the other. The seat is not very helpful, but the shoulder is in Makarov's grasp so the stability of that arm is far from guaranteed anyway.

You can imagine what is about to happen. All you can do is to hope that it won't hurt. It doesn't hurt anymore while you're standing perfectly still, and maybe it didn't hurt when he moved you either, you don't quite recall. Not being able to recall is probably a good thing in your current situation.

The first thrust comes and you're lucky enough that the penetration itself does not cause you pain. That is not to say that you aren't hurting though. Every time his hips snap up against your ass, it hurts—very mild pain, given previous experience with him, but pain nonetheless. He's fast and aggressive, and you have no way to really regulate how harsh he is being with you. You do try to just grit your teeth and bear it, convinced that it's exactly what he wants, and are arguably successful until he once again repositions you slightly. You're able to pull one leg free as you are being moved, then the other, and you pull them both up immediately in case he tries trapping them again. This makes it so he is forced to stop, which you expect he can't be particularly happy about. You give yourself a moment to breathe in spite of the incredibly awkward position, something he surprisingly allows, before slowly and very carefully placing your feet back down. He is still holding you down against his chest, so you can't do much else, and for a while longer you both remain completely still. Unfortunately, it is you that moves first, shifting in place a little. He still doesn't resume. You frown and bite your lips, feeling defeated.

"*C'mon.*"

Your voice breaks half-way through the word. Makarov sits back up in his seat very suddenly and your body follows, having no other choice in the matter. From the roughness of the movement you understand you've made a mistake and, truthfully speaking, you are of the same opinion. That one word feels like one of the worst mistakes you've made in quite a while, at one of the worst times too. You allow your head to fall back and your hands come up to try and cover your face. This attempt is unsuccessful, as your arms are forcefully shoved back down before it's at all even obvious what you're trying to do. You're simply frustrated, truthfully—frustrated with yourself, frustrated with the situation, frustrated with the pleasure and the absence of pleasure alike. You can't help but wonder if the money's really worth it and that's never a good way to think for someone in your line of work.

His still gloved hand releases your shoulder and moves back down to your breasts, to the one he'd previously left unattended this time. You grow tense, expecting pain, expecting him to squeeze and pull and pinch, but you are left dissatisfied. The palm settles just below your breast, against the very bottom of your ribcage, and remains still for a few moments before the thumb begins aimlessly flicking your nipple. You don't enjoy the pleasure this causes you. It's too... clean, too inofensive, something that should not be happening at the hands of what is, ostensibly, barely more than a perfect stranger. You shouldn't have spoken. For a while you remain placid, convinced the stimulation would not last. He *could* be violent, he probably *wants* to be violent. You just have to wait. So you wait, and you wait, growing more and more restless, but it quickly becomes apparent that he is not going to stop. The pressure is becoming uncomfortable again, especially since his other arm is still holding you down, practically immobilized, uncomfortably full. Ultimately, you are eventually forced to move, or at least to try to move. You attempt to push yourself up in order to alleviate the pressure. You fail, maybe predictably, and Makarov squeezes your hip in very clear warning. His thumb does not stop flicking your nipple throughout and, now frustrated, you bring your hand up to try and stop it. Your fingers latch onto his forearm first, then grasp at his wrist and then, after neither works, you grab his actual hand with some apprehension. This does make him stop, finally. He, instead, catches your hand and squeezes until you yelp in pain and wrench it away, something which only works because he is still wearing the glove. Naturally, you fear repercussions, so you watch with bated breath, watch his hand close into a tight fist and then open, listen to the leather squeak and sigh. It's a good enough distraction.

"Do you want me to keep the glove on?"

"For what?"

Your non-reply is stupid and you are well aware of the fact, but it was awfully easy to ask it. It's thoughtless, so it's comfortable. You realize what he means very quickly, however, but you've had time to think now so you are allowed time to doubt. It's true you'd done harm already, that much was obvious from the get-go, but you can't figure out for yourself if engaging any further could make things any worse. It certainly could not make them any better, at the very least. You keep watching his fingers move, unblinkingly, brain scrambling to come to a conclusion that feels absolutely unattainable from where you're currently sitting.

