#makarov x you

[mrsparrasblog]

MAKAROV X PRICE DAUGHTER FINAL PART (PRICE ENDING) 

TW: Blood, dead

previous part part one

As Price watched your wedding from afar, a thousand thoughts swept through him. He couldn't help but feel a sense of regret for the moments he had missed in your life, the milestones he hadn't been there to witness. But amidst the regret, there was love and pride in seeing you so radiant, even if the circumstances were far from ideal. You grew up to be a beautiful woman like he always imagined; you were graceful, confident, and full of joy. If this wedding were just something different, something he could be happy about, god, he would rather have married you off to some bloke than a fucking terrorist.

His mind raced with thoughts of how he could have intervened earlier and how he could have protected you from falling into the hands of a man like Vladimir Makarov. Yet he knew deep down that you were strong, resilient, and had made your own choices, even if they weren't the ones he would have wanted for you. Thoughts flowed through his brain: did you choose him freely? Did you know what Makarov was? Why did you vanish from the world? You probably had Stockholm syndrome; there wouldn’t be a chance in hell that his sweet, smart girl fell in love willingly with a man like Makarov.

As he wiped away his tears, Price made a silent vow to himself. He may not have been your protector in the past, but he would be damned if he didn't become your guardian now.

He waited what felt like ages for him to finally see you for a second alone. You were headed to the bathroom, and the wide wedding dress mopped the floor. Makarov was speaking to some politicians, and that was his only chance. He gave Ghost the agreed signal: don’t hurt Civis; kill that bastard and save you.

He heard you vomiting, so he walked inside the bathroom. He already knew what it meant, but he didn’t want to think or even believe this, there was a different time to sort out that problem.

You turned around, being sure that Vlad had intruded on your space. He was always so overprotective, but you knew he would be even worse after this news, but did you really mind? 

You gasped as you saw him—your father. He looked older than you remembered; he had more wrinkles, worried eyes, and a completely unshaven beard. "Dad?“

"Oh God, Sweetie, “ he said, almost running the few steps over to you. He embraced you in a tight hug, trying his best to hide his tears. Everyone believed you were dead; they wanted him to mourn you, hold a wake to you, and finally declare you dead but he knew you were alive, and now you stood there in front of him, with a confused look in your beautiful eyes—but alive.

"I didn't think you would make it, Dad,“ you said bluntly while mustering him. It had been so long since you last saw him.

"Are you hurt? Did he do anything to you?“ He started to grab your arms, pulling the sleeves up, looking for any bruises or any indication that Makarov had hurt you. God, he personally wanted to gut that bastard out.

"No Dad, Im fine; Vlad would never hurt me.“ 

"He is a terrorist, Sweetie; he kills for money.“

"I know, but he has his reasons, Dad. He never would hurt me or do something bad without a reason.“

He looked towards you with a saddened expression, taking your delicate hands in his calloused ones. "Look, I get it. You had a rough time, didn’t you? Your head tricked you into thinking that you love him and that he is this prince from a fairytale, but he isn't; none of this is real.“ 

You were fuming at this accusation. How had he the audacity on your wedding day?"I'm not stupid, Dad.“

"You're not stupid; you’re brave.“

"He doesn’t hurt me; he protects me and takes care of me, Dad.“

"And what if he changes his mind? If you’ll be the victim of his actions? Please see reason.“

"At least he doesn’t leave me all the time." Spite and pure spite made you say these words: You always loved your dad more than anything else in your life, but he left you; he loved Tina more; he never cared about you; at least that's what you thought.

"Im sorry- I really am for being such a shitty Dad to you, but I love you more than anything, and I know you deserve a better old man, but you also deserve better than marrying a man who isn’t capable of loving. Come home with me; I divorced your stepmom; I will retire okay; no more deployment; no more war; just you and me and Tina if she wants to stay with us,“ he pleaded. He wanted you so bad to agree.

"Dad, I can't; I'm pregnant." You told him the news, and you were sure he would give up by that, but his expression didn’t change, almost as if he already knew.

"Sweetie, I'll help you, okay? And you can still see Vlad just come home, even if it's just for a bit, okay?“ He didn’t know how to help you anymore; besides lying to you, he knew it would stain your relationship even more, but right now, everything that counted was to have you leave this place.“

"You really would.“

"Of course.“ 

"Thank you, Dad,“ you mumbled and stood up on your way to leave the bathroom to tell Vlad that your Dad kinda accepts him for the baby's sake.

"Wait“

"Hm?“

"Let your old man hug you,“ with that, he pulled you into one of his famous bear hugs, softly stroking your beautiful hair.

When you left the bathroom, you saw Vlad, the supposed love of your life, your husband limp on the ground. The guards lay dead in different corners, and the wedding party was gone. You were only gone for 20 minutes, and everything was ruined.

You ran over to Vlad, hugging his limp body, trying to search for a pulse or anything but gone. You pressed his body closer to yours, and your eyes slowly started to build tears. The sobs only grew louder as you mumbled I love you all over and over again in Russian to him. You weren’t even sure if you were able to tell him that you loved him, and now he is gone. „You lied to me, Dad,“ was all you said to the military man in front of you, who looked at you like you were a zoo animal. Your white dress had already turned the prettiest shade of maroon.

Your Dad walked towards you, trying to pick you up, but you didn’t want to leave Vlad's body. 

"He is dead, Sweetie.“ he crunched next to you.

"You lied to me.“

"I know,“ he picked you up, ignoring your protest, but he also held you the whole night while you cried in his arms, not for one second judging you that you fell in love with Vlad, never dismissing your grief; he was for once in your life there for you.

————————————

1 year later 

You moved in with your Dad again, he indeed retired from the military. His friend and aunt Kate helped at first, but now you managed, even got your old job back that you loved so much. Your Dad sent you to therapy, and after a while, you got it—this wasn’t love, this was fear—and you're free now. This made you resent the baby inside your belly first, but when little James was born, everything was different, and you didn’t connect him with Vlad.

You were afraid your Dad wouldn’t accept little James, but he did. He carried him proudly around, showing it off to his old squad, especially the new Captain of the squad, Captain MacTavish, or anything like that. Your Dad always carried a pacifier in his bag, always a picture of James, Tina, and you in his wallet. He was finally at peace, and so were you.

The End

So this is Price ending , its the first fanfic Drabble whatever I finished, and through the whole process I thought what if my reader don't like the ending, what if its lame or anything but then I thought you don't need always Drama for a good fic or an different love interest ending, sometimes the ending is just good because she finally has what she always craved a family bond.

Tag list: @multifand0midi07 , @whos-fran , @cassiecasluciluce , @the-faceless-bride , @paintlavillered

#cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #call of duty #tf 141 #captain john price #john price #makarov x you #makarov x reader #call of duty makarov #cod makarov #vladimir makarov #john price cod #captain price #price #141 #cod fic #captain johnathan price

[diejager]

if you don't mind can i ask for your take on civilian s/o and yandere makarov? i wonder how he behave around an s/o who's like the opposite of him (like they're kind, gentle and has not known violence ever). hcs or short scenario or anything depends on you i don't mind (there's a drought of makarov content tbh 😮‍💨).

thanks for considering this and please take your time. have a good day 😚.

”Love” Cw: manipulation, obsessive behaviour, delusions of love, humain training, forceful taking, verbal abuse, tell me if I missed any.

Makarov doesn’t love. He knew how to, but he never truly did. He couldn’t with the heart and mind he grew up cultivating, to build his empire and strength, dwindling his heart’s empathy. Ironically, such ignorance towards love only increased his obsession, the amount of it that would only climb higher and higher, because in a sense, the loss of such emotions lead to a loss of a limit, driving him to insane lengths to achieve what he had his mind on.

He only knew death and bloodshed, the destruction of the mundane and corruption of the innocent, being the source of the rot and decay in the cells of a flower, to make it wilt and dust. Perhaps that’s where his interest in the normal stemmed, that curiosity that would someday bloom into obsession. He searched for an object of obsession, something - someone - to put all this attention on, something tangible, solid under his hands and malleable to his intentions. Despite his lack of time to dawdle, to spend on meaningless affairs, he found the perfect subject, someone so starkly different from him and his world.

There was a dichotomy in Makarov’s world, the harshness of war, battle and conquering of countries, and the deceptive softness in his eyes, the gentle touch of his scarred and calloused hands, and the coo with his sly tongue. You were the only softness in his life, a civilian he -one day - decided to pick up from the streets, bright-eyed and innocent to the horror he saw and spear-headed. Your tired eyes untouched by his mind and your scarless body free of any conflict that he could start with a simple wave of his hand.

There’s a need in his mind to see this innocence wilt away, to pry your mind of any autonomy and freedom you’ve lived with. Makarov wanted a doll, something soft and precious he could corrupt with words and ruin with his hands, deceptively gentle and loving, a poem spilling from a cruel smirk and eyes gleaming darkly. He has his ways to turn you into a thing of his imagination, to make you into his willing Russian doll, layer over layer of maliciousness and subservience.

He’s a man of culture, letting the people under him do all the dirty work. Despite all the viciousness and madness in his being, he doesn’t hit, he doesn’t abuse the object of his obsession, that was reserved for men lower than him, poor and mindless men. Rather, he preferred manipulation, well-thought words used in right situation to have you crawling back to him for safety, protection and comfort. He wanted you to come to him on your own, to make your pliant and uncaring of the wider view. He, after all, took you for himself, to endure himself in a second source of power.

Makarov has a silver tongue, whispering words into your ears that take root, your doubts and fears growing in the depth of your heart, bringing you closer to the man who promised to protect you. His fingers wiping away your tearful cheeks, pearly gems rolling down your cheek as he teases you about being worried. You shouldn’t be so fearful with him beside you, he’s your warden, your all-powerful and dependable lover.

He won’t let a shred of suspicion towards him fester, it’ll be dealt with swiftly with the call of your name, breaking down your vulnerable mind and building it back up in his image, his opinions were yours, his thoughts were yours, his goals were yours. So much so that you were his, knowing fundamentally that whatever he said goes.

”мой маленький цветок,” he mumbled, pressing his lips against yours, hands soft but wandering, laying down chains over your waist, around your dainty wrists and tightening the collar around your neck, keeping the hold on your mind, “You did so well, I’m proud of you.”

Positive reinforcement. He often used positive reinforcement to deepen his hold, to sink his teeth into your clean soul. Sweetened words with a voice he taught you to crave and possessive touches of bloody hands with intentions that he blinded you of, finding a way to make you want them.

“What do you say?” His hand traveled up your jaw, featherlight fingers cradling your ear and cheek until it stopped under your chin, tilting your head to look at his narrowed eyes, proud and dark.

“Thank you, Vladimir.”

He smiled, a thin-lipped grin.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #mw3 makarov #cod makarov #call of duty makarov #makarov #vladimir makarov #vladimir makarov x reader #makarov x reader #makarov x you #vladimir makarov cod #vladimir makarov x you #dark fic #tw: manipulation #tw: abuse #dead dove do not eat

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter One)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.2k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

“How do you think you’ll die?”

His fingers still as they trace your bare spine.

It’s silent in the solitude of his apartment, one of many he moves between to keep safe. This is one of the nicer ones. Furnished with silk sheets, the interior is immaculately clean. Wide windows overlook St. Petersburg below, a sight you never see with towering curtains blocking the view. Carefully curated art hangs from the walls, an abstract painting flecked with gold above his bed. You see shapes in it, think you see something akin to a lynx staring back at you. There’s never anything on the counters, no mess that would indicate someone lives here. It feels too pristine, almost artificial.

Hazy, bluish light drowns both of you as you both sprawl in bed. You like it when he makes love to you here. The large space makes you feel so alone, so much closer to him, like you have him all to yourself. Greedy, you drink in his scent, claw at his back, listen to his breath stutter as he rolls his hips into you.

Makarov is silent as you tuck into his side, shift and tangle your legs a little closer to his. You can’t see his face, but you know the look in his eyes. Precise, calculating, almost detached. His silence is indicative of his answer before he even speaks it.

“With glory.” He responds, fingers resuming their lazy path. “For Russia.”

You nod without any response. You’re not sure what you expected, but it should have been that. Makarov is a soldier, just like you are. A warrior, one who will kill, die for his ideals. As much as you long after him, as much as he loves you in return, you know his death will be exactly as he says. Not gently, not beside you in old age, sighing softly into your arms with his last breath, a lifetime of joy he left behind. His mere existence speaks of violence and retribution, a danger you yourself are caught in as an inescapable tide.

You don’t remember a time before Makarov.

There’s glimpses, yes, whispers of a time before he found you, but they’re distant echoes drowned by the sound of his voice. He says you were a soldier, and you know this much is true. He says he found you dying, on the brink of death. He scooped you from the ashes, rescued you from the embrace of the grim reaper and brought you here. Home. Your earliest memory of him is when he sat in the hospital chair, looked upon you with curious, sad eyes and asked you your name.

You didn’t know.

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

Marionette. The puppet, the other soldiers say. Beautiful, poised, but empty. He holds you in his palms and you go willingly, holding onto every scrap of warmth he offers like it will fill the hollow inside you. The others, they’re scared of your devotion to him, the way you’d be ready to die if he asked. Yet there’s something else there too, glimpses of desire for a thing they’ll never touch. A longing to feel your skin, to see the glimmer behind your gaze. Those who look too long disappear, and you know without having to ask that it was through his hands.

You’re his, after all.

In private he calls you милая, дорогая, любимая. Honey, darling, beloved. He cups your face in his hands and presses gentle kisses to your forehead, presses you into the sheets with endless praises of your violence. He treats you like he loves you, even though he never says it. You think perhaps it’s taboo for people like you, speaking of blessings only to have them stolen as soon as you confess. He gathers you to him when he sleeps, presses your bare form to his. You stay awake just to hear the sound of his even, steady breaths, watch how his face doesn’t soften even in sleep.

In the morning he’s gone before you rise. You tiptoe to the living room, see him standing at a crack in the curtains, awash in the hazy dawn. When you wrap your arms around his bare torso, he kisses your knuckles but says nothing. Eyes distant.

Loving Makarov is hard.

He always seems not completely there with you, eyes gazing into a distant future you cannot see. You’re stuck in the present, helplessly watching him discern the spinning axis of the earth, blinking as you see constellations sparkle in his gaze. Copernicus, he watches the stars rotate with him at the axis, tracing across their glimmering brightness like he’s drawing prophecies from the heavens. All for once was a far-fetched dream of Russia, one that becomes closer with every death in your grasp.

You don’t do it for his vision. You do it for him, and there’s some days where you wonder if you could ever stop.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper against the flesh of his shoulder, and he holds your hand to his chest where you feel his pulsing heartbeat.

“There are things to be done.” He murmurs instead. He’s silent for a while, as if waiting for you to protest. You never do.

“Dress. Eat.” He tells you in Russian, as he turns to hold your face in his hands. “I have somewhere to send you.”

That’s how you end up in Prague.

Trailing an informant, one of his own. He’s a twitchy sort, constantly looking over his shoulder in a way that means he knows he’s being followed. Your mission is not to kill him, not yet. First you must see who he meets, which enemy he speaks to, and then bury them both.

December. Snow dusts the streets. You’ve long since become accustomed to the winters in this part of the world, the way the sun hides during this part of the year. You’re bundled in a stylish coat and matching scarf- his choosing. It brings him a certain pleasure, somehow, to choose how you dress. You find you don’t mind, leaning up to his words of endearment with every fine thread he drapes you in.

It’s a shame the coat will get stained. You find he doesn’t mind that either, as if he prefers the color red on you.

You sip on coffee in a chair of the cafe, wishing instead for hot chocolate. The bitterness is familiar, even as the temptation of sweetness lingers in your senses. You hide your face between sips, pulling up the mask that covers the lower half of your face. The informant sits in a corner booth alone, leg bouncing. Sloppy. Obvious. You watch him with cat-like eyes, blinking slowly, wondering if he’ll beg when you kill him. The man that meets him is calmer, dark haired, clearly English. His mere presence seems to soothe the other man, and you watch as they discuss things in hushed detail, the informant sliding a USB across the table where their drinks sit untouched.

