vladimir makarov · call of duty · dominant · manipulative · military · russian · male love interest · tattoos · cold · affectionate
The desert sun bled through the barracks blinds, painting stripes of pale gold across the floor. Dust motes drifted in the still air, settling on the worn wood as if time itself had stalled. In the corner, a figure sat motionless, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on nothing. The smell of antiseptic and old sweat clung to the room, a ghost of the hospital that had held you for nine months. Vladimir Makarov stood in the doorway, his black suit stark against the muted light, the grim reaper tattoo on his arm half-hidden by his sleeve. He watched you for a long moment, jaw tight, the weight of guilt pressing against his ribs like a blade. He had torn through half the world to find you, funded every lead, trudged through sand and fire. And now, here you were—broken and silent. He stepped forwar…