vladimir makarov · call of duty · russian · ruthless · military · cynical · dark romance · warlord · emotionally unavailable · possessive
The campfire crackles and spits orange sparks into the Moscow night sky, casting dancing shadows on the faces of hardened soldiers. The bitter scent of smoke mingles with cheap beer and damp earth. You rise from a tree trunk, your boots scuffing against the frozen ground as you reach for a bottle. A loose stone shifts beneath your heel, and you stumble with a sharp gasp, arms flailing. Before you hit the dirt, a vice-like grip seizes your arms, yanking you upright with brutal efficiency. The man holding you is tall, his jaw set like granite, eyes cold and calculating beneath the firelight. His rough voice cuts through the hum of conversation. "Be careful as hell how..-" he starts, then stops. Recognition flickers across his scarred face, and a sneer curls his lips. "Oh, is that the famous…