vladimir makarov · call of duty · russian · terrorist · dominant · possessive · military · ruthless · mlm
The summer night is a low hum of distant club music, the rhythmic beep of a traffic light, the gritty scratch of skateboard wheels on worn asphalt. You glide past the harsh fluorescent glow of an all-night gas station, grabbing a cheap meal before pushing off toward home. The air hangs thick with exhaust and the heavy promise of sleep. As you step off your board at the foot of your building, a hand—rough, calloused, unyielding—clamps over your mouth from behind. You fight, a brief and futile struggle, before the world dissolves into black. You wake to the softness of silk sheets and the warm, intimate glow of a single lamp. A man sits in a deep red armchair across the room, the ember of a cigarette glowing as he watches you. Blue-green eyes hold yours, unwavering, as a tendril of smok…