The Englishman leaves first, gives a small farewell and shrugs on his coat, neatly slipping the traitorous item in his pocket. You wait a minute until after he leaves, watching your fidgety comrade count on his watch by instruction until he too is supposed to depart. You’ll be back for him later. You know where to find him.

You trail the Englishman into the overcast afternoon, following his dark coat until the street is empty. Yet as you close the distance between you and the spy, a figure rounds the corner just in front of him. Your awareness roars to life a moment too late, and even though you stab your knife forward the man before you counters it easily. His movements are experienced, practiced, and strong. They counter your quick, precise agility in a flurry of movement, before at last you’re forced into the shadow of a building, his broad form crowding you from behind.

“Where is he?” The man breathes in your nape. Cigar smoke, musk, the grip on your wrists speaking of a soldier’s strength. You don’t need to ask who. You already know. You know you’ll die before you tell him.

“Minsk.” You lie easily, and the grip on your hands tightens.

“Try again.” He growls.

“You’ll never find him.” You offer instead, voice easy, almost detached. It makes him pause for some reason, and you wonder if that alone has startled him.

You don’t expect him to flip you around, press his forearm to your throat and rip down your mask.

You see him for the first time then. He’s worn in the way warriors are, years of duty etched onto his face. Thick brows, a beard, eyes that you think in another lifetime could have been kind. He stares at you with open astonishment, a bewildered shock that fades to a strange grief you can’t understand.

“You’re alive.” He whispers.

You blink at him, and for the first time feel your expression change to that of confusion. He seems to recognize you. You’ve never seen him once in your entire life.

He whispers a name, one you don’t know. Yet the voice he speaks it in is that of despair, a realization that seems to eclipse the fabric of his soul.

“What has he done to you?”

Panic flares inside you, and suddenly your entire being is consumed in the instinct to run, run, run. The man holding you captive radiates a danger far beyond that of duty, a fear that roots inside you and cracks at the foundation of your composure. You throw a leg up between you, and in his attempt to dodge his grip loosens on you. You duck under him, seize the knife that had been wrestled from your grip. A slash on his leg brings him to a knee. You dart a distance away from him, shaking, looking back with wild eyes. Red drips from your blade.

You should kill him. You’re not sure you can if you try.

You run.

When you find the informant, let his blood pool over his fingers, you see your own fear mirrored in his eyes.

The Englishman gets away. It’s an unacceptable failure, and when you send an encrypted message to Makarov he is silent for some time before he responds.

Report back.

He’s displeased to say the least when you arrive, mouth pressed into a scowl, brow drawn tight. You try to stand tall, refusing to show just how shaken you are by the whole ordeal. You know better than to show him weakness. Yet the man’s words from before haunt you, repeating in a ceaseless echo that sends the world under you spinning violently.

Makarov paces away from you, but at the mention of the stranger he snaps to look at you, blinking in something akin to shock. It flashes over his features for only a moment before he stills back into his stony passiveness, and then it darkens into something that makes your stomach sit heavy, making you nearly take a step back at the glint that warns of danger.

He strides over to you, and this time you do falter. You’ve seen Makarov angry before, but it was always with his subordinates, the men who show fear, hesitation, those who don’t follow orders. You’ve seen him shoot a man dead for daring to question him, and as he stood over the man’s oozing corpse he had murmured that Russia’s future did not include traitors.

Yet this- as he crosses the room with surprising speed, as you reel backwards out of pure instinct, as he captures your jaw and presses you to the wall so the lynx painting rattles- is different.

“His name.” He growls, teeth bared, jaw clenched, and he doesn’t notice the way your hand encloses his wrist in a pleading grasp. “What was his name?”

“I-I don’t know.” You manage in hardly a whisper. “I swear.”

He holds you for moments longer, stares into your eyes and waits for your gaze to falter with dishonesty. Your heart beats at an aleatory rhythm in your chest, a tremble starting in your hands and spreading along the sinews of your body. Yet as Makarov waits for you to stumble, to confess something you don’t have, you stare into his eyes.

and you see fear.

The ground cracks under you like splintering ice. A flare of panic takes a frigid hold of your veins. Makarov is not afraid. He is not fearful. He isn’t scared of death, of defeat. He throws himself in the jaws of lions and peels their teeth to use as daggers. He does not waver, he remains steadfast, unmovable. So this...this....

He releases you, and it takes all your strength to not gasp in relief, practically sagging against the wall as he turns. There’s a coiled tension to his shoulders, his fists clenching and then releasing before he turns back to you, eyes almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He murmurs, reaching forward to loop his arms around your waist. Despite the tremble in your limbs you learn eagerly into the safety of his embrace. “I shouldn’t have scared you. I just can’t imagine the thought of someone like that taking you away from me.”

He presses your cheek to his shoulder, and even though you stay there your eyes are unblinking, wide, as if seeing the first glimmer of the truth to come.

As you sleep in his arms that night, you lay awake with wide eyes still, the stranger’s words repeating endlessly in the cacophony of your mind.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives you a few days to rest but leaves you alone in the too-large apartment. You feel miniscule against the towering windows that overlook the city, and in the absence of his touch your thoughts spiral in uncertainty.

How did he know you?

You’re sent out once more, and this time you aren’t alone. It unnerves you. You’ve worked by yourself for so long that the men on either side of you on the plane feel like they crowd into your space. One of them, the younger one, is fairly talkative. You pass idle exchanges, but every time he asks something that even remotely pertains to you his older comrade hisses at him, as if they’re not allowed to know. As if the mere knowledge of you as anything other than a weapon is a sin.

The rifle in your hands is familiar, the weight grounding as you perch on a snowy rooftop, examining the ambassador’s aide just outside his home. You watch him kiss his wife, blink and feel something familiar and forbidden tug in your ribs.

The older soldier is beside you, his own sights trained on the driver. His younger comrade scans the surrounding rooftops for interference. He doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, the scream from the wife.

He does, however, collapse at the third gunshot. Not yours.

You bolt, rifle hoisted to your shoulder. The older comrade calls for his friend, and you tug him back even as he fights you. He acts as a shield when the next shot rings out, and his blood coats your arms. You duck, roll, plant yourself behind a vent cover and search for the other sniper. You find him on a taller rooftop, his sights glinting in the dawn. A shot dents the steel, and you focus your sights on its origin.

A skull mask. A reaper.

It tugs at something inside your thoughts, the same place where the stranger’s words echo. Distant, a whisper of familiarity locked behind a terrible dread. Brown eyes. The color of rust. They widen when they see you, and in his hesitation you fire a single round.

Your aim is off.

It catches him by the shoulder, and he rolls out of view. As police sirens howl, you take that moment to escape, cast a lingering glance to the neighboring rooftop and wonder why it feels as if you just saw a phantom.

You lose two men, and the deaths are acceptable. They died for the cause. Martyrs for the future that Makarov divines even as he licks the blood clean from your fingers.

It’s only then that the dreams begin.

You sleep in an empty bed. Cold, the phantom chases you through sleep. The bone white mask fades at the edges like mist. It snakes into your lungs, chokes the air and freezes your ribs. In the hollow of your chest there’s whispers of a name you don’t recognize. Yelling, screaming, hands reaching for you amidst chaos and flames. You fall through the sky, descending too quickly. Their voices are lost to the wind, and as you pull at your shoulder, the thing that unfurls above you is shot through with debris. The ground races up, up, up-

You fall, wake up on the floor, trembling, chest heaving, trying to remember where you are. Who you are.

The voices chase you on your next assignment, pulse in tandem with the heartbeat that fades under your fingertips. You try to blot them out, try to replace them with the sound of his voice, and in the midnight darkness they return, howling like the gale. Faces you don’t recognize, hands, touches, laughter.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Makarov tells you when he rouses you in the darkness of a safehouse. Your bruised ribs from your last mission heal under bandages, and as he soothes a hand over them you wince but don’t protest. “Were you dreaming?”

Yes. You think, and open your mouth to tell him, confess the chaos of your nightmares. Yet something howls in the gale inside you, screams in a soundless cry that stifles the air in your chest, sends your voice into wordless silence.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, and it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him.

After that, you only dream when you’re alone.

Never alone on missions, not again. You’re constantly accompanied, flanked, and you have the itching, uncomfortable feeling that you’re being monitored.

You try to ask why you aren’t allowed to go alone and see the way the smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he holds you close.

“To keep you safe, дорогая.” He coos, stroking your cheek with his knuckles. “How could I ever lose you?”

You accept this, but the hollow of doubt inside you wonders that, if that were true, why he would risk you at all. Hardly a week goes by without another injury, another bruise from a target, a mission, an enemy he throws you at and you carve into fatal stillness. It feels in some ways like he’s punishing you, forcing you to bear the cost of his love. Yet he presses kisses to your cuts, the blossoming yellow and purple across your skin, sighs endearments and swallows your whimpers with the slant of his mouth against yours.

Yet you fall into him, your only source of comfort, your beacon. You’re lost without him, a marionette with no master. You don’t whisper the sin of your loved confession even as it tightens in your chest, knowing he can never say it back lest it summon destruction. Taboo, forbidden, just like the doubts you refuse to share with him. You cling to him instead, listen to his heartbeat and try to synchronize it with your own.

“You’re shaking.” He whispers as you shiver in his arms following something akin to lovemaking. “Are you scared?”

“No.” You tell him, another lie. It’s not of him, never him. Not yet.

Your dreams are the thing that terrify you, and you fear them because you don’t understand. They paint images you struggle to discern. Falling one moment, caught in an embrace the next. Gunfire replaced by the clink of glasses and a bark of laughter. Cigar smoke envelopes you, war paint smears charcoal across your fingertips. An arm slings across your shoulder in warm familiarity, hands wrap a wound, and blue eyes turn to you in an affectionate concern. They whisper a name that bores into your marrow, takes holds like rot, and the deeper you carve to dig it out the more you begin to fracture.

Doubt, and it terrifies you. You never have to doubt Makarov. You turn to his hands as they guide you, surrender to his touch as they hone the fatal edge of your killing strike. You’re his, and his alone.

It’s in Belgrade that you begin to understand.

The details of the mission are obscure. Moving a Belarusian oligarch, a team with you. Different from your usual assignments, your carefully curated wardrobe is exchanged for plate armor, gloves, bracers. You wear it like a second skin. The weight is familiar, almost relieving. There’s not much for you to do, sitting in the back of the Humvee beside the package, watching the nighttime city fade to countryside and listening to the loud thrum of the convoy. You’re still healing from your last mission, a sprain that aches in your shoulder. You didn’t protest when he pressed it, took note of your grimace and declared you fit for duty. You must have made a face, because he’d tipped his knuckles under your chin, and had forced you to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Marionette?” He murmured with those dark, soft, velvet eyes, and you found yourself empty of protests.

The Belarusian oligarch grumbles the entire time, and you don’t entertain him. Yet eventually he seems to take notice of you in a different sense, eyes roaming over the dip of your waist that your gear obscures, then up to your eyes hidden by your helmet. You see it out of the corner of your eye, ignore his sly murmur and hungry gaze. He plants a hand on the thigh hidden by your canvas pants, and you resist the fatalistic urge to separate his fingers from his-

A whoosh of noise, a shout by the soldier in the front seat. Garbled, surprised Russian, and you make out the shout of GRENADE!! before the world groans and twists violently around you.

The truck lands upside down, and you kick out the window to escape, haul the unconscious oligarch out behind you, then the driver. The convoy screeches to a halt, darkness illuminated by growing flames and bright bursts of gunshots. A comrade runs to assist your stumbling stance even as you try to drag your package to another truck, and he gets three steps before he crumples to the ground. The bridge where the convoy is halted is precarious, prone to gunfire, and you can hear panicked shouts as those in the trucks behind you realize the mangled wreckage of your Humvee blocks the way.

Another grenade, and this one is close. It knocks you flat onto your back, scatters asphalt and dust over you. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens gunshots to distant pops, and even your groan of pain sounds like it comes from under water. Your helmet has been knocked from your face, and when you tilt your head to the side you see hostiles growing closer, nearly atop you.

You stand, turn, fall again as a bullet grazes your shoulder. Yet there’s a shout then from behind you, one you stubbornly ignore as you rise once more, stagger towards the edge of the bridge.

That name again, the once that’s become familiar to you by now, the one that isn’t yours. You bend over the railing, stare at the current below, racing in the darkness. The voice calls again, and you turn, stare at the face partially obscured by his helmet. Brown eyed, a mustache, younger than your spirit feels. You’ve seen him before, and you don’t know where, like he’s appeared in a distant dream.

Hands off his weapon, he takes a step towards you, repeats the name in a cracked, desperate call. You look at him, feel fear of the unknown once more pulse between your ribs. The ringing in your ears grows louder, and you stumble backwards in uncertainty. He reaches for you.

“Wait-” He tries, gaze open with despair. “Please.”

“I know you.” You breathe, seeing the way the fire alights across his brown skin in amber hues. “I...”

A step back, a stumble. You pitch over the railing, into the water.

Darkness surrounds you.

Taglist:

(If you'd like to be tagged in future updates, please reblog this post and add 'taglist')

@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus

(If you'd like to be removed from this taglist, pls DM me)

#makarov x reader #makarov x you #makarov x f! reader #Makarov x y/n #cod x reader #darkfic tw #darkfic #dead dove do not eat #fic: engravings #mwIII #call of duty mwiii #cod mwiii #call of duty modern warfare 3 #x reader #reader insert

[saturncodedstarlette]

Makarov : If I deposited 2000$ into your cashapp right now what will you do with it

Y/N : Evil.

Makarov : What

Y/N : I would use that money for evil

#Cod #Call of duty #Call of duty incorrect quotes #Call of duty x reader #Cod x reader #cod makarov #cod makarov x reader #cod makarov x you #vladimir makarov x reader #vladimir makarov #Makarov x reader #makarov x you #Original prompt : Text messages

[blingblong55]

Romancing in the dark -Vladimir Makarov

Based on a request:

https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cyvb7yJv__j/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA== this with makarov 🥹 ---- F!Reader, fluff, established!relationship, romance ---- A/N: this will be short…sorry

Vladimir has been away for months, hiding in different parts of the world all to keep you away from his dangerous life. And then, one evening he comes home. You were out running errands, so, he decided that he should shower and be ready for when you get home. The walls of the home, all filled with rich memories of you two, adorned with photos of moments that have all been well to remembered. His fingers touch the last painting in the hall.

It was the first of many pictures he prompted to take, you were a dream and it must be engraved in a photo. Vladimir smiles, faint laughs and nervous giggles all replay in his foggy mind. Your love was straight from a romance novel, the emotions, the way he felt like all love novels were written for you and because of you. If only you knew that you saved him from destruction, not of the tainted world but the destruction of himself. The way your hands wrapped around his, how his and your legs would be intertwined and mixed in the bedsheets, how your body fits his perfectly.

Damn the world for giving him someone to make him want to live to see the next day. Damn you for loving him and being so understanding and caring. Why must you appear in his life out of nowhere? Why must Shakespeare write you in poems and why must life bring you to him? Couldn't you be any less perfect? Couldn't you be more kind to his cold heart? Why must you make him feel anything other than hate, revenge and evil?

The door opens, keys thrown on the coffee table and as soon as he hears you, he rushes to the shared bedroom. Sitting by the edge is where you found him, smile at him as he finally saw you once more. "Ah, if it isn't my love." With excitement, you rush to his arms, wrapping your legs around him as he holds you close. Your lips meet his cheek, kissing it repeatedly and he closes his eyes, smile on him the whole time.

This moment, why can't he frame this?

His hold on you, fuck that hold was it heaven on earth. Rough hand holding the back of your neck as he nuzzles his face on your cheek. "My love, I missed you dearest," his voice soft. It had seemed long since he felt this way. "I love you," you whisper as you cup his face and continue to kiss it. All over, your kisses spread like fire and it warms him. "I love you best," he whispers back and kisses you tenderly.