"Answer me."

He provides what is ostensibly an order without any further physical incentive to obey, which comes to your detriment at this point. Still, you are aware that you simply *have* to say something, even if that something is practically nothing.

"I don't know... . I don't know."

You finally tear your eyes away from his hand and turn your face towards the window, eyelids heavy. He grabs your jaw and immediately brings you back to your original position.

"You can do whatever you want," you grit out, defeated, when it becomes readily apparent that he expects *something else* from you.

When he releases your jaw, it takes you a while to stop feeling the pressure of his grip. You open and close your mouth a few times, as subtly as possible, trying to ensure everything is still in place and working as nature intended. Once again you are not as subtle as you wish you could have been and Makarov reacts by tapping your cheek a few times, probably mocking your discomfort, especially since you can't help but flinch every time he does it, like he's actually hitting you. You shift in place as much as you are able and find that you currently possess more range of motion than ever before, enough for you to try and get off his lap again. You are aware it's a bad idea and you expect to fail, so you move slow enough that he knows what you're trying to do, that he can stop you without causing you too much pain. What you do not expect is for your own body to do the work for him, muscles contracting violently as soon as you try to lift your hips. You practically collapse back down, legs shaking, trembling fingers moving down to press down against your clit. It's surprising he allows this, in hindsight, even if not for long, but you are momentarily distracted by the suddenly overwhelming stimulation. You try to fight back when he attempts to pull your hand away, pressing your forearm down along your abdomen regardless of the dull pain this causes you. He ultimately manages to tear your arm away, obviously, and his gloved fingers quickly replace your own, pressing down harder that you could, almost too hard. You pant, eyes sliding shut and, after a moment of hesitation, embrace his arm for support. He lets off the pressure when he begins, or rather resumes his previous ministrations.

Small, broken moans that you can feel more than you hear entwine with your heavy breathing. You haven't been particularly relaxed at any point throughout this encounter, but right now your body feels like it's ready to snap at the seams. Your body begins writhing even as your orgasm slams into you with all the grace of a semi-truck, and you cling desperately to his arm even as he keeps going and going and going. Overstimulated, you try to twist out of his grasp but cannot bring yourself to let go of his arm, so your efforts mean nothing. You feel saliva slip past the corner of your mouth and trail along your jawline and one of your hands darts up to try and wipe it away. He catches your wrist on the way up and forces your arm back down along your body, pressing your hand down into the car seat. But he stops, he finally stops, arm pushing back down into your hip and gloved fingers pressing down against your clit, and you are left to observe, to feel him come inside of you. You know your body wants to escape, maybe it never stopped wanting that, but you are tired, your mind is tired, your cunt is tired. His hand moves away and although you keep your eyes tightly shut, you are not at all surprised when you feel gloved fingers press insistently against your lips. This time you open your mouth immediately, without any further protest, and suck because you know you're supposed to.

"*Do you know where the girl was taken?*"

You sigh around the fingers in your mouth, convinced he would not take them out to let you respond. Still you wait for a moment, battling with a feeling of apprehension that has somehow survived this entire ordeal.

There's no way this isn't the source of the money. Who would ever pretend to be Makarov? Vorshevsky seemed to recognize him well enough.

Slowly, you nod as clear a 'yes' as you can manage and, after a moment longer, he pulls his fingers out of your mouth with a wet pop.

[di4mondhe4d]

Did you use the name Diamond head cause of the band? Or just coincidence?

The name was actually inspired by the Margiela full-face diamond masks HOWEVER I will definitely check out the band now that I know about it hehe

[di4mondhe4d]

Found another draft, this time more involved. I have this thing where I stop writing right before the smut, which was the entire point of the fic to begin with 😭😭

This was written with the og MW3 Makarov in mind I'm pretty sure. I don't count this fic as abandoned either, but yall I have SO many drafts where the Reader is a hostage it's borderline comical lmao

This new room is warmer than the one your group is being held in, but still manages to feel almost uncomfortably cold. The man who'd blindfolded and separated you from the others wordlessly leads you further and further into this unknown space, only stopping when you collide with something hard that comes almost as high as your waist. The gloved hand that hasn't left your shoulder shifts its grip to turn your body around, so that your back is now pressed against whatever piece of furniture you knocked against. The sudden move causes you to stumble, but a second gloved hand wraps around your upper arm and prevents any further incidents.

