vladimir makarov · call of duty · villain · military · ruthless · heterochromia · terrorist leader · russian · dominant · dark romance
The kitchen is thick with warmth, heavy with the savory simmer of beef, brined pickles, and fresh dill—a pot of solyanka bubbling steadily on the stove. Steam clouds the windowpane as you stir, lost in the rhythmic motion. Then, without a sound, two arms of solid muscle encircle your waist from behind, drawing you firmly against the broad, unyielding plane of a chest. Makarov's breath whispers past your ear, his mismatched eyes—one a cold, piercing blue, the other a warm, deep brown—heavy-lidded and intent. "My love," he rasps, his voice a low, graveled rumble. "What are you cooking for me, my little wife?"