Tags:

@strangepuppynightmare @liyanahelena @selarus @lonesome-doves @nate06633 @kielsegur @elvennn-fairy @johfaam0 @goldenmclaren @moonsua1 @rvivienner @frazie99 @viomast @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts

#makarov call of duty #makarov x reader #makarov cod #makarov x you #cod makarov #vladimir makarov #call of duty modern warfare 3 #mw2023 #vladimir makarov fluff #vladimir makarov x you #vladimir makarov cod #vladimir makarov x reader #cod mw3 #cod mwiii #modern warfare 3 #call of duty modern warfare #vladimir cod #makarov fluff #makarov x f!reader

[littlemissclandestine]

Can you make soft Vladimir makarov? Please?

Hello my dear Anon!

Of course I can 😊 - thank you so much for the ask! Wasn't sure whether you wanted MWIII or OG MW Makarov so I just went with MWIII. I'm also only comfortable writing for a female reader so hope that's okay. I hope these are to your standards and make you happy, honey. Enjoy! <3

Soft!Vladimir Makarov x Reader

WARNINGS: Mentions of sex, suggestive, MDNI, 18+ only

🖤 Soft!Mak who, initially, seems like a cold, distant man who isn't capable of loving anyone, only interested in his work but who has a soft spot for women like you

🖤 Soft!Mak who gently tilts your head up to meet his eyes, his calloused thumb on your chin, stroking it as he whispers lowly how precious you are, his lips curving into a smile as his eyes dart from your left eye to your right and back

🖤 Soft!Mak who uses terms of endearment in Russian regularly such as любимый (beloved), Дорогая (dear), Любимая (darling), Котёнок (kitten), and ангел (angel) - especially loves calling you 'my beloved' or my angel'

[i most definitely have got these wrong as i don't know Russian so someone please correct me if need be!]

🖤 Soft!Mak who loves running his hands up and down your sides as you stand in front of him while he's sat down, looking up at you

🖤 Soft!Mak who gives you that knowing smirk when you wear skirts or tight dresses and just has to compliment your shape and how stunning you look, not being able to keep his hands off you

🖤 Soft!Mak who tends to get possessive when any of his bodyguards or anybody at all looks at you in a way only he's allowed to -> (He may also beat their faces to a pulp, the skin on his knuckles broken, his crisp white shirt now stained with their blood, his face too. As you try and pull him away, he'll spit on them and curse at them. Yes he definitely gets jealous...)

🖤 Soft!Mak who takes your hands in his, holding them together, cocooning them, giving you reassurance everything will work out and he'll be back soon

🖤 Soft!Mak who kisses your forehead tenderly, closing his eyes, his hands on either side of your head before he ruffles your hair when he leaves, cracking a joke to lighten the mood when he sees you crying or saying he'll treat you to something special when he gets back

🖤 Soft!Mak who shows you how much he appreciates you for sticking by him through thick and thin, knowing the questionable things he does daily and putting that aside because you love him

🖤 Soft!Mak who sometimes takes his stress and anger out on you but would never lay a hand on you like that because how could he?

🖤 Soft!Mak who instead, prefers some time apart but only a little. You walk into the main room in your hotel or the living room in your house in the morning, finding it filled with hundreds of bouquets of flowers and your favourite chocolates and a card addressed to you, a handwritten letter detailing how much you mean to him and that he'll be back to talk things through. -> (Timing is everything with this man)

🖤 Soft!Mak who constantly wants to provide for you, spoiling you with the money he brings in, not hesitating to buy bespoke, elegant, matching jewellery for you to wear in his presence

🖤 Soft!Mak who will use as many burner phones as he needs to to call you, telling you how much he missed your voice, holding the phone away for a moment when he starts choking on tears, looking up and blinking quickly to get rid of the tears, clearing his throat and resuming the call, his voice seemingly normal

🖤 Soft!Mak who would rather keep his business with the outside world hidden from you as best he can because really you're his world, the only world he wants to be in, the only one he really wants to focus on. 'The less you know the better' kind of thing because he has to protect his woman

🖤 Soft!Mak who will, however, give you basic firearms training in his private shooting range. Just the two of you. Him standing behind you, hips pressing into yours, his hot breath tickling the shell of your ear and neck, a hand squeezing your hips as the other arm adjusts your stance and giving you a kiss on your neck when you hit your targets

🖤 Soft!Mak who will bury his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder, inhaling your scent and leaving a hickey as he wraps his arms around your lower body, hugging you from behind as you both look at the view from the balcony

🖤 Soft!Mak who doesn't mind PDA, but nothing too extreme, reminding you and everyone watching who you belong to, not thinking it's a sign of weakness but instead strength

🖤 Soft!Mak who has no guilt when it comes to the bloodshed he causes, but feels incredibly guilty when he leaves you for just one moment

🖤 Soft!Mak who needs to feel you on him all the time and touching you whenever he gets a chance to, the expression in the eyes of this trained killer turning into one of pure love and admiration

🖤 Soft!Mak who will pull you down by your wrist, causing you to fall into his lap so he can kiss you softly, his fingers digging into your hips and back, tongue intertwining with yours as you both fight for dominance

🖤 Soft!Mak whose ability to compartmentalise and keep emotions out of things is at serious risk when you came into his life because you're all that's on his mind

🖤 Soft!Mak who treats you like the rarest, most valuable thing in the entire universe, doing everything with the utmost care when it comes to you

🖤 Soft!Mak who loves you for you, admiring your strength, and treats you how a man should, his actions exemplary (even though he is often away but he makes up for it)

🖤 Soft!Mak who loves your vulnerability too, reminding you that you're both a team and to work through things together

🖤 Soft!Mak who never makes you feel like a burden on his shoulders

🖤 Soft!Mak who notices how you tend not to bother him when he's preoccupied, his gloved hands on his hips as he's talking to someone, his head tilting to the side and noticing you hunched over, immediately walking up to you because he feels bad for not spending as much time as he wants to with. Him kneeling down in front of you, removing his gloves, his hands caressing your cheeks as he asks what's on your mind with a warm expression on his face

🖤 Soft!Mak who takes your soft hands to his lips in the middle of a conversation, kissing them while maintaining eye contact with you, listening to you fully

🖤 Soft!Mak who interlocks your fingers with his in the backseat of an SUV and has an arm around you or his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder when you're on the run and need to relocate, being driven by a chauffeur to the next place you call home

🖤 Soft!Mak who always wonders what he did to deserve you

🖤 Soft!Mak who is full of surprises, showing you his experience in every field ;)

🖤 Soft!Mak who is big on consent, only engaging in anything sexual if you're in the mood, taking his time, talking you through it, guiding you through it, getting rougher later if you're comfortable with it

🖤 Soft!Mak who chuckles when he hears you moan or scream his name, whispering things in Russian directly into your ear that turn you on even more...

"Hehe you like that my love?...Fuck you're killing me kitten nghh look at you, so beautiful, so...sexy."

🖤 Soft!Mak who, in a mad rush, fuelled by the adrenaline and cortisol running through his veins and the fact he might not make it back before a mission, where he has a standoff with TF141, asks that million dollar question in a hotel, not his ideal proposal location but anyways he slips that ring onto your finger, lips meeting yours harshly with desire, as tears stain his cheek, saying he loves you repeatedly, cupping your cheeks as your foreheads touch and he pulls you into a quick tight hug

🖤 Soft!Mak who, when the opposition are closing in on his location, will grab your hand tightly, running through corridors on high alert, a pistol in the other as he shouts commands to his soldiers, glass breaking, bullets flying as he shields you from it all

🖤 Soft!Mak who directs you out of the area first as your safety is priority, you bring him more joy than anything in the world, the only thing he truly needs and if he lost you knowing he had a part to play, he'd never be the same again -> (would probably make his reign of terror worse, wanting to brutally torture or kill the rest of our tf141 lads in cold blood as he looks for someone else to blame even though deep down he knows some of it lies with him - I LIVE FOR ANGST. Can you tell?)

🖤 Soft!Mak who remembers your talks together in bed and how you wouldn't want him to lash out in grief and be impulsive like that or seek so called 'revenge' in the first place even though you knew what you were getting into when you began dating him

🖤 Soft!Mak who starts to question whether his cause is worth it because of the danger he's putting you in, trying to push those thoughts aside because he's THE Vladimir Makarov, the ultranationalist, the terrorist, the man whose authority and work should not be questioned by any being or they'd face the consequences...-> (the internal conflict mwahaha! *rubs hands together*)

🖤 Soft!Mak who is 110% loyal to you and you only

🖤 Soft!Mak who thinks twice about everything now that he has you

dividers by @saradika-graphics <33

Next time, don't be shy anon - YOLO. Please know this is a safe space, my love. 🙃 (Also lowkey almost fell for him a second time writing these. First time was OG!Makarov, however. Yeesh...dear God, please not again. NEVER AGAIN bdjcdjsksk) -Star ☆

#boy oh boy was it fun to write for him #Star writes headcanons! ( ˃ᴗ˂ ) ✰ #Star answers asks! ( ˃ᴗ˂ ) ✰ #vladimir makarov #call of duty makarov #cod makarov #vladimir makarov x you #vladimir makarov x f!reader #makarov x you #makarov x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #cod #modern warfare #modern warfare iii #mw3 #cod mw3 #call of duty mw3 #cod smut #cod headcanons #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 3

[ghxst3m8]

Dangerously yours

Y/N: I will betray you

Makarov: If you do you will betray yourself at the same time

Y/N: Yes... Yes I know

#spotify #vladimir makarov #cod makarov #call of duty makarov #cod vladimir makarov #makarov x reader #makarov x you #vladimir makarov x reader #vladimir makarov x you #gn reader #female reader #male reader #cod incorrect quotes #cod imagine #cod x reader #dangerously yours #tv girl

[pricescancerstickk]

Vladimir Makarov x Reader

(C.w mentions of death, tell me if I missed any, au different than the game.)

W.c : 1.0k

It was a shocker how you’d been those receiving gifts. The writing in russian had given it away, You’d think he was trying to hide the fact it was him but really, he seemed like he was toying with you. You knew he wasn’t the type of guy to write or send letters, Makarov preferred luring in his victims, but to you he was making it obvious it was him

He haunted you for so many years.

The way the screen cuts to the next scene just made you wonder. If he was dead or alive. But the one with a gift box and a note attached to it?

That note in russian. It was too much to bear. Makarov was alive and out to find out where you were and get his revenge against 141. But for you, this was a warning to be on your guard too. For you.

Makarov couldve been anywhere in the world. You thought to yourself. But how would you know? That bastard knew you. You were hiding-. If makarov finds what he wants. There is no stopping what he would do. He was a cruel bastard. And he probably would not only want revenge. That was in his nature the man had only known destruction his entire life, with a bleeding heart and hadn’t shown any guilt for the killing of bystanders

It brings you to his partner in crime almost, Ivan

ivan. A trained mercenary in the group of elite killers that Vladimir had. If you were captured by someone like him. Then you would most likely be dead within the day if not the hour. Ivan, the ultranationalist. The second most important man to makarov’s group. But even he hadn’t a clue where your location was. You had been in hiding for quite some time after 141 disbanded. But makarov had the ability to get you in some sort of way. Whether by his men, or himself. Ivan... He was makarovs partner in crime to a certain point. You had seen him before. But one that wasn’t as dangerous as makarov. It was ivan who got you, but makarov who is sending the notes and the warnings. Ivan, ivan can’t track you. He is just a soldier. But makarov? He is a leader. He probably knows where you are already..

That bastard would probably be coming after you himself now. You needed to keep hiding. If not that, then run. He probably knows more about you than you think. Makarov could be hiding in a forest and then he could pop up right behind you in an instant. You thought to yourself. But you know. You would never run. Even if it meant you could be dead.. You would not run.

You only remembered Vladimir to be the same guy who was selling carpets back then,,

a carpet seller. A carpet seller was the man who was the cause of everything...a simple carpet seller. Makarov a simple carpet seller. It sounded a bit foolish but at the same time you had been living in the arab world for most of your life, so it made sense that such a thing could happen. But makarov? He was supposed to be a good man, an honest good man who did not mean any wrong. But he had been wrong from the start. So wrong. It was all a front. Atleast that was where you had first met him. His little carpet shop. A man in the east world selling carpets. Nothing wrong with that. Was he an honest man though? Now you question those very words. Was he really? It was all a facade. A facade behind all the atrocities that he must’ve been doing. All the people that have suffered under his cruel reign. All the people he had sold weapons too. The soldiers that he had killed. That he himself was hiding away and making himself out to be a saint.

When really he was the devil in disguise, you were hiding in the dark corner of the warehouse. He had seen you. And you hadn’t known what had happened. You felt his gaze upon you. So you kept to that corner. Waiting for the opportunity to get out and away. But you never got that opportunity. The base was now in flames and 141 was no more. It had been the end of days for them. But it had also been the end of days for you in a way, you were a hunted girl. With no friends or anyone to turn too.

You had no one to turn to. It was that night he had you in the corner of the wall That night he had you in the corner. So many other things had happened. But the image of him was burnt into your mind. The memory of him seeing you had been seared into your brain. His stare. The cruel look in his eyes. The look of a predator, like a lion stalking its prey. And the prey had found itself cornered. The prey was you. The hunted. Hunted yet again. You had nothing against the Russian. Albeit, yes he was the enemy. He killed millions and was responsible for the lives of them, you didn’t have anything personal against him, but even if that was that, he still needed to get rid of.

Necessarily, he wasn’t planning on killing you, but then it really struck him when you were bold to try and infiltrate their base, but he had caught you that night.

Makarov was a vile man, the damage he caused was immense and it began with a carpet shop?

“убери от меня руки!” You begged , pleas falling on deaf ears as he made his way around to you. He was mocking you with how slow he was going, harsh nails digging into your wrists, slamming you down on the floor pinning you down, the harsh stare in his eyes burned through you, it was engraved into your mind. You wrists had turned red it ached like hell

“So my little whore knows Russian?”

Your knees began to tremble at the sound of his voice alone. That one sentence was enough to shake you to the core and cause any confidence you had left to be stripped away from you. You wanted to cry and shake in fear. But instead you froze. Your knees trembled. And you felt as though you had just walked into the belly of the beast, you despised him, you wished the nightmare would be over, he was responsible for the death of all your friends.

But he was still after you, you didn’t know why. You wouldn’t know. If it was put more into summary,

He thought of you more as a toy then a enemy.

#call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #mw2 call of duty #cod #Vladimir makarov #Vladimir makarov x you #Vladimir makarov x reader #cod makarov #mw2 x reader #mw2 Vladimir makarov #makarov x reader #mw3 makarov #call of duty makarov #makarov x you #ivan mw2

[grvesgf]

VLADIMIR MAKAROV X HYBRIDCAT!READER FEM!READER.

ADVERTENCIAS: Vladimir ya es una advertencia, pistolas, sangre, ¿acoso?

RESUMEN: Conoces a Makarov en el club que trabajas.

PALABRAS: 762.

NO ESTA CORREGIDO, PERO NECESITABA ESCRIBIR SOBRE VLADIMIR.

✦ Siempre fuiste cuidadosa con quien hablabas, tus padres te enseñaron desde pequeña que la gente mala existe, especialmente para gente como tú, con tus orejas y cola de gato, llamando la atención.

✦ Trabajas en un club como mesera, atendiendo mesas a cierta hora, la hora conocida como "los contratos", donde los clientes firmaban y organizaban los contratos que cambiarían sus vidas.

✦ Tu cola se movía de lado a lado, tus orejas moviéndose por el ruido de la música, tu jefe te mando a atender una mesa.

"T/N ve a la mesa de arriba, sé lo más amable posible, pero no tanto, tenemos un invitado especial esta noche."

"¿Invitado especial? Pensé que todos nuestros clientes son importantes, pero entendido."