"Remain here," a gruff voice with a heavy Russian accent instructs, tone surprisingly mild. "You will not have to wait long."

He waits until you nod in agreement before he releases you and turns to leave. In kind, you wait until his footsteps become very faint before you allow yourself some measure of repose, heaving a sigh that leaves you feeling hollow. You wrap your arms around your body, leaning more fully against the surface behind you. A stray idea sends your hands up towards your face, towards the blindfold covering your eyes, but you manage to catch yourself in time. Removing your blindfold won't help, and you don't think you want to see where you are or what you're dealing with. That would only make you more of a target for these people.

You hear the room's door open and close. Fresh fear shoots up throughout your body and you tense up instinctively, but you don't move an inch. You don't even turn your head in the direction of the sound. Footsteps follow, heavy and slow, allowing you to very easily follow the trajectory of the newcomer as they make a beeline towards where you're standing. You focus on your breathing and on trying to prevent yourself from starting to hyperventilate, a feeling of deep dread settling in the pit of your stomach and growing in intensity with every new step drawing the unknown person closer. With your head hanging low and your arms hanging loosely at your sides, you wait for the inevitable.

The scent of cologne reaches you first and you are taken aback. You're under no delusions that whoever this is has put on perfume just for this encounter, as the scent lacks the overwhelming edge of something freshly applied. Instead it feels almost natural and would maybe even be comforting in any other situation. When you think the stranger is about an arm's length away, you close your eyes underneath your blindfold in an effort to soothe your rising panic. The footsteps stop at this point. For a while it seems like nothing is going to happen, but you are not so naïve as to trust appearances given your current situation. You remain stiff and still, doing your best to make yourself as small as physically possible without actually visibly moving.

It's hard not to startle when the footsteps begin again but you think you manage. The scent of cologne grows stronger, but still not uncomfortably so, and soon enough you are even able to feel the body heat of the person standing before you. You're fairly sure they are only millimeters away from you. It takes all your willpower to keep from squirming and shifting in place because of your fear and discomfort. There is no sound to announce the motion, you just feel a warm hand fall heavily onto your shoulder. The squeeze it gives you feels almost experimental, certainly less purposeful and distant that the tight grip of the man who had brought you to this room. Your theory is pretty much confirmed when the hold shifts from your shoulder to your upper arm, just slightly lower than where the other man had grabbed you. For a moment, the sound of your breathing becomes deadening. Then, very suddenly and too quickly for you to react, the man's other hand latches itself to your other arm and suddenly you find yourself being lifted up and deposited on what you can only assume still is some kind of table. Your first instinct is, obviously, to try and shake him off and move away. He seems to predict this as his hold on your arms grows uncomfortably tight for a moment, just enough to convince you—or, rather, remind you—that he could likely do some very real damage to you if he so desired.

From this point on everything happens very fast. Too fast.

You are pushed further up the table with very little effort. The man's hands leave your arms and his fingers hook underneath the waistband of both your shorts and your underwear, after which both articles of clothing are pulled off of your body. Naturally, in spite of any logical thought or preservation instinct, you immediately attempt to pull away and close your legs, but the man hooks his hands underneath your knees and forces his body between your thighs. One of his hands moves to wrap around your neck, cutting off any possibility of you moving away as well as quite a bit of your air supply. Both of your hands come to grasp at his arm, revealing to you that he is not only fully dressed but wearing two layers of clothing at the very least. The hope this realization manages to give you dies down as soon it emerges, because clothes can very easily come off. Yours certainly did.

