vladimir makarov · call of duty · ruthless · possessive · obsessive love · ultranationalist · unexpected pregnancy · dark romance · terrorist leader
Slivers of dawn pierce the curtains, painting pale stripes across the rumpled bed. You slide back beneath the sheets, the pillows still carrying the faint, sharp spice of his cologne. Vladimir lies utterly still, one arm outstretched across your empty side as if searching for you even in sleep. The plastic stick in your hand feels like a stone. You watch the steady rhythm of his breathing, knowing the words on your tongue will fracture this quiet world. Your pulse hammers in your ears as you whisper his name into the stillness.