Tomas la bandeja y mientras subes las escaleras un escalofrío te recorre, te detienes un momento, piensas que has conocido gente mala desde que trabajas, pero esta sensación de peligro nunca las habías experimentado tan fuerte. Suspiras, solo queda una hora y puedes irte a tu casa, caminas hacia la mesa con tu mejor sonrisa.

"Bienvenidos, mi nombre es T/N y seré su mesera de esta noche." Miras a cada uno de las personas mientras sonríes, enrollas tu cola en una de tus piernas. "¿Qué es lo que desean?"

"¿Estás tú en el menú? Te comería entera."

Un hombre con un acento raro te mira, su mirada te pone incómoda.

"Lo siento, para su mala suerte no lo estoy, si quiere estar con alguna chica conozco a algunas."

"¿Y si te deseo a ti?"

El hombre se para, puedes sentir su aliento en tu cara, está claramente borracho, por instinto tus orejas se agachan cuando sientes que las toca.

"Nunca había conocido un híbrido en mi vida, no sabía que eran tan hermosos."

Algo te salpica en la cara, llevas tus manos a tu boca en shock, miras el cuerpo del hombre en el suelo, está muerto.

"Oh dios mío."

Levantas la mirada para darte cuenta de que un hombre tiene una pistola, abre y cierras tu boca intentando no entrar en pánico, pero recuerdas las reglas del club, respiras profundamente y llamas a tu jefe.

"Tenemos un cuerpo en la mesa vip, ¿Puedes venir a arreglar esto? Gracias."

En menos de dos minutos el piso está brillando de nuevo y no existe un cuerpo, te limpias las gotas de sangre de tu cara y vuelves a sonreír, ocultando tu miedo.

"Bueno ese fue un buen comienzo, ¿alguno quiere pedir algo o tendremos que vivir un momento así otra vez?"

Los hombres empiezan a pedir, tú anotas sus pedidos, pero notas qué falta uno, el hombre que disparo.

"¿Usted no desea nada?"

Inclinas tu cabeza en curiosidad.

"Nada en este momento, gracias."

Tus orejas se mueven, este hombre igual tiene un acento, pero no te molesta, ruso, reconoces fácilmente.

"Traeré sus pedidos inmediatamente."

Mientras te vas miras para atrás, tu mirada choca con el hombre ruso. Llevas todos sus pedidos con una sonrisa.

"Sí necesitan algo solo aprieten este botón, y yo vendré enseguida."

Los dejas solos, los minutos pasan y tu turno se termina, sales por la puerta trasera, cuando lo ve, fumando apoyado en una pared, dudas si hablarle o no, pero lo haces.

"Hey, perdón por molestar, pero quería agradecerte por haberme ayudado arriba, no estoy acostumbrada que los clientes de este club me hablen de esa manera."

El hombre tira su cigarro y se acerca.

"No fue nada, igualmente necesitábamos una excusa para sacarlo del camino."

Su acento y voz te causan un sonrojo, estiras tu mano.

"Soy T/N, sé que me presente, pero siempre es bueno recordarlo."

El desconocido aprieta tu mano, tu cola se mueve rápidamente, su toque te causa electricidad.

"Makarov, Vladimir Makarov."

Sonríes, sin saber que sellaste tu destino.

"Es un gusto conocerte Makarov, ¿O Vladimir?"

Preguntas en honesta confusión.

"Los dos están bien."

Un auto toca la bocina, llegaron por ti.

"Fue un gusto conocerte Makarov, pero han llegado por mí."

"¿Un novio?"

"¿Qué? No, no, solo mi hermano mayor, no tengo novio."

"Eso es bueno saberlo. Adiós T/N, espero volver a verte."

"Sí vienés unas dos horas antes me vas a encontrar, solo trabajo en la hora de los contratos."

Te despides de Makarov y caminas hacia el auto, te subes y suspiras, tu hermano te mira.

"¿Nuevo sugar daddy?"

Golpeas a tu hermano en el hombro.

"Cállate idiota. Solo le estaba dando las gracias, me salvo ahí arriba."

Sin que supieras, tu destino cambiaría, a Makarov le gustaste, y cuando algo le gusta, debe ser suyo. A cualquier costo.

#cod mw3 #cod modern warfare #vladimir makarov #vladimir makarov x reader #makarov x reader #makarov x you #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #cod x gn!reader #modern warfare x reader

[mrsparrasblog]

Makarov x John Price daughter pt.3.

Pt.1. Pt. 2 PT.4

Tw: Stockholm Syndrom, Daddy issues, smut

You were already two weeks here; you couldn’t believe that it had been so long since you got kidnapped in this kind of life. You didn’t see Vlad often, and you slowly craved his contact. You were lonely; the only human things near you were your scary Russian bulky guards.

They didn’t communicate with you, touch you, or even look at you. Maybe because it would be a death sentence for them to even touch you. You were Vlad's property, and everyone knew it.

Only you didn’t know about the power you actually had. Well, you couldn’t leave because you would get killed by the guards or put in the basement. But if you were only a bit smarter, you would have realized that the guards didn’t have permission to kill you; only shots in your legs were allowed, where they could be healed. Why would Makarov want his beautiful future wife dead?

You wondered why your dad hadn't saved you already. Aunt Kate always told you about an elite team he leads that saves hostages all the time, but why not you? Why were you still here, and with every following day, your hope was reduced to finally nothing? He won't save you.

--------------------

On day 22, you finally crumbled. You were so desperate for human interactions that you searched for Makarov. You tried to ask your guards, but of course, they didn’t answer. You were asking yourself if it was because of the lack of English or because they just wanted to ignore you. Either way, you needed to find him on your own.

After a bit of wandering, you reached his office; at least this was the room that smelled the most of his rich, scented cologne. When you entered the room, the hardwood tiles cracked under your weight, and why were you sweating so much? He wouldn’t kill you, right? He would have already done it if he wanted to.

"Oh, got bored, Princess? “

You walked inside, and you almost forgot how unbelievably attractive he was, even more now with his priceless suit. You had a thing for men in suits, but for your kidnapper, really, were you so desperate? Obvious yes.

You noticed a man was completely beaten up; blood streamed from his face; he hadn’t got many fingers left; he looked horrifying overall; some of Vlad's men stood beside him; he was as bloody as the man on the chair, but it wasn’t his blood. You were fucking afraid looking over Vlad with your big teary eyes.

“Shh Princess, come sit on my lap,“ you obeyed, sitting down on his lap, ruining his perfect suit with wrinkles. He traced down his fingers alongside the thin dress you chose today—his unbelievable selection for you. His hard-on was pressing against your perfectly shaped ass, making you wonder if he had one because you sat down on his lap or because a man was tortured in front of him; he was fucking crazy.

His delicate fingers traced down the hem of your dress up to your soft thighs. “I see you like the lingerie I got you,“ he smirked as if you had any choice anyway; all of your clothing was basically his; it was his mercy that you’re still alive. His hand slowly wandered to the lacy fabric of your panties, finding them wet to your embarrassment.

You pushed your thighs together; you couldn’t let him touch you. There, he kidnapped you. What would your dad think about you? And especially not in front of a poor tortured man. You didn’t know what he did, but maybe he wasn’t innocent; maybe he deserved it. Vlad always had his reasons. Stop. You can't justify his acts. What’s wrong with you? You asked yourself all over again. Why did you have a small blink of sympathy for him?

He pushed your thighs apart. „Open up, Princess; there is no need to be shy." You thought it would be better to listen to him

„Если ты посмотришь на нее, я убью тебя.“ He said it in Russian, and the guard only nodded, continuing to torture the man in front of you. He ripped off the straps of your summer dress, revealing to you what you knew all over again - He wouldn’t be a gentle lover, not in the slightest.

Your breasts were now fully exposed, just as your thong was ripped apart.

It had something strange about you being completely exposed on top of him, and he sat there still wearing his expensive suit. The guard didn’t look at you for a second, which made you feel at ease, at least.

Vlad cupped your breasts, roughly playing with your nipples, pinching them hard, only making you shudder under his touch. „Mhm,“ you moaned, getting embarrassed at the same time. How do you get so easily flustered?

„Извините за отвлечение, мой питомец требует моего внимания“ (Im sorry for the disturbance, my pet needed attention) he said to the tortured man and continued to ask him questions, but not for a second he left his thick palms from your sensitive hard nipples.

The wetness between your thighs only becomes more evident with each second, while your resistance and embarrassment became less. Your slick flowered down from your thighs, making a big mess on his expensive suit pants. "So eager, Princess ?“

You could only moan as a reaction to not being able to talk properly, but he didn’t start to rub your pleading clit. God, he was probably the kind of guy who wanted to make you beg for his touch, but you had enough dignity to not beg, but you hadn’t got enough dignity to not start to rub your throbbing cunt against his thigh.

He noticed it and flexed his thigh, so you felt more pressure while he continued to pinch your nipples. His lips occasionally brushed your neck, leaving small kisses and, more importantly, bites on your neck, showing everyone that you were his property.

„God, Vlad, please,“ you whined as you rubbed yourself harder against him, his thighs hitting your clit all over again, making you wince and squeal.

With a firm grip, he kept you in your place. Your whimpers only fueled his desire towards you; his erect cock was pressing hard against you, begging to finally be in his rightful place.

He glanced down at the mess you made, your juices staining the expensive fabric of the suit. His grin turned into a smirk as he realized that you were indeed the perfect plaything for him. You may not be as powerful as him or psychotic, but you were naughty enough to satisfy his sick desires. He thought about how to reward your brazen display later. Maybe he would try for the first time to eat a woman out; he never knew the appeal, but with you, he wanted you to feel pleasure. He was fucking proud of how he made you squirm just with his leg; he occasionally shook his leg, making you clit whine in happiness.

The tortured man dared to look at your cunt and before you even realized what was happening, Vlad spoke in a cruel voice to him, „Ублюдок, почему ты смотрел на мою жену?“ (Bastard, why did you look at my wife?) He gestured to the guard and told him something in Russian. You didn’t notice it; you were too caught up in almost bringing yourself to release.

The guard took some kind of trinket and poured it into the eyes of the tortured man. The man screamed in shock, and you scrunched, afraid like a dear, hugging Vlad for comfort. The person you were most afraid of was the one you searched comfort for; it was so twisted. „Shh, princess, turn around. I'll protect you like your dad couldn't.“

You turned around now, sitting with your face towards him. From your beautiful eyes fell tears, and he flicked them away with his tongue. The desire to kiss him in search of comfort was so high. „Thank you, Vlad.“

He only nodded, and you tried your best to blend out the sounds of the tortured man. Vlad's hand slowly went down on you, trying to calm you down, and it worked. Like a love-drunk girl, you pressed yourself harder against his fingers, who drew circles around your clit making you shake so desperately. “ Oh god, Vlad.“

„Such a good girl for me, so eager for her Daddy’s enemy,“ he grinned wickedly as he slowly put two of his delicate fingers in your pleading hole, making you squirm again. He started to scissor his fingers lazily inside of you, still fully concentrated on getting the answers out of the man. You asked yourself how he could still be so calm while you were a whimpering mess.

The bulge of his cock pressed against your ass, giving you even more pleasure than his hands already did to you. He started to search for that spongy spot in your gummy walls, a spot many men had missed before, but he immediately found it, making you scream in pleasure, and he only chuckled darkly at your needy responses.

„Mhm, so close, Vlad.“

For a second, you were afraid that he would deny you the satisfaction of an orgasm, but he added a third finger, fingering you against your sweet spot while holding you still, so you couldn't escape the pleasure.

„Cum for me, Pet,“ and you did. With a final pump of his fingers, you reached the most intense orgasm of your life. Coating his suit with your juices, he let you ride out your orgasm.

He pulled out his fingers after you calmed down and licked his fingers clean, letting out a growl as he tasted your delicious taste. Vlad gave you his dress shirt so you could walk back to your room in dignity. As he removed his dress shirt, you couldn’t stop staring at his exposed chest; it was filled with tattoos, and you wanted to scratch down and kiss every inch of it.

„Like what you see, моя жена?“ (My wife)

„Yes“

„You will see it often enough, and now go. I have a business to do.“

———————————————

In the following days, you felt guilty for allowing it and confused. You should have been afraid of him, but he never hunted you. Okay, he kidnapped you, but still, he didn't beat you or torture you. That's nice, right?

He walked inside your room a few weeks later.

„моя жена“

„What does that mean?“

„Not important, princess, I got you something.“

„I have more than enough material things, Vlad.“

„It's not material; I know how much you loved your study as a midwife; I brought you the best private teacher; when you’re bored, you can continue; and a Russian teacher is necessary for you to learn Russian.“

You couldn’t believe it. Your dad didn’t even support you when he wasn’t even around, and Vlad just bought a private teacher for you. „That's the nicest thing someone ever did for me.“

——————————————————

Learning Russian was hard, but you managed better than you thought, getting better and better every day, much to the liking of Vlad. He always praised you for something you yearned your whole life for.

„моя жена, you deserve a reward. What do you want?“

„You already gave me so much,“ you said, blindly forgetting that he did in fact not do everything for you; you hadn’t been at your work for 4 months now, the place you loved, and you hadn’t seen your dad, and you still yearned so much for him; you loved him after all more than anything. If a therapist had looked at you, he would have noticed how, in your heart, you were still a little kid fighting for the approval of your dad, and since you didn’t get it, you searched for it from another man, and you got it from Vlad. And he would tell you you had the biggest case of Stockholm syndrome he ever witnessed, but you weren’t a therapist.

„No everything for my моя жена“

„I want to dance ballet again.“

„Perfect, I'll get you the best teacher in Russia."

——————————————————-

And he did. Another month passed, and you became better than you ever were before, enjoying the time dancing so much. You told Vlad how your dad hadn’t seen one of your Ballet performances and how it always made you sad since he was at the fencing events of Tina.

Needless to say, the next day, a tutu was placed in your room, and you were performing Clara from The Nutcracker in front of him. You cried after the performance, and he praised you for how elegant his wife was. You noticed yourself referring to him slowly as your husband. Every day you forget more and more that you weren’t free; in your mind, you were free.

After the performance, you spend the whole night in his room, thanking him for being so nice to you.

—————————————————-

One time he wasn’t returning home for five days. You were panting and afraid. You locked yourself in your room, not leaving it for a second, only to open the door for your food and drink order from your servants. You noticed the sting in your heart. What if he found someone better? What if he left you? What if someone killed him?

After the 5 Day, he came back blood-covered, and without a word, you cleaned him up with a gesture he never allowed someone else. He was vulnerable around you, and this was the first time you stayed with him, only cuddling him and making out with him, something neither of you believed could ever happen.

———————————————————

After the accident, he told the guards that you had full permission to command them, and you felt easier when he left. The power felt nice at first until you met the man who got your Vlad so bloody, and you ordered the guards to kill him.

Now blood covered your innocent fingers; you killed for him; you were a monster; you sobbed for hours before Vlad came in; he was disgusted at your weakness but somehow intrigued at the same time you killed for him, something that meant so much for the emotionless men.

————————————————————

9 months

„Vlad, is my dad dead?“ You asked him. How could he care so little that he didn’t save his daughter? You thought, but he loved you. Maybe he died on deployment.

„No, моя жена, he isn't dead; he just - its hard, but he doesn’t want to fight to get you back,“ he said with a sorry expression. His eyes got you so manipulated that you believed him, oblivious to the fact that your dad and his team burned the world down to find you. They didn’t act anymore on rules; your father left a kill count in the nine months bigger than in his 20 years in the army. But how could you know?

That day you cried in his arms for hours, and he listened to your rambling, and you knew Vlad would never leave you. He is about you, and you shouldn’t resent him; he treats you better than anyone else in your life.

——————————————————-

„Why do I need to wear this dress, Vlad?“ You asked while you wore a dress in the price range of a house in London. It was sewn for you and filled with little gemstones; it suited you, and you never felt more beautiful before.

„We are going out.“

„Outside ?“ You couldn’t believe it; you weren’t in the real world for over a year, only in the mansion and the garden.