[di4mondhe4d]

Notes: Was looking through my drafts and found what is technically the (arguably less non-con?) prototype for "Swallow". I don't think it's BAD per se, so I wouldn't count it as completely abandoned. Just... pseudo-abandoned lmao.

(I know Makarov is not named or described, but trust me it's him lmao. I had in mind OG MW2 Makarov specifically for this one.)

Your hands no longer shake when you reach out towards him, but you still have difficulties maintaining eye contact. He allows this still, but you are well aware his patience is limited, so you try to make up for it by really applying yourself to what you can do. You've only recently become comfortable with helping him undress, you're still pretty slow, but this he doesn't seem to mind. He watches you do it. You can tell without looking at him because you can always feel when his eyes are on you. He probably enjoys it to some degree, with the way he is almost fully hard by the time you finally pull his cock free. You only need to give him a few more strokes to get him ready for what is sadly still the main event of these kinds of encounters.

Yes, you could argue that with your current engagements being more consensual than they had been in the beginning, he was being more gentle.

[di4mondhe4d]

i just got done reading your last fic, it was so good!! i love how you write and how the mc's psychological state slowly deteriorated. i'm curious as to what inspires your style? like books, movies, tv shows, any kind of medium tbh

Tysm ❤️❤️ the psychological stuff is my personal favorite part about writing AND writing hehe

It's a great question and I kinda had to take some time to consider... The most obvious influence to my current writing is music, to the point where I name my drafts with the name of the songs (which only means I really have no REAL names for when I post the fics lmao). For example, "A Nice Day at the Airport :)" is named for the song I recommended in first chapter notes, Scissorhands, and "A Nice Day after the Airport :)" is names after Coco L'Eau by Egor Kreed and The Limba. It's not the lyrics that inspire me, but more so the vibe of the songs, if that makes sense

The focus on the psych stuff is likely a consequence of me having access to psychoanalytic literature wayy too early in my life (mostly early Freud if it's not already obvious) 😭😭😭 I find the stuff fascinating and I tend to write what I would like to read myself (and tbh it's always a surprise to find that other ppl also enjoy it bc of that fact)

Ty again for reading and for the ask ❤️❤️❤️

[di4mondhe4d]

dear diamondhead,

this is your reader, banana boat. nice to see you on here and looking forward to what you have to share!

don't pressure yourself on keeping up with everything on social media, make sure to rest too and stay nourished.

and thank you for your exertion in writing every of your work 🙏🙏🙏

Hiiiiiii :3

Tysm 🥹🥹🥹 for the ask as well as your comments on ao3 that have always been a joy to read ngl ❤️❤️❤️

I believe i promised I'll let u know the reader's canonical diagnosis, and im a woman of my word so I'll PM u the info right away hehe

[di4mondhe4d]

sh / aNDatA:) variation || chapter 10

As you sit there, staring at the ceiling, you slowly come to realize that something feels wrong. You're not entirely sure it is because of the migraine. Even though you can think freely, your mind feels like a vast empty cavern within which your inner voice can only echo. It's a strange feeling of vacancy that doesn't resemble anything you've ever felt in the past. You've felt empty before, hollow even, and not that long ago either. This is not like any of those times. You frown, doing your best to ignore the pain even this causes, and bring your hands back up to press lightly against your closed eyes. Yes, something feels wrong, something feels different, and the more aware you become of the fact the more incessant the feeling becomes. It's a kind of discomfort that feels like an itch far underneath your skin, impossible to scratch and impossible to ignore. Did something happen to you while you were passed out?

You physically shudder at the thought, chasing it away with every ounce of willpower you have in this moment. And it's easier now, with this strange new feeling of emptiness, than it was before. You should probably be grateful at this point, but you can't feel that either. Can you feel anything anymore?

