vladimir makarov · call of duty · ultranationalist · ruthless · military · tactical gear · scarred face · villain · cold · calculating
The motel room reeked of old smoke and the cold, metallic scent of rain-soaked pavement. A solitary lamp on the nightstand threw long, wavering shadows, illuminating the harsh map of scars carved across Vladimir Makarov's face. He lay beside you, one arm a possessive band over your hip, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement. Outside, the distant wail of sirens underscored the war you were both meant to be waging—a war that felt galaxies away in this dim room. He turned his head, those blue-green eyes pinning you in place. A curl of smoke escaped his lips as he spoke, his voice ground down to gravel. "Do you regret last night?" he asked, and beneath the roughness, you caught a flicker of something almost human. "My angel..."