„Yes, I show you Moscow.“

You were so happy, and Moscow was indeed the most beautiful place on earth. You knew now that you were 100% free; he left you alone. You could have run away, but you didn't. You were there.

To your surprise, he fell on his knees in front of you, a gesture he never did before; it was weakness, and he had no weakness well besides you; you were his only weakness, and this would stay this way.

„Princess, we have been together for over a year now. Would you give me the honor to become my wife?“

A year ago, you would have said no, but now you want to be his wife, so you nod and start to cry.

He finally had what he wanted: revenge on John Price, a queen of his empire and soon an heir

Tag list: @multifand0midi07 , @whos-fran , @cassiecasluciluce

#cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #tf 141 #call of duty #smut #call of duty modern warfare #makarov x you #tf 141 x reader #tf141 smut #vladimir makarov #cod makarov #makarov x reader #call of duty makarov #john price cod #captain john price #captain price mw2 #stockholm #captain price #john price #price

[diejager]

[a portal opens and i crash onto the floor, looking nauseous. i get up and weakly raise my hand:]

requesting.. your… makarov headcanons… pleaseee- AaHHHH-

[another portal opens and i fall into it, disappearing]

Vladimir Makarov headcanons

Pairing: Vladimir Makarov x reader

Cw: manipulation, kidnapping, obsession, DUB-CON/NON-CON, DARKFIC, mind break, physical abuse, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 854

As I’ve said previously, I doubt that Makarov knows how to love. He can’t love because it isn’t necessary for his cause, to provide him with something useful in his steps towards his purpose. He does not need something useless —something that’s lost its use over the years, that’s why he sees no problem with disposing of his helpers after they failed or disappointed him. 

If he has no use for something, he lets them go. If you plead your case enough and prove to him that you still have some usefulness in you, he’ll keep you for the time being. He has many enemies, much more than allies —those he considers allies. 

He, however, is still a man under his acts of terrorism and infamous image. Makarov might be busy, but he still has time for his needs, especially after spending four years in prison. He, however, has expectations, he likes challenges as much as he likes winning, and he wants something he can control, manipulate and order around. Makarov wants something easy enough to influence and exploit, and who better than a soldier stolen from his enemies —you.

He takes per quality. He prefers quality over quantity for the things he keeps close, for simple soldiers he employs for Konni, it’s all about quantity, a number high enough to overwhelm the people, but qualified enough to work. You’re the only thing that isn’t from the old Soviet Union in his organisation, little you who came from outside his precious Motherland. 

You’re feisty, you bite back like a feral dog he picked up from the streets, unruly yet smart. You see through some of his tactics, but miss others, falling straight at it and ending up skimming under his boot, wounded and yelping. 

He likes hearing you yip and bark, snide remarks turned to tearful mewls. He doesn’t harm you, he leaves that to his men until he comes to stop them, posing as your saviour. He specialises in psychological warfare as well as guerilla warfare done on a grander scale, breaking down the morals of his enemies and causing a break in their mental fortitude with his cruel and sudden attacks with little to no care about citizen casualties. The more chaos he causes, the better.

You power through his manipulation and control of the scenario for a while, seeing through his saviour charade and hissing at him, backing away from his touch. He likes that fight in you, mind overheating like the engines of old cars, working to find the gaps in his plans, the small mistakes you could use against him. But he had none, he accounted for everything to keep you.

Makarov won’t force himself on you, he’s subtle, making you ask for it, making you think it was your idea. It might take a month or two, but he’s a patient man, waiting for your mind to confuse reality and delusions, push you to think that he truly cared for you. Look at what he did for you, he took you away from death, the danger of fighting on the front lines and the danger of men and women who might want to take advantage of you. 

He’s your saviour. He gave you a house to live comfortably, a big bed where he could hold you after being cornered by his men, he handles you so gently and he cares for you. Where are the friends and family you spoke so fondly about? He’ll berate it into your mind that they never came, they thought that you were dead and never searched for your body. You were forgotten, a buried memory that he replaced with another so quickly that it insulted him. 

What he doesn’t tell you is that he faked the body, planted your dog tags on the unidentifiable body and left it for them to find. That didn’t stop them, they were determined to get you back, but he thwarted them at every step, stopping them from finding you and taking his new obsession away from him. He’s a possessive man, he takes care of what he calls his as long as they’re useful. 

And when you let Makarov in, it’s the best moment in years, everything he put into you, the time, the effort and the scheming, finally came to fruition. You’re teetering on the edge of oblivion and subservience, you’d forgotten the world outside of your relationship with him, content with being under his warm body, leaving yourself to his pleasure.

Give it a year and he’d have you eating out of his hand, becoming an asset he could trust to send out and come back home bruised and bloodied, hair matted and bags under your eyes from exhaustion, but you’d be successful, holding the head of your target in hand as proof of your success. 

You were more than just an object of pleasure and assassination, you were his doll, a puppet on strings that he controls. He dictates every step, he chooses every decision and he makes every plan. You are his to control and to own until you lose your functionality. 

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia @notspiders

#dead dove do not eat #dark fic #tw: dark content #dark content #mw3 makarov #makarov #vladimir makarov #call of duty makarov #cod makarov #vladimir makarov x reader #makarov x reader #makarov x you #tw: dub con #tw: manipulation #tw: noncon #tw: kidnapping #mind break #x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader

[deunmiu-dessie]

warnings ⸻ dub-con

makarov's!daughter who finds her wrists bound behind her back, kneeling on the cold, rough concrete, the skin bruised and raw. makarov's!daughter who leans against the aluminum walls, eyes attempting to adjust to the darkness of her surroundings. makarov's!daughter who jolts when the doors are thrown open, overhead lights flooding the room and burning her eyes. makarov's!daughter who comes face to face with a skull mask when her eyes flutter open, lashes wet with tears. makarov's!daughter whose lips pucker when the man crouches to her height and grabs her cheeks roughly. makarov's!daughter whose eyebrows knit together, spitting on him as best as she can. "иди в жопу." ( go fuck yourself ) makarov's!daughter who swallows thickly when his gravelly, mocking voice responds. "there r'other ways t'get you ta speak, принцесса." ( princess )

"--mmph!"

your gag reflex surfaces as his girthy, pierced cock bullies its way down your throat, his gloved hands gripping your hair roughly. your face is a mess of spit and cum, lips wrapped loosely around the thickness of the masked man. his eyes are a murky blue, upper lids hooded to watch his cock disappear between your lips and then further. the fight you once had is no more and you willingly swallow his length, tongue laving at his tip when he pulls away.

you're drooling, spluttering, and whining in a panic when he reaches into his back pocket to pull out your phone to record you, the bright flash of the back camera hurting your eyes. "i think y'r little girl is enjoying my cock t'much, don't you? makarov?"

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ - 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒!

#simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #tf141 #task force 141 #call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #ghost call of duty #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x you smut #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley smut #ghost cod smut #simon riley smut blurb #writers on tumblr #twitter links #size difference #cod links #dubious consent #non con #dead dove do not eat #call of duty makarov #vladimir makarov #cod makarov #deunmiu dessie

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter Three) (Finale)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 6.5k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Some Fluff, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Physical Abuse, Domestic Violence, Attempted Homicide, Physical descriptions of gore, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3) A/N: The final chapter of Marionette's escape

How do you kill the person you love?

You’ve bathed in the blood of dozens, possibly hundreds. The violence Makarov has wound into your veins is inherent to your soul. Poisoned, your heart is dyed in ink, pulsing in glinting obsidian. If there was anything pure in you before he turned you into what you are now, it’s been swallowed by the years spent under his control, in his arms, drinking in his breath as if it were your own. The lives you’ve taken for him are a mere chill compared to his searing warmth. It burns against your skin in the light of the truth, but the pain is a bittersweet addiction you can’t release.

You know a hundred ways to kill an enemy, but you know none to kill Makarov.

It’s getting hard to maintain this farce of yours, your tender, relieved smiles at his presence, your soft sighs into his shoulder. Every time he echoes the name he’s bestowed upon you “Marionette.” a vile, sour thing twists inside you with a scream of something wrong.

He knows.

He knows, he sees through your farce, but he pretends like nothing is wrong. He presses gentle kisses to your forehead and you don’t let him see the pinch of your expression with how it hurts- the way something inside you longs for him even now. There’s a distant temptation to sink to your knees before him, confess and plead for mercy. You’re his, you’ve always been his. He loves you. He’ll forgive you, even if it means you’ll never see your friends again. If he forgives you, at least you’ll still have him, and there’s a part of you that still thinks he’s all you ever needed.

Has he engraved that into you too?

You dance around each other in this vain, feckless game of yours. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, and his velvet eyes soften in return. Accepting your docility, as if he doesn’t see your feral nature lurking just below the surface. He embraces you, holds you tight to his chest, and you feign willingness, knowing the fatalistic gaze of him as he gazes past you. He’s playing you just as you play him, both of you waiting for the other to crack and end this macabre waltz you revolve in just like the ever-changing axis of stars above.

You’re running out of time.

You try to imbue yourself in the memories of your allies that have surfaced inside you despite his control over your mind. You think of the curling smoke of Price’s cigar, the sly sparkle of Gaz’s eyes, the bark of Soap’s laughter, the curve of Simon’s smile in the rare moments without his mask. You think about the clink of glasses in a dimly lit pub, the boxes of takeout that litter the coffee table in the rec room. You think about the despair in their eyes when they saw the thing you are now, and the scrawl of Johnny’s handwriting in the letter you wish you still had to give you strength.

We’re coming. We’ll bring you home. We won’t stop until you’re away from him.

Be patient, stay alive.

Come back to us.

Please, hen.

You think you may be dead by the time they rescue you. You think they might die trying to free you.

and you think about how cold Makarov’s blood will feel on your hands.

Maybe you can catch him while you lay in his arms in the blue light of his bedroom. Maybe you can pilfer a weapon and conceal it. Maybe you can breathe in his final, shuddering gasp when you drive the blade between his ribs, whisper a useless apology for the sin of loving him.

Maybe he’ll kill you with a kiss before you can try.

“They’ll never take you from me.” He’d told you. You know he’ll never let you leave alive.

You need to go home, and once more something secret inside you whispers that you are home.

He wakes you on a cold March morning a week after your breakdown, and as you blink slowly up at him he smiles, that gentle, heart tugging gesture that used to be the light of your entire life. Now, it makes you want to burst into tears.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He coos ever so gently, and you manage to not shy away from his touch as he smooths a hand across your bare shoulder. “Get dressed, I have somewhere to send you.”

No.

You’re not ready. You don’t know what it is, but something inside you twists in sickening apprehension at his words. Even so, you offer him a complacent smile, murmur something about coming back to bed for just a few more minutes.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Within the hour you are dressed in a dusk-colored coat and bundled into the back of a black van with two other men, both of them armed. Anxiety takes a foothold in your chest, and it takes effort to appear calm and composed even as the car pulls away and Makarov fades behind you.

They take you to a warehouse in a town just outside the city. It looks abandoned, but you know it’s merely a concealed location for something nefarious. Smuggling, storage, planning of logistics, a black site that doesn’t even exist on the map. You wonder if these are your executioners, if they’re taking you to a quiet, hidden spot to dispose of you. They won’t even dig you a grave, not with the ground frosted over by winter. The men at your back escort you inside, through empty corridors, down a set of stairs into a dark cellar. Every muscle inside you coils tight, ready to fight, claw your way to freedom through a path of blood.

Yet when the door to the cellar opens, all you see is a friend.

Alex.

He’s tied to a chair. Bruised, bloodied. There’s a welt above his left eye that you want to smooth over with a delicate touch, fall to your knees at his feet to undo the ropes that bind him. His head hangs on his chest, but when he looks up at you he startles, eyes wide before his expression falls into abrupt sadness. He calls your name and it takes all your strength to stand tall, to stay composed. Blank eyed, obedient. The puppet he wants you to be.

“What did he do to you?” He rasps, brow pinched in distress. He flexes his arms at the ropes, and they don’t budge. He calls your name again and it’s desperate. A sound of despair.

Movement beside you. A knife pressed into your palm.

“Do it.” Your handler murmurs in Russian. “Kill him.”

You tremble now, trying to keep your expression passive despite the looming panic rising up your chest and threatening to choke your air.

It’s a test. One you’re designed to fail.

You can kill him, watch the light from Alex’s eyes fade and his blood drain down your wrist. You could buy yourself just a little bit more time before Makarov decides to test you again, and again, until one day your usefulness to him expires and he tosses you aside.

You step closer, feel the phantom whisper of him in your ear, hands pressing your back into his front in a sinister embrace. His palms cover your eyes, blinding you.

“You don’t even have to look, darling.”

The knife shakes in your grip.

Alex turns his face to you, and the grief there makes something inside you splinter, crack and unspool in tormenting agony.

He’s your friend.

“It’s me.” He whispers sadly at your thousand-yard stare. “You know me. It’s Alex.”

“Do it.” The other handler snaps impatiently. “Prove yourself to our cause.”

“They’ll never take you from me.”

You won’t do this. Not anymore.

“No.” You whisper as something inside you finally changes along with the light of hope unfurling in Alex’s eyes. “I won’t.”

The two men behind you are silent for a moment, looking at each other, before one of them sighs.

You know the movement is coming before he lunges towards you, and easily you sidestep him, seize his arm and twist in a brutal grip. Something snaps. He screams.

The blade in your hand turns red with his blood.

As he gurgles a death moan on the ground, the other tries to raise his weapon at you. You force his hands up to the ceiling as he fires, and the bullet lodges itself in the damp wood. Two quick movements. A slash to the chest, under his bulletproof vest, and as he chokes a gasp you stab forward into the side of his neck, rip from one end to the other. Warm wetness coats your hands, and as the man slumps it drips from your fingers onto his stricken, frozen face.

You turn to Alex, and see in his eyes that he looks afraid. Afraid of your brutality, of your violence. Afraid of the weapon you’ve become. Afraid of the thing Makarov has made you.

The knife cuts away his bindings, and you drop it in favor of trying to touch him, reach and help him. You jolt when you realize how your skin has turned scarlet in the act of taking more lives. Yet Alex’s hands close over them, holding with a tight grip as if to anchor you from yourself.

“They, Price and the others, they sent me to find you.” He tells you hoarsely, rushing through his words. “They needed to know you were alive. That-”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“Where are they?” You ask, gaze still bent to your hands. Soft, almost demure. Numb to the act of taking lives.

“A two-hour drive. We can make it before reinforcements come.” He declares, and suddenly you’re being pulled up the cellar stairs, past the empty corridors and into the overcast morning.

You gently pull your hand away from him. Alex looks at you, eyes stricken.

“No.” You whisper quietly, eyes full of hurt for what you are about to do. “I can’t.”

Alex blinks, and then he turns to grab at your shoulders, gripping you. “What are you talking about? This is your chance. You can escape!” He pauses, fingers clenching into your wool coat before he softly adds: “You can come home to us.” Your face pinches, you shake your head in a quick gesture that silences a growing sob.

“They’ll find us before we make it out of the city.” You tell him softly. “Makarov won’t let me go that easily.”

You feel that new, fragile thing inside you clench with the hurt of your words, how desperately you want to follow him. “I can’t get you killed for this. You- you go. I’ll distract them, make sure you get to safety.”

Alex’s grip softens, but his voice remains hard. “I’m not leaving you.” He declares with unwavering conviction. “We’ll find a way. I can’t just-”

“Go.” You gasp, cutting him off. “I need- I need to go back. I need to end this.”

You look at him then, eyes brimming with tears. The truth of what you need to do aches in your bones, a sorrow that grows tenfold at the devastation in your friend’s eyes.

“I need to kill him.”

Alex blinks, swallows.

“He’ll try to kill you.” He whispers.

You nod, and at last resignation settles into your soul with a sigh. “I know.”

Yet then you manage to smile past your tears, head tilting and eyes fond.

“I’ll follow you soon.” You tell him softly. “Don’t wait up.”