Sighing, you lift your arms again and cover your eyes with them, keeping the pressure very light. Almost at the same time, you hear the door open. It's slightly surprising to you that you don't even flinch at the sound, even though you think you probably should have. You know it's more than likely Makarov entering the room, can feel it almost, strangely enough, and the sound of slowly approaching heavy footsteps quickly confirms your belief. Your mind remains blissfully vacant even as you listen to him drawing near, but a strange feeling begins creeping up on you, physically. It's a vague sense of light, dense pressure, like a thick layer of cotton has somehow made its way underneath your skin. The feeling is so strange that you can't help but shuffle in place, slightly worried that you're actively losing your ability to move. Again. Thankfully you have no problems moving, but the feeling persists. In fact, it seems to be increasing when you move, without decreasing when you grow still once again. Combined with the pangs of pain still echoing in your skull, it's distracting enough that you lose track of Makarov, so when he grabs your bandaged thigh with a very, very cold hand you do actually jump. This only increases that odd feeling even further until even your thoughts start feeling fuzzy around the edges. Combined with your still very terrible hangover, thinking itself begins to hurt. So you just stop. Instead, you shift your focus to the man who has, at this point, been holding down your leg for an unnecessarily long time. You shift your arms a little and confirm that he is actually looking down at it, glaring at it in fact, like he's waiting for it to offend him somehow. With how fixed his gaze is, you're not even sure he can actually see you right now. He holds you down with the same unnecessary amount of pressure, with the same unnecessarily tight grip that is actually starting to hurt at this point, and the only difference you can feel since he's started is that his hand is warm now.

"Why are you upset?"

You're not really surprised that your voice is still very thin, but the fact that your words still sound slurred is unusual. You've been drunk before and you've been blackout drunk too, but you don't remember ever slurring your words after waking up. Maybe the alcohol was even stronger than you thought.

A cold hand grabs one of your forearms and pushes it down along your body. When your other arm doesn't follow suit on its own accord, the same process is repeated with it as well. Your eyes meet Makarov's and you initially squint, driven by a memory and a fear that feels uncomfortably distant. You should probably close your eyes, just to be safe. You want to close your eyes. You *can't* close your eyes. Has this happened before? The man's still too cold hand grabs your jaw now and he leans in, closer to you, moving your head so that you are facing more towards him. He's slow enough with it that it doesn't rattle your brain too much, but there's still some pain that you suppose is inevitable, so you don't wince. It would only have hurt you more, probably.

"Are you gonna check my eyes again?"

Your already weak voice is almost completely muffled by his tight grip on your jaw at this point and you're still slurring. Frustration, finally an emotion you can recognize as familiar, begins to slowly gather between your ribs. It's a welcome surge of energy, even though you quickly realize you have no idea what to do with it. Makarov's probably not going to answer you, but you're pretty sure he *is* actually checking your eyes again and since you can actually recall how uncomfortable that was when he did it the first time, you manage to snake your arm around his and force one of your eyes open yourself. He draws back just a bit at this, almost like he's surprised, but you're pretty sure it's most likely he's irritated. You were probably not supposed to move from the position he put you in. Still, he did actually check the eye you were holding open, and maybe he is pleased with what he sees because you're pretty sure his frown becomes slightly less pronounced in the process. That's probably not good for you, so you promise yourself that you'll do the same check in the bathroom mirror as soon as he leaves.

"I'm not drunk anymore, right?" you ask slowly, once he finally lets go of your face.

"You are not."

To your unmitigated surprise, it sounds like *he* is slurring his words as well. Could there be something wrong with your hearing? With your head?

"Are *you* drunk right now?"

Makarov's frown returns and becomes even more severe than before, and you get even more explicit proof of his irritation because his already slightly painful grip grows even tighter, until you can't help but try pulling away. Your attempt is entirely unsuccessful and he doesn't let off the pressure at all, so you consider sitting up and trying to push his arm away, but you rethink that idea almost immediately. You should not engage further, that's probably the safest bet. If he does want to hurt you, he will do it regardless of anything you do or say. Putting up a fight would probably just make it worse. Do you really want that? Did you? Wincing at the pain it causes, you shake your head, feeling the dim frustration still lingering within you flare up once again. There must be something wrong with you. You just can't focus, there is a distance between you and your thoughts that you can't seem to cross. Not that you've ever been the picture of focus before, especially lately, but that only makes whatever is happening to you right now feel more overtly strange.