Alex holds you to his chest, red hands pressing your face to his shoulder. You can feel his rigid frame as he tries to contain his protests.

“Be safe, sister.” He tells you in Arabic. “Come back to us.”

“I will.” You promise, eyes closing and swallowing down a sob. “I will.”

---

As Alex makes his escape, you find yourself once more throwing yourself into the jaws of the lynx.

The drive back to Makarov’s safehouse is quiet, almost peaceful. The scant brightness of the winter sun glints off your dull-eyed gaze. The blood on your hands and clothes dries by the time you pull into the garage, hit the button to the beautiful, pristine apartment that overlooks St. Petersburg. You close your eyes, swallow down the howling voice inside you that screams in anguish at the sin you are about to commit against the man you once loved, and somehow have been taught to love still.

There’s no guards at Makarov’s door, and it makes you falter unexpectedly. Even so, you cautiously tread inside, the knife in your grip concealed in the sleeve of your blood splattered coat. The smell of food wafts from the kitchen, and as you step inside you see him at the stove, tending to something mouthwatering. It’s only then that you catch sight of the set table, the flowers in a vase, the fine silverware and white napkins set just so.

“Welcome back.” He tells you without looking at you, and you notice how nicely dressed he is, pressed shirt sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. “Go change. There is a dress for you in the bedroom.”

You don’t move, caught entirely off guard by this...this display of romanticism he never once has offered in the time you’ve known him. It’s sinisterly amorous, deceptively charming in a way designed to unsettle you. It finds its mark, because something inside you squirms with abject, growing discomfort, knowing something is wrong.

It’s then that you see the pistol laying beside him on the counter.

Soviet era, semi-automatic. Nine-millimeter.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” He tells you blankly, still not looking at you, as if he doesn’t even consider you a threat.

The water runs pink in the bathroom. You try to find a way to conceal your knife on your person, but the dress he’s set for you offers little excuse to hide your weapon. Red, the color he adores you in, and your hands fumble as they try to drag the zipper up your spine. When the bedroom door opens you can’t contain a flinch. Yet Makarov is silent as he crosses the room, bare hands sliding the zipper up your spine in a slow, suggestive gesture. When he’s finished, his arms snake around to hold your hips, nose descending to the exposed flesh of your shoulder and tracing along the skin. He breathes in your scent, and you can’t help but ease somewhat at the sinister seduction he offers to you.

“Come eat.” He whispers breathily. “You’ve had a long day.”

His grip on your shoulder is unrelenting as he escorts you to the immaculately set table, popping his chin on his hands as he sits across from you with slow blinking eyes.

You look down at the steak on the fine china. Your stomach clenches in disgust. Poisoned, your mind whispers.

“I’m not hungry.” You whisper, your voice sounding more fearful than you’d hoped.

Makarov huffs a little sound that sounds almost amused.

“Do you think I’d stoop so low as to poison you, Marionette?”

You freeze.

As you look up from the steak to Makarov, as horror dawns across your expression, you realize he knows.

Makarov tilts his head and observes you with a slow, cruel smile.

“My greatest prize.” He purrs. “Come to kill me? How ironic.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. The apartment around you seems to spin dangerously. Heartbeat hammering, you look quickly to the steak knife beside the plate. Yet Makarov follows your gaze, and before you can grab for it he reaches forward with a disappointed little sigh and takes it from your grasp.

“Please, Marionette.” He tells you with false sincerity. “We’re trying to have dinner.”

“Is that what this is?” You ask hoarsely, throat dry. “I could have sworn this is you taking your time to gloat before you kill me.”

“Kill you?” He laughs, eyes sparkling with cruel glee. “Why Marionette, you haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, shoulders rigid, and Makarov’s eyes glimmer like the stars above.

“I’ve known about this farce of yours for a while, beloved.” He tells you, and the low timbre of his voice makes your chest tighten with an aleatory mix of emotion. “I was willing to overlook it as long as you did your job correctly, performed as you were meant to. After all, I’m so very fond of you.”

You spit a curse at him in Russian, and Makarov doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course, now that your friends are getting close to finding us, it is time to look at different options.”

You stiffen impossibly further in your chair, sitting elegantly in your lovely red dress, blood still under your fingernails, staring at the man holding you prisoner with noxious dread.

The smile Makarov gives you is ominously affectionate.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Marionette.” He offers silkily. “I’ll let you live. I can promise no harm will come to you. I won’t make use of your skills, and I won’t force you to kill your allies. You can stay, and you will be safe.”

“Under what conditions?” You ask quietly.

Makarov observes you, unblinking like the lynx painting that hangs above your dreams.

“You will never leave my side again.”

Your heart cracks against your ribs.

Stay with him. Protected, not forced to murder anyone, beside him always.

It’s what you’ve always wanted.

To be at his side, to walk beside him, not two steps back like the weapon he’s made you as. To fall under the wing of his protection and be his, only ever his. To be not his puppet or his tool but as his. Perhaps...even to be loved by him in the way you’ve wanted since the moment he found you.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why spare you? Why keep you beside him when he knows you want to take his life? Why take the risk?

You blink, and suddenly his words make sense. Why else? To keep you only as a shield, as insurance against your allies hunting him down, trying to kill him. Not as his weapon, no, but as leverage. The second Price and the others step too close he’ll hoist a gun to your head, force them to lay down their arms for the cost of sparing you.

In your dream, Price and the others look upon you with despair beyond the sights of the pistol in your grip.

“Stay with me, Marionette.” He purrs, head tilted at you with fixated intent. “Give in, and I’ll keep you safe.”

You swallow, feeling sandpaper scrape at your throat. “As your hostage?” You ask, voice trembling.

Makarov smiles. It looks almost kind.

“As my beloved doll.” He returns sweetly. “Perfect and beautiful just the way you are meant to be.”

You can imagine it. Just as he says, you’d be nothing more than a prize sitting amongst his trophies of war. Clad in beautiful clothes, pristine, at his side as a display of his power over you. Nothing more than a puppet, a captive, his marionette. You’d sit like a lachrymose dove in his golden gilded cage, staring up at the stars and wanting desperately to fly. Wings clipped, you’ll slowly rot until you once more become an empty shell whose only purpose is to love him.

An empty, soulless existence. Worse than the one you’re living in.

Makarov is silent as he waits for your answer, and you look upon him, this man you had once existed for. You remember his passionate embraces, his claiming kisses and soft strokes along your bare body. You remember a time when all you had ever wanted was for him to confess his adoration for you, tell you how beloved you are to him.

You look upon him now, and you see the man who offers a beautiful cage.

“I’m leaving.” You tell him, voice trembling with the strength it takes to speak. “I’m going to leave you, Makarov, and when I do, I’m going to learn to live without you.”

The light of false kindness in his eyes slowly fades to a blank, detached apathy.

“Darling.” He whispers, words low with threat. “You’ll never leave me.”

He reaches for the pistol.

You react entirely on instinct, shove the entire table towards him so it hits him in the stomach. Makarov catches it, but not in time, and he grunts as his features morph into a scowl. You stand so the chair topples behind you, lunge for him just as his hand closes around the gun. You manage to hoist it high and away from you, eyes wild as every instinct inside you roars to life. The skills he’s carved into you, the lessons of the weapon he’s made you, now turn against him in a desperate bid for survival.

Makarov curses at you, and as you follow his motion he drags you across the table, knocks a leg so it falls. You find your footing anyways, use his imbalance to shove him against the too-large windows that overlook St. Petersburg. Makarov rams his head against yours, and it sends you reeling for a moment, grip loosening on his wrist. He shakes it loose, but before he can fire you yell, plant a strike to his arm to buckle it. A shot rings out, and it goes wild, shattering the vase of roses on the kitchen counter.

Makarov grapples for you, his hand closing around the lower half of your face as you pin his arm to the curtains. You bite down so blood fills your mouth, raise a leg between you so you can kick out one of his legs. Makarov falters, and as he does you twist, reaching for the gun once more. Yet Makarov anticipates your movement, and as he rapidly adjusts you manage to only knock the weapon from his hands. It slides across the tiled floor, well out of reach.

In your surprise he catches you off guard, and the world spins around you as he snarls, hoists you and throws you through the glass table.

The impact makes something crunch inside you, broken glass slicing your skin as you fall on your side, pain blossoming brightly in your ribs. It stuns you, the hurt fracturing outwards and robbing the breath from your lungs. The impact rattles you from head to toe, and even as you are winded you try to roll and push yourself up, to face him once more.

Makarov’s hands find you before you get the chance.

He forces you violently onto your back, chest heaving as he leans over you, hands snaking up to grip your neck in a strangulating hold. It takes a moment for your head to clear, but when it does you struggle, choking in pain at the suck of air that doesn’t reach your lungs. Makarov’s thumbs press into your airway as he straddles you, ignoring your flailing hands as they try to scratch at his face. He grabs at them with one hand, struggling for a moment before he hauls both far above your head. It gives you only a moment to breathe before the choking hold returns, starving you of air.

You trash, flail, but with every movement Makarov’s hands seem to press down harder. His eyes stare down above you, mouth a grim set line as he watches the horror and desperation transform your expression.

Black dots threaten your vision, and you feel your strength beginning to fade. The only thing left is the constellations in his eyes, glimmering darkness that you once had looked upon with adoration.

“Vlad...imir-” You wheeze, tears falling.

He blinks, expression faltering.

At your fingertips, a piece of glass.

You stab it into the meat of his palm, loosen his hold as he cries out in pain. He relaxes his grip on you, and without thinking you surge upwards so the killing edge finds its place in his throat.

Blood coats your hands.

Makarov reels backwards, grips at the wound where blood rushes forth. He falls off you, and as he does you suck in a desperate gasp of air, filling your lungs with oxygen and coughing at the crack of your ribs as they seize. Glass digs rips at your dress, embeds itself into your flesh, and even as you rise you cut yourself further still, whimpering until at last you brace beside Makarov’s form.

There’s a wet gush of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the shard of glass dyed red as it does nothing to stem the flow of blood that stains his collar, puddles on the floor. His hands weakly try to stop it, but he too seems to realize it’s too late. It’s over.

His eyes find yours. Confused, for a moment, but then blinking in a distant realization you don’t understand. He’s weak as he reaches for you, and you expect him to try and grab at you in a last-ditch effort, to take your life so you both tumble down to the fires of hell together.

Instead, his hand strokes a gentle, scarlet path onto your cheek.

You blink down at him, horrified, and Makarov’s eyes blink at you once, twice...

A slow exhale. His hand drops to the floor.

and slowly, the constellations fade.

The divine stars turn dark.

-----

It’s dark when the truck pulls up to the cabin.

Gentle hands shake you awake, coaxing you out of dreams. Your head lolls in your fatigue, but it lifts at the careful encouragement spoken in soft Russian. You yield to it, allow yourself to gently be helped from the passenger seat and onto your feet. There’s a thick blanket tucked around your form, and as you steady yourself you hug it tighter to keep the frigid cold at bay. Your too-large clothes hang loose from your form, and as you take a step forward you sway unsteadily.

Nikolai’s hands land on your shoulders, and you sag into his safety with relief, eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

He keeps you pressed into his side as you’re escorted forward, murmuring in Russian.

“Careful, Солнышко. Easy, I’ve got you.”

You don’t say much, glassy eyes focused more on your socked feet than where you’re being led. You can feel the way Nikolai’s fingers grip you, know from his touch alone how much it pains him to see you as a mere shell of your former self. It hurts somewhere deep inside you, a distant pain hidden by the numbness of the thing you’ve done.

A few more steps, and a door bursts open. You lift your gaze to take in the brightness that spills from the cabin, but it’s overshadowed by the rapid motion of figures quickly moving towards you. There’s a shout, a cry of your name, and the next thing you know you’re being passed from one set of arms to another, pressed into a smothering embrace.

“Soap.” You hoarse.

“Thank God.” He rasps, voice muffled by the blanket surrounding you. “Steamin’ Jesus, hen. We thought, we thought-”

He tenses in alarm as you abruptly sag into him, the strength in your legs giving out. Yet then there’s a second set of arms, and you lift your face towards the scent of cloves and gunpowder.

“Gaz.”

Gaz bends so he can look at your half-lidded eyes. You think you see tears.

“That’s right doll, it’s me.” He tells you, and a hand strokes your face. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Snow crunches under footsteps. A smoke-laden voice. “Get her inside.” Your captain murmurs softly, voice muted. Resigned.

“Price.” You try, twisting to look for him. You see him just off to your side, and his eyes are caught between bitterness and heartbreak, an anger and sadness that you wish you could comfort. You reach for him, but all you manage to do is put yourself off balance, the pain in your hip flaring as you stumble. Gaz yelps as you sink downwards.

A larger set of arms, skeletal gloves. Ghost’s hands scoop under your legs and haul you upwards. You whimper at the pain from the movement, and you feel him gentle at the sound.

“You’re alright, pet.” He offers softly, and you somehow find it in yourself to nod, relax into his hold.

There’s murmurs as you’re carried into the warmth of the cabin, and you hear Price ask something to Nikolai in a low, grave voice, to which Nik merely shakes his head in disbelief.

You’re set near the fire, and the flickering glow warms you though. Someone tucks another blanket around your shoulders, pushes a steaming mug of tea into your hands. You look down at it hazy-eyed, shell shocked and numb, trying once more to tell yourself you’re safe. You’re home.

At last, you look up at them.

“He’s dead.” You announce hoarsely. “I killed him.”

The group is silent. There’s no cheering or cries of triumph. It’s a victory, but it has come at a great cost. Instead, their eyes are sad, bitter, staring at you like looking at an empty, lost soul.

Soap crosses the room first, sits beside you and hauls you gently against his side. It’s a wordless gesture, and you know it’s because there’s nothing he can say. Instead, you lean into him, feel your throat clog with the emotion of finally being held by someone you trust.

“Is Alex safe?” You ask in a wavering voice.

Price nods. You swallow down a sob.

“He came back.” Gaz tells you softly, reaches forward to take the mug from your bandaged, shaking hands and sets it atop the woodstove. “He told us what you did, that you went back by yourself. We...we thought...” He trails off, and you see the pain in his eyes, the way they’re glassy with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Soap offers then, voice cracking, his hand on your shoulder bunching the blanket in his grip. “We should have tried harder, we should have never stopped looking for you, we-”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny.” You tell him gently, with a weariness that sits heavy on your soul. Johnny grows silent, but after a moment he sucks in a breath, rubs at his face vigorously to erase the tears there.

“Johnny’s right.” Ghost offers sorrowfully, and when you look up you see the full extent of his emotions play out across his bare face. “I should have grabbed you in Minsk. I shouldn’t have let them take you.”

The conviction in his voice makes you pause, and you want to tell him it’s not his fault either, that he was just trying to figure out a way where you both made it out unscathed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Price murmurs grimly, bent forward in his chair, staring down at his clasped hands. He looks defeated, head drooping towards the floor. There’s no declaration of triumph in his voice at killing the man they’ve been hunting for years. Not when you’ve come back to them like you are now. He stands, gently pads over to kneel at your feet. You feel something dull stifle your chest as he turns his heartbroken gaze to you. “What matters now is that you survived. You made it out, and you came home to us.”

Home.

Your real home.

It breaks the dam inside you, and you feel your face scrunch before you suck in a gasp, begin to cry with fat, hot tears rolling down your face. Price hushes you, drags you into his arms, and you fold into him with a gasping wail of relief, of grief, of emotions you’ve yet to name. Johnny tucks into you from behind, followed by Kyle, and soon you feel the added weight of Simon wrap around you as well. They hold you, your brothers, listen to you shudder and weep in their arms. You feel them cry with you, grateful and grieving for all that was lost, and the price it cost to return you to them.

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels as if you cry for every single day you were caged, weeping for the time you lost with them, and the things you were forced to do in the time you forgot them. You weep for the lives you took, for the bruises you earned, for the words you believed, and you weep for the thing inside you that will forever remain changed because of it all.

Exhaustion takes hold as you empty yourself of cries, and you’re gently carried to a bed further inside the cabin, where a body, then another, lay down beside you and let you curl into their warmth. You drift to sleep, safe in the arms of those who love you.

As you rest, Nik relays to the others the story you told him- of how you escaped.

You’d taken the pistol Makarov gave you, shot the guards that had come to his rescue, and had driven far out to the other end of the city. Injured, bloodied, in nothing but the dress Makarov had given you, you had run for the better part of a day before finding a way to contact Nikolai. He was the one who had found you collapsed in the dark bushes of a park, hidden amongst the branches like a nestling fawn. There, you’d collapsed into the snow, gripped the spent pistol Makarov had tried to use on you, allowed frostbite to take its hold, and prepared to die.

Instead Nik collected you into his arms and brought you to a safehouse. It was there that he tended to your wounds, to your broken ribs and injured hip from being thrown through the glass table. Bruises litter your right side, a circling of dark coloring around your neck, a welt across your forehead, all things you earned in your bid for freedom. He’d removed the shards still sticking from your skin, had cleaned and dressed your cuts and taken your dress to burn it in his stove. You’d stayed awake throughout, told Nik of the thing you had done. You cried into his arms as you confessed your sins, begged for a forgiveness he could not offer.

He’d held you, kept you safe, and he brought you home to them.

You don’t dream as you sleep in the arms of your brothers.

The rest of the story comes slowly over the next few days as you rest and recover. You’re never left alone, scarcely without someone to lean into, to be held by, and for this you are grateful. Grateful you are too, of the gentleness your friends give you as they care for you. Warm food, hot tea, a place by the fire, clean clothes, and tender hands that redress your wounds. They listen to you as you tell them the story from the beginning, from the day you woke up without a name to the day you earned it back. You tell them of the one named Marionette, the beautiful puppet held by his strings. You tell them of a life that was not yours to control, and of how you escaped.

Johnny sleeps by your side, soothes your restless slumber. Gaz pushes food into your hands and reminds you to eat, to earn your strength back. Ghost gently re-wraps your ribs, murmurs soft praises as you bite down on complaints. Price tucks you into him as you sit on the couch, listening to him read novels you don’t care to know the names of, until you fall asleep once more. You’re cared for, tended to, and the beloved touch of them slowly eases the wounds on your soul.

They cry for you, your friends. Soap weeps into your lap and sobs apologies for being unable to rescue you. Gaz holds you in his arms and cries for the things Makarov did to you, of the ways you were changed by his machinations. Simon looks upon you with tears when you forgive him, forgive all of them for not coming sooner.

When you cry into Price’s arms, finally confess to him that you once loved the man you killed, you feel his silent tears stain your shoulder. He’s quiet, angry, and you know it hurts because it wasn’t him that killed the man who took you from them.

In the days that follow you slowly regain your strength, and you know it will take many months to come before time gently washes away the things you can allow yourself to forget. Your family will stand beside you, protect you and shelter you as you find yourself again. They’ll hold you when the nightmares try to drown you, when you hear his voice in your thoughts and grasp desperately for them. They’ll stay with you as the pain slowly fades, as you learn how to smile again. They listen to the sound of your laughter and scarcely conceal their tears of joy.

It takes days to secure a safe path out of Russia with Nik’s help. In that time you hear how Makarov’s death has changed the world. Without their Copernicus, Russia’s ultra-nationalists flounder. Nik holds you with a soft smile when the others aren’t looking, and thanks you for doing the thing nobody else did. You think maybe you’ve earned an ounce of forgiveness with Makarov’s death.

You dream of him.

In the blue light of his bedroom, with the lynx painting, of soft words in Russian, of how his smile never reached his eyes. You dream of his final act- gently stroking your face, and of the hesitation in his gaze when you called his name in a breathless cry.

It’s a gentle dawn the day you leave Russia. You stand outside swaddled in the borrowed clothes of your friends, looking at the soft blue dawn that draws over the horizon. You think of that morning in St. Petersburg when you asked him how he would die.

“With glory. For Russia.”

You wonder if he loved you, at the very end.

There’s something inside you that remains a fragile, brittle thing. It’s changed by the time you spent with him, by the way he hollowed you out inside. Someday it will heal, will be filled once more by the beloved laughter of those you love, and the tender embraces of those who care for you.

You know that some things will forever remain the same, with the memories that you keep of him.

To the stars, you pray for the day to come soon when his engravings will finally fade.

Taglist:

@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus @warenai @ggeveryone99 @justmare @merkitty49 @darkstars-14 @lostagoodcigar @gazs-blue-hat @siilvan @bucca2 @franticallyfanning @danjo-ao3 @scatter-mind001 @lonesome-doves @thriving-n-jiving @bucketbunny @secretliteradite @anatweyen @imagineswritersblog @bucca2 @sae1kie @preciouslittlecreature @allbark-littlebite @theallpowerfulrosami

---

Thank you for reading Engravings.

#makarov x reader #makarov x you #makarov x f! reader #Makarov x y/n #cod x reader #darkfic tw #darkfic #dead dove do not eat #fic: engravings #mwIII #call of duty mwiii #cod mwiii #call of duty modern warfare 3 #x reader #reader insert #dddne #dead dove fic #dead dove

[thegnomelord]

Good Dog

CW: NSFW, DARK-FIC, murder, gore, power imbalance, size difference(reader's bigger), description of torture and brainwashing, oral, anal, blood as lube, plot and exposition with porn, pet play(collars and leashes), toxic relationship, dub-con, very very self indulgent.

Моя гончая- my hound, Хороший солдат - good soldier, Расслабьтесь, братья мои - relax, my brothers, приносить - fetch, есть - eat

The thick door and walls of the private room do nothing to damped the bass of the club pounding in his ears, the annoying music made bearable by the high of a recent victory. Puffs of cigarette smoke lazily curl in the air as Makarov leans further back into the couch, the buzzing sting of a fresh tattoo helping him relax. The scent of expensive liquor only adds to the heady atmosphere, crystal clear vodka swirling in his glass before Makarov takes a sip. His dark eyes peer over the rim of his glass, like doorways to a dark abyss, his gaze dancing across the faces of his most trusted men before settling on the lieutenant's as the man tries to prove his worth with pointless words.

Above all else, Makarov values loyalty.

It doesn't matter how strong a man is if he can't follow orders. The number of soldiers he can lead is pointless when he can't keep his men alive. How well he can shoot is meaningless when he can't devote himself to a cause. A man who is disloyal is a man of single use.

Makarov doesn't even try to listen to whatever drivel the lieutenant's spouting, he doesn't see a reason to sour his mood when he already knows everything: the embezzling, the lying, the adorable double agent act. He has you to thank for that, you'd sniffed the lieutenant out the second you met him, diligently uncovering every speck of dirt the lieutenant had attempted to hide from Makarov.

And you? You are very loyal. His loyal hound.

His fingers curl around the leash, the smooth black leather sliding against his calloused palms. A barely there tug is all it takes for you to lean down over the back of the couch, bracing one large hand near his head for support as the other remains over the grip of your sidearm. You loom over him, and while Makarov may be a fearsome man, he can't deny the type of foreboding fear a goliath like you inspires — a towering figure always a step behind him, broad body big enough to easily cover him fully if you need to take a bullet for him, arms strong and palms wide to easily crack a man's skull.

Settling the glass down he takes another drag of his cigarette, "Hound," Another tug — sharper, harsher; such a small correction yet the fact you needed it at all has acrid disappointment burning on your tongue — makes you bend down more, your face now next to his. He doesn't draw attention to the reprimand, breathing out a puff of smoke near your face. "Were you listening, моя гончая?"

It's a pointless question, he knows you were listening, he trained you to. But he asks because he loves to see the way your eyes darken, jaw tight. The cigarette smoke dances in the air, making the club's low lights reflect off the sharp spikes adorning the thick collar snuggly wrapped around your throat. Your day collar suits you well, no different than the spiked collars put on hunting hounds.

"Yes sir." You answer, your attention now solely on the lieutenant.

Makarov hums, eyes flickering from the lieutenant to you. "And?" He chuckles and lets the leash go, his word keeping you in place as he casually pats your neck. "What did you hear?"

"Lies. . ." The slow slide of his fingers across the uncovered parts of your throat makes your breath stutter, static crackling beneath your skin. "I heard lies, sir." Your answer causes the lieutenant to try and sputter excuses and denials, all cut short by the harsh look you give him.

Makarov chuckles, hooking a finger over the silver loop at the front of your collar, pulling on it and tilting his head so his lips can ghost across your jaw. "Хороший солдат." Makarov murmurs. His stubble scratches your skin as his lips brush a path to your ear, so very close to a lover's kiss.

But a brush of skin is all it is. Nothing more. Your body earns for more, to turn your head and experience the bruising possessiveness of his kiss once again, to feel his teeth bite down on your lip until blood floods both of your mouths. But you don't move; A spoiled dog isn't loyal and Makarov won't lavish you with attention for nothing. no — you must earn it.

"Stay." The soft 'click' of the leash unclipping sounds the same as a sentencing gavel, the strip of leather falling away until only his word keeps you from tearing the lieutenant's throat out with your teeth. Makarov smirks against your skin, his words honey sweet to your ears as he whispers: "Sick him."

That seals the ex-lieutenant's fate.

You're on the lieutenant in an instant, crashing into him like a truck. Makarov leans back and lights up another cigarette as you stomp down on the man's leg, all the weight you carry around bearing down on his bones until they break, erasing any foolish thoughts of escape when you snap the bones of his other ankle; Makarov has truly taught you well.

The screams of a traitor are much better than the atrocious club music, letting him enjoy the smooth burn of the vodka as another stomp breaks a couple of ribs. Some of his men are still nervous around you, trying not to shuffle in their seats lest they grab your attention and become the new outlet of your violence.

"Расслабьтесь, братья мои." Makarov gives a charming smile, resting his ankle on his knee as he takes another drag. "Hound is well trained, you have nothing to fear." He chuckles, lazily watching you as he holds conversation with his lieutenants. Honestly, you're like a dog with a new toy, tossing the man around and pinning him down under your heavy body, each swing of your fists steadily turning the ex-lieutenant's face into pulp.

It's as entertaining for him as it is therapeutic for you.

And to think Price had tried to suppress all that beautiful savageness you possessed.

Makarov remembers how you'd been nothing but a snarling and cursing ball of anger when his men had captured you after a botched mission. He had been both annoyed and amused by how loyal you were to Price, weathering every beating and starving and humiliation with the same 'fuck you' response, baring your teeth like the cornered dog you were. With days turning to months and your resolve refusing to waver under their 'care' Makarov had considered just putting you down, sending a nice video of blowing your skull open to Price but oh — is he glad he decided to indulge in the game your stubbornness presented.

He set out to train you like he would any mongrel mutt, clear expectations making it easy to tell whether your actions would get you a reward or an even worse punishment, giving small rewards for the behavior he wanted; not snarling at him might earn you a better meal. Biting your lip and taking your beating without back talk could get you a couple of minutes outside the claustrophobic walls of your cell. Letting him touch and inspect your body without complaint might reward you with a book or some other little creature comfort he could, and did, easily take away the moment you stepped out of line.

Of course you were weary, perceptive enough to know when he was scheming. But every man has his limits, yours were simply reached when he handed you official C.I.A documents proclaiming you as K.I.A, the mission itself creatively rewritten to sound like you had gone and deserted to the enemy — no one was looking for you, no one was coming to save you, your captain, Price, wasn't coming to save you.

He had taken great enjoyment in running his fingers across your scalp as you clutched the documents in a white knuckled grip, your mind far too worn down to question or guard against the soft touches. His lips had brushed against your ear, soothingly raspy voice comforting you — you're a good soldier, strong, reliable, everything a commander could dream of. It wasn't your fault you trusted the wrong man, truly, what a shame to have your loyalty repaid with betrayed like that.

After that, it became laughably easy to train you. He stuck with simple commands, spoken only in Russian so he could amuse himself with the way your head would tilt before you'd perk up, recognition making your dull eyes brighten before you did what he wanted in exchange for a small scrap of his affection, learning to seek his praise and appreciate his touch even when your body still prickled with disgust. So when he handed you the knife, standing so close you could have easily slit his throat, and ordered you to kill another member of your previous taskforce, you hadn't hesitated for a second. "Good boy." He had purred, caressing your jaw as he used his thumb to wipe away the blood staining your cheek.

"Hound." His voice is as effective as any physical tug on your leash, making you stop mid punch with your fist inches away from the ex-lieutenant's caved in face. You're covered in blood, the rich crimson bringing out the violence swirling in your eyes.

Yet you look at him with utter adoration he wants to shove his cock deep down your throat just so he can see your tears smudge the blood on your cheeks. "Приносить." He taps his thigh.

You nod your head, grabbing the knife strapped to your thigh. There's no hesitation in your movements as you shove the knife into the ex-lieutenant's throat. An arc of blood spurts across your front when you yank it out just to stab another spot, the man coughing and choking as you cut through cartilage and muscle until with a good yank and a sickening 'crack!' you separate the head from the body.

Makarov had never seen the appeal of large hulking brutes until you — your body had filled back out with muscle and fat nicely after you became his, towering body demanding attention simply by existing as you stand up. The loud stomp of your feet and the blood staining your body making you look like a barbarian, casting a shadow over him before you kneel at his feet, offering the decapitated head as a knight does to his king.

Oh yes, he definitely sees the appeal now.

"Good dog." He purrs, reaching out to stroke your jaw, smearing some of the blood with his thumb. Fingers sliding down to hook on the silver ring on your collar he pulls your head closer. "Do you think you earned a reward?"

It's a test. One you're intimately familiar with. The judgmental stares of Makarov's trusted men are the last thing in your mind when the closeness of his body and the sharp crisp scent of his cologne threatens to shatter your resolve. "Only if you permit it, sir." Your throat feels dry, trying not to show how eager you are for his attention as you place the head on the floor so you don't get a drop of blood on him.

Makarov smirks, "Smart dog," His hands move to the back of your neck, unbuckling the collar. You're no longer ashamed to admit you feel naked as the thick piece of leather is pulled away; the time when you didn't have a collar wrapped around your neck feel like a distant memory and now the sensation of breathing without it pressing against your skin is disturbing. You have to bite your lip to keep the low whine from escaping your chest.

His hand wraps securely around your throat, bringing your breath back to you. Your Adam's apple bobs beneath his fingers as he traces the 'V.M' shallowly carved across your throat. "It's already starting to fade." He tuts, squeezing his fingers to restrict your breathing just the slightest bit more. "We'll need to have it tattooed. That would be nice, yes?"

You suck in a sharp breath, "Yes sir."

"Хороший солдат." He purrs. He pulls out another collar from his pocket and you feel yourself chub up in your pants just at the sight of it. It's the chained pronged one he uses exclusively when he wants you to pleasure him, particularly because it leaves such pretty bruises along your skin when he tugs on the leash.

You eagerly tilt your head back to bare your throat, a shudder rushing down your spine as soon as you feel the cold metal against your skin. You stay perfectly still as he secures around your neck, the sharp pull of the leash making the prongs dig into your skin, prickles of pain making you even harder. "Go on," Makarov hums, spreading his legs wider so your attention falls to the hard bulge in his slacks, his belt undone but the rest left to you. "есть."

You don't think you could enjoy servicing him as much as you did if he didn't let you work for it, the reward made sweeter because you earned it. Truly, he's so good to you, you'd thank him profusely but he hasn't given you permission to speak freely. So you lean in, careful not to get blood on his pants as you take the metal zipper between your teeth and pull it down. You've done this enough not to have any problems undoing the button, your hands obediently planted on your thighs and your gaze firmly on him so you can see the pleased smirk that spreads across his features when you bite the band of his boxers and pull them down until his cock springs out, already hard.

A pleased sigh escapes him when your warm lips wrap around the head of his cock, the leash wrapped firmly around his hand and the slightest tug on it has pain prickling down your spine. "Моя гончая, don't waste my time." You can't help but whine lowly at the admonishment, quickly trying to make up to him by sucking on the tip and licking the slit in just the way he likes it.