"I really think there's something wrong with me. With my head." You pause, shrinking back just slightly when Makarov immediately returns his attention to your face. "But... not like before."

"What is different?" he asks after a moment, releasing most of the pressure on your leg as he does so.

You close your eyes and frown, desperately trying to gather your thoughts as quickly as possible because you really don't want to keep him waiting.

"Oh... "

That odd feeling is fear, you realize, just as your voice trails off. Makarov's eyes narrow visibly and his eyebrows twitch slightly upwards for what is likely a matter of seconds, but it's enough to make you realize you are now expected to come up with an answer that would satisfy him. You open your mouth before you truly decide what you're going to say, but you are interrupted before you can begin.

"Why did you make that sound?"

"I... realized. I can't focus at all. It's hard to think."

"Why is that?"

Context uwu

I ended up giving up on this version because, in my opinion, it wasn't subtle enough. Obviously I'd already decided I was gonna go with the drugs angle and was writing accordingly, but I wanted it to be at least somewhat of a reveal in the last chapter.

Some stuff here survived to the final version, just a bit more refined, so it wasn't a total loss at least 😭😭😭😭

[di4mondhe4d]

sh / aNDatA:) variation || chapter 9 (technically)

At first you think you've woken up. You always do at first and it's still frustrating, but you can't deny the immense relief that always fills you when you *do* finally understand that what you are seeing and feeling can't be real.

Now, like always, you are surrounded by darkness and feel almost completely detached from your body. Awareness usually bleeds into some parts of you after a while, at the very least, but you can't honestly say that is a good thing. It's not really a bad thing either though, so you must let it be simply a thing, in spite of the discomfort it brings you. This time your eyes are stuck to the featureless expanse of the ceiling and struggling to focus. At first you don't understand why. It seems like every few seconds, just as you're starting to shake off the fog clouding your vision, something rattles you back to your original state. It's only when you can finally feel your entire face that you realize that the "rattling" you initially considered is almost certainly something that is originating from outside of you, a consistent cycle of sudden jolts that manage to move you just enough to constantly reset your very narrow field of view.

Context uwu

This one was actually so not subtle that I deadass named the draft "Missionary". Tbh I just found the idea conceptually compelling, that is to say pretty hot. But, again, had to to go with subtlety.

Same with the other chapter 9 draft, not final but still canon hehe

[di4mondhe4d]

sh / aNDatA:) || chapter 9

You wake up to a familiar pressure, a ring of ice wrapped around your aching throat which burns and burns from the inside. At first you think the room is very dark, but as time ticks by you slowly begin to understand that your eyes are simply tightly shut. Naturally, you immediately try to open them. You are entirely unsuccessful. In fact, in spite of all your efforts and focus, your eyelids don't even twitch. Awareness of your body returns slowly, bit by bit, limb by limb, finger by finger, pouring down like molasses from your constricted throat. You are in a position that feels uncomfortable to you, laying on your back, with your arms kept far away from your body and your legs spread to an uncomfortable degree. There is something else as well, something which draws your focus unnaturally, a feeling of wrongness you find difficult to place or explain to yourself. When you finally manage to push through the haze of your not yet fully awake mind, you slowly realize that your lower half feels completely exposed.

Context uwu

I'm telling you I was ITCHING to make this shit more explicit, but I held back valiantly because I could just tell that the moment I let the fic revolve into my usual material I risk writing myself in a corner. Chapter 9 actually had two scrapped variants, and I still managed to get something out of them so, again, not complete losses.

Tho for these particular ones, not making it into the final version does not make them... not canon, as hopefully exemplified by the epilogue lmao

[di4mondhe4d]

diamondHead on ao3 but if ur here until already know this lmao

kind of suck at social media (or social stuff in general ngl) but i wish i didn't 😭😭😭

feel free to send asks and stuff i swear i'll love u for it lmao

gonna try defeat my perfectionism and post my drafts in case someone else would possibly enjoy them