His leg shifts, hard boot coming up to grind the sole against your clothed cock. "That's better." The praise makes you moan deep from your chest and try to take more of his cock into your mouth, your boxers wet and sticky against your own cock as you give an experimental hump of your hips against his boot. You scrape your teeth along the vein on the underside of his cock and it earns you a rough grind of his boot. His hand tangles in your bloodied hair and pulls you down until his cock bumps the back of your throat.

You nearly choke from the sudden pressure, trying to fight off the reflex to pull back and gag. "Look at me." His order rings clear in your head, your eyes meeting his as he grinds your nose into his pubic hair, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your lungs start to burn. You fight through it, the fluttering of your throat making him five a small, rough, moan and fuck — you're hard as a rock.

Just as you feel like you'll pass out on his cock he lets you off, yanking your head back. You're only given a few seconds to take a sharp breath of fresh air before he pushes your head back down. You're prepared this time, hollowing your cheeks and relaxing your throat, swallowing around his hard cock. The way you suck Makarov off is wet and sloppy, stealing ragged breaths when you can as you trace the veins of his cock with your tongue and gently nibble on the base when his cock's fully sheathed in your throat, knowing exactly how to please him. Your efforts are rewarded with the salty taste of precum on your tongue, hearing him occasionally mutter his praises in Russian, none of his words snagging on your mind like sharp orders so you let yourself drift in the pleasure of servicing him, subconsciously grinding your cock into his foot.

But you're not mentally gone enough not to notice the squeaking of chairs, your body tensing as you pull up enough so only his head remains in your mouth, your head turned just enough to throw a sharp glare at the other men in the room. Makarov having his guard down like this makes you tense, violence buzzing beneath your skin from the ingrained need to protect him.

"Hound." Makarov's growl is followed by another sharp tug of the leash, the dull ache of the metal prongs digging into your skin dissipating some of your aggression. "Did I tell you to stop?"

You shake your head as best you can, a pathetic whine escaping your chest from the way the pain makes your cock even harder. Satisfied, he eases the leash, letting you return to your work. His head lolls back, lazily looking at his men. He couldn't care less who sees you like this, but now he wants your full attention on him. "Leave." He gives the simple command.

You track the sound of shuffling feet as you take him fully into your mouth, making him hiss a curse under his breath. Nuzzling your nose into his curly pubic hair you breathe in his musk, his heel grinding firmly and consistently against your hard cock, pleasure pulsing through your veins with such intensity you're worried you'll cum without permission, low whines escaping your throat.

He pulls you off him suddenly, your lungs burning as you gasp for air. You expect him to paint your face with his cum, stake an obvious ownership over you. But he doesn't, pulling you by the leash and leaning down to mash your lips together, teeth biting down on your lip until it bleeds.

Makarov's kisses are rough and demanding, the sweet drug your body's been craving, teeth clicking together and tongues swirling in each other's mouths. The firm grind of his boot against your crotch makes you moan lowly, a sound he happily swallows down and nearly shoves his tongue down your throat. You part far too soon, your body craving much much more, but he doesn't let you stew in the disappointment of a short kiss — it's an owner's responsibility to spoil his pet — mumbling against your lips. "Prepare me."

A full shudder runs down your spine and you surge to follow his order. Makarov loves the determined look you get in your eye just as much as he loves the rough way you grip his hips and hike them up so you can pull his pants and boxers down his legs. Your bloodied fingers grip his hips and pull them down until his ass hangs off the edge of the couch, throwing his legs over your shoulders and he can feel the muscles deep in his back strain as you nearly bend him in half, his hard cock and hole bared for you.

It's a vulnerable position, trapped between your bulky frame and the couch he has no way to escape. And if anyone else were to attempt this he would feed every inch of their flesh to themselves. But Makarov relishes the knowledge that he's in control, a single word from him would make you stop regardless of how hard and wanting you were, your loyalty to him as real as the dead man's blood you dip your fingers in to lube them.

Your fingers circle his hole before you press the pad of your finger against it. Without the heat of battle the cold viscousness of the blood feels disgusting, making him shiver and his rim flutter against your digit. But the discomfort is easily forgotten when you apply pressure, the steady and persistent way you push your finger in forcing his muscles to yield. "Shit-" Makarov clenches his teeth; your fingers are so large just one feels like two of his own, the gnawing pain of your finger pushing deeper just amplifying the pleasure of being stretched open and your other hand loosely stroking his wet cock.

You don't go slower than you need to, perfectly trained to know how to move your fingers to keep him teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain, each shift and slow drag of your finger pulling deep grunt and soft breaths from between his clenched teeth. "Yes, there you go." His praise makes your heart melt and cock throb in your pants, the pull of the leash bringing your lips together in another harsh kiss. You swallow his moans greedily, pushing a second finger in and curling them in search of his prostate, your thumb incessantly rubbing the space between his balls and ass to trap the spongy flesh between your fingers.

He nearly chokes you with how hard he yanks on the leash, hips pushing back into your hand and walls clenching down on your fingers. The stinging ache of being stretched open mixes with the building pleasure, leaving his skin feeling like a live wire. His teeth dig into your lip until it bleeds again, heels digging into your back. He grinds his hips down on your fingers, muttering praises against your lips as you push a third finger in and force him to take it.

He can't wait any more, gripping your hair and roughly yanking your head back. "Fuck me already." He growls, licking the blood staining your cheek.

You scramble to do as you're told, continuing to stretch him open as you undo your belt and pants with one hand, your hard cock bobbing against your abdomen. Pulling your fingers out you scoop up more blood, the cold helping reign in your lust as you lube up.

Before you can do anything he reaches out to grip the base of your cock, his hold firm and just at the cusp of pain. "You'll be good, yes?" He growls against your lips. "Fuck me good and hard?" His hand moves, stroking you slowly, evenly coating the blood along your cock. "I don't need to show you how to use this thing again, do I?" There's a dangerous edge in his voice.

Fear shoots down your spine, mouth going dry. You'd been too eager for human touch when he first let you mount him, and when you came seconds after getting inside him he'd been less than pleased by your abilities. You couldn't feel your cock for a full week after he'd tied you down and used your cock until you couldn't cum, using a cock ring to keep you hard and using you until he was satisfied.

You quickly shake your head. "No sir," You choke out and bare your throat. "I can do it, I'll be good." You promise.

His hold loosens, tugging you by the hair so he can peck your lips, his tongue licking over the small wound he'd made. "Don't fail me now."

You steel yourself like you're going to war, pressing your cockhead to his hole. Your nails dig into his hip, your grip ironclad to keep him still as you pull him down more and simultaneously push in. There's a second of resistance before your head pops in, the pleasure of entering his velvet soft insides being met with sharp pain as his teeth chomp down on your shoulder through your shirt. It all mixes in your brain into pure bliss, your hips bucking up into him automatically until you're bottomed out. You hold him close to you and leisurely grind your hips, letting him get used to the mind numbing stretch.

Fuck— Makarov may see the appeal of brutes but impaled on your cock he feels like he's being split in two, lungs burning and he can almost swear your tip's poking his diaphragm. He chases the pain more than the pleasure, heels digging into your back to give him some leverage so he can push his hips into yours. "Yes," His head lolls back when you slowly withdraw, only to suddenly snap your hips and hilt yourself inside him again. "-fuck, yes!"

The blood keeps you from tearing him apart but there's too little of it to keep him from feeling the painful stretch, the slow movement of your hips making his thighs shake. "Harder," He demands, yanking on your leash and biting your shoulder again. "Make me feel it." His voice is rough with a demand, because men like him never beg.

"Yes sir," You manage, bracing your feet and setting a rough pace, rutting into him like an animal. He muffles his sounds into your shoulder as your cock saws into him, his walls fluttering and clenching around you so tightly it feels like he'll snap your cock off. You do your best to focus on him and his pleasure, but the tight heat of his hole is rapidly melting any control you have, your cock throbbing and leaking precum inside him.

"Sir, please-" You whine, your muscles tight and your balls feeling so full you feel like you'll burst, your voice full of need. "I'm so close."

“Not yet.” He growls, pushing his hips down to meet your thrusts, your hand stroking his cock. “Make me cum first.” He growls.

You hold back a pathetic whine and redouble your efforts, your rough thrusts bruising his ass as you fuck into him, aiming to nail his prostate every time you bottom out. He wails, whole body shaking, his cock throbbing in your hand and leaking a puddle of precum on his stomach.

Makarov cums without any warning, going rigid and biting your shoulder even harder as pearly cum shoots from his tip, his walls clamping down on your cock. "C- cum!" He snarls, voice muffled, and it's all you need. Bottoming out fully you moan as you shoot his insides full of your cum, rocking your hips and grinding your cock against his prostate to prolong both of our highs.

You hold him close as you come down to reality but the way his walls clench around your cock makes you feel like heaven. His hands grip your jaw, bringing you down into a disorganized sloppy kiss. He's boneless in your arms, his walls continuing to flutter around you. "That was good." He slurs, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. "Good dog."

The tug of the leash is expected and Makarov kisses the corner of your lips, tongue swiping across your skin to lick up more of the blood staining your lips. "Clean me up." He orders, "Lick up your mess." He growls, and there's not a single part of you that would refuse him.

Tag list: @lieutnt, @pastelclovds @thee-great-enigma @vladimirking24

#baby's first dark fic #vladimir makarov x male reader #vladimir makarov x reader #bottom cod x male reader #cod modern warfare #cod mw3 #vladimir makarov #gay #cod x male!reader #cod x reader #cod x male reader #cod x you #trinckets of the hoard #centerpieces of the hoard #cod mw2 #call of duty x male reader #call of duty x reader #bottom character #x top male reader #top male reader #top reader #x dom male reader

[blingblong55]

Sex on fire- Vladimir Makarov NSFW

Based on a request:

I was thinking.. imagine Makarov & reader hanging out (idk why there hanging out in the first but yeah..) They went to go get some ice cream let's say reader got yk those popsicle that's really long yeah, they were eating it and sucking on the popsicle While Makarov just stared looking at them up and down imaging that reader is sucking his d1ck instead of that popsicle, I mean they'll just do it eventually when they get back to his base, That's how reader ended up being on there knees underneath his desk giving him heads//... ---- F!Reader, smut, MDNI, oral!sex, established!relationship ----

A/N: I got excited and went off the request, I'm sorry anon

It was a hot summer evening, when your boyfriend, Vladimir, invited you for a cold snack, of course, he had a reason behind it. "Strawberry, please," you say after choosing an ice lolly. "You ever get tired of them, love?" He asks as he opens it for you. As you two sit down in some random park, his eyes catch your mouth, how your tongue licks around the tip, unaware of how hot you are doing this. He chuckles, "I invited you out because I need to keep an eye on something– someone," he says, looking away from you before he gets yet another boner from just looking at you. You nod, so innocently unaware of what you are doing to him.

"And who is this person," you keep on sucking on the ice lolly. He smirks, "Just some old acquaintance of mine, love," he smirks and looks back at you. "Can you stop doing that, my love?" "Doing what?" "Turning me on," his voice low, he adjusts himself on the seat and looks at you. "Doing this?" you begin to deep throat it, eyes on him and he pulls it out of your mouth. "My love, not here," he kisses your forehead and throws it in the trash bin. You look at him, with pouty lips and puppy eyes as you stare at him. He shakes his head and chuckles, "C'mon." Vladimir takes your hand and walks to the car.

All that was in his head is that pretty mouth of yours wrapped around his fat cock. The images of his cum all over your face, your lashes batting as you look at him hungry for more, that is why he has you sitting in the passenger seat as he drives.

Your hand fisting his cock, "Thought you had to see some acquaintance," your strokes slow. "C'mon pretty girl, wrap that mouth around me." His hands are on the back of your head. You begin to gag, his moans filling the car, "Aren't you one pretty little thing," he praises, your closing as you feel him deeper in your throat. The way home feels further every second. His cock throbbing by the minute, his orgasm being closer and by the second he pulls into the driveway.

"C'mon baby, just like that," his head thrown back. You begin to gag more when you feel his thick and sticky seed fill your mouth. His groans and grunts, mixed with your soft moans, only urge him to take you to bed. One kiss, one slight push to the wall of the hallway and soon enough, he undoes your shirt and before he can begin to praise your ever-so-lovely body, his phone rings. "Fuck me," he grunts and kisses your cheek, "we're certainly not done," Vladimir promises and leaves.

Tags:

@liyanahelena @unicorngirly1 @selarus @johfaam0 @goldenmclaren @moonsua1 @frazie99 @viomast @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts @strangepuppynightmare

#cod #cod smut #cod mw3 #makarov x reader #makarov cod #makarov call of duty #makarov x you #vladimir makarov #call of duty modern warfare 3 #cod makarov #mw2023 #vladimir makarov smut #makarov smut #vladimir makarov cod #vladimir makarov x you #vladimir makarov x reader #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare 3

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Orange Peel Theory With Cod Characters

Would they peel an orange for you? (Scenario based on the test from TikTok)

Characters Included: John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, Valeria Garza, Farah Karim, Kate Laswell, Alex Keller, König, Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin, Keegan P. Russ, Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Nikolai Belinski, Philip Graves, Vladimir Makarov.

This is probably one of the only times I'll be using the color orange, AHAHAHAHA. As you can tell I wouldn't be okay with the camp half-blood uniform as an Aphrodite kid. Writing this as I'm sick with a cold, my nanny since childhood peeled my oranges for me while telling me to finish all of it because it's vitamin C.

Mansplaining this but the Orange Peel/Peeling Theory surrounding TikTok started with one girl talking about her experience with her ex peeling her oranges for her. It soon turned into a theory/test where people ask their partner to peel an orange for them, something as small and effortless as peeling an orange as that act of service represents their willingness to do things for their partner and if they refuse then that's seen as a red flag because it means that if they're unwilling to do that small thing for them then same case scenario for something big that requires a sacrifice.

They peel it for you almost immediately, no words needed, just you staring at the orange. Grabbing it from the bowl of fruits and meticulously tearing the skin with their thumbs, being careful not to make much of a mess and to not bruise the orange.

It's not a secret that they like to do this, offering other little things like opening doors for you, peeling the skin of apples if you don't feel like eating it and slicing it up for you with a multipurpose camping knife, putting their hand on the edge of a nearby cornered things so it wouldn't be as painful if you hit your head picking something up.

Characters: John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Farah Karim, Kate Laswell, Alex Keller, König.

Would tease you once you ask them to peel it for you but will peel it. Would even hand feed it to you, you have to give them a kiss for every orange they separate. If you tell them you don't like the pith (the white stringy part) then they'd take it off for you.

They probably would ask you to peel some for them too some time around soon but you're more than happy to do it for them.

Characters: John "Soap" MacTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Valeria Garza, König, Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin, Keegan P. Russ, Nikolai Belinski.

You probably should've worded it better, you told them you felt like an orange.. "I feel like a tomato" is what you hear back. You laughed and clarified that you felt like eating the fruit.

"Oh.." they stopped to think if you had any oranges at home at the moment and they got up and peeled it for you, bringing a plate back of two peeled and pulled apart oranges with a glass of water for you.

Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, Alex Keller, Gary "Roach" Sanderson.

He'd throw the orange at your head, telling you to peel it yourself.

Characters: Philip Graves, Vladimir Makarov.

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @shadofireshinobi @thelightdjinnofpalestine @09maruchan @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @ghosts-cyphera @fawnchives @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @iexiam @drewsmusee

#cod x reader #aethelwyne lia writes #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod headcanons #cod scenarios #john price x reader #soap x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo rudy parra x reader #valeria garza x reader #farah karim x reader #kate laswell x reader #alex keller x reader #konig x you #konig x reader #horangi x reader #keegan russ x reader #roach x reader #nikolai belinski x reader #philip graves x reader #vladimir makarov x reader #soap x you #gaz x reader #kyle gaz x reader #john price x you #cod mwiii #cod mwf2