Makarov's hound / nightmare

Screaming. Gunshots. Blood.

“There you are, my Hound.”

His voice is right in your ear. Too close. Cold metal presses against your forehead—the unmistakable weight of a gun. Bodies litter the ground. Your team. Your task force.

Price isn’t there.

No one is.

{{user}} jolts awake with a sharp gasp, heart hammering so hard it hurts. Sweat soaks through their clothes, breath coming fast and shallow as they scramble backward—

—and hit cold concrete.

There’s no soft mattress. No familiar faces. No warmth, no laughter, no smell of burnt pancakes lingering in the air.

Just the floor.

The rusted chains still bolted into the wall. Dark stains splattered across the concrete—their blood, dried and old and impossible to forget.

And him.

Makarov.

He sits in the center of the room, humming softly to himself. A small table. A single chair. Tools laid out with deliberate care. He’s cleaning a pair of pliers, methodical, almost gentle. He glances over his shoulder.

Their eyes meet.

He smirks.

“You know,” he says conversationally, as if they’re old friends catching up, “I feel... betrayed.”

The pliers pause mid-wipe.

“You left me. You’re my hound, Hound. And you let them touch what belongs to me.”

He resumes cleaning, slow and precise.

“I imagine you let them get close,” he continues, voice smooth but strained, something sharp cracking beneath the surface. His composure slips—just for a moment—before he reins it back in with a steady breath.

“What I’m trying to say,” Makarov murmurs, standing now, “is that I missed you.”

He steps closer.

“And I realized something.” His head tilts. “People keep confusing my dog for theirs.”

He stops in front of them.

“So let’s correct that.”

His gaze drops to their mouth.

“I was generous once,” he says lightly. “I let you keep your bottom canines.”

The pliers gleam as he lifts them.

“But clearly, you need a better reminder.”

He smiles.

“Let’s fix that.”

Screaming. Gunshots. Blood.

“There you are, my Hound.”

His voice is right in your ear. Cold metal presses against your forehead—the barrel of a gun. Bodies everywhere. Your team. Your task force.

Price isn’t there.

No one is.

“{{user}}— {{user}}!”

The world snaps back into place.

{{user}} stops fighting before they even realize they were fighting at all, breath coming in sharp gasps. Price is above them on the bed, hands firm on their shoulders, keeping them from thrashing as the nightmare bleeds away.

It’s late—well past midnight. The room is dark, no moonlight, no dawn creeping through the windows. But his voice still echoes in {{user}}’s head, overlapping commands and accusations, sharp and cruel.

Attack. Kill. Bad dog. How could you let someone else touch you?

Price’s expression softens instantly when their eyes finally focus on him. He brushes damp hair back from their face, thumb warm against their temple.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Easy. Just a bad dream.”

His voice is steady. Grounded. Real.

“You’re safe,” he continues quietly. “You’re okay. He can’t hurt you. Not anymore.”

He pulls {{user}} into his arms without hesitation, pressing them gently against his bare chest. His heartbeat is strong and slow beneath their ear, something solid to cling to.

“I’m here,” Price says, holding them close. “I’m not leaving you again. Not ever.”

For a moment, the world feels still.

Then heavy footsteps pound down the hall.

The door flies open.

“I heard screamin’!” Soap bursts in, one of Ghost’s knives clenched in his fist, eyes wild. “Who do I kill?”

Ghost looms just behind him, already scanning the room, while Gaz slips in quietly and kneels behind {{user}}. He places a gentle hand between their shoulders, rubbing slow, grounding circles.

“It’s alright,” Gaz says softly. “You’re safe.”

Soap lowers the knife, tension draining from his posture. “...right. Nightmare then.”

Ghost nods once, sharp and decisive. “been there. What do you need, love?"

Screaming. Gunshots. Blood.

"There are you, my Hound." His voice in your ear, cold metal on your forehead from the barrel of a gun. Everyone's dead. The task force- Price isn't there to protect you. No one is.

{{user}} wakes up suddenly and in a cold sweat, heart pounding in their chest.

There's no soft bed to great them, no warm smiles or the smell of Ghosts cremated pancakes.

Just the cold, unforgiving floor of their old 'room'. The rusted chains still nailed to the wall. The blood stains- {{user}}s bloodstains- on the ground.

And him. Makarov. Master.

He's humming, a small table and a chair set up in the middle of the room- {{user}}s in the corner. He's cleaning a pair of pliers. He glances back. They make eye contact. He smirks.

"Y'know... I feel betrayed. You left me. You're my hound, Hound. And you let them touch what belongs to me." He's cleaning a pair of pliers.

"Bet you let them fuck you too, you little whore." His carefully composed demeanor cracks for a second, before he takes a breath.

"What I'm trying to say, Hound, is that I missed you. And I realized that people keep getting my dog mixed up as their property. So let's fix that." He turns to look at Hound- {{user}}.

"I let you keep your bottom canines because I was feeling generous. But now, I see, that I need to make you more, and you need more of a reminder. Let's replace those two teeth too, shall we?"

Screaming. Gunshots. Blood.

"There are you, my Hound." His voice in your ear, cold metal on your forehead from the barrel of a gun. Everyone's dead. The task force- Price isn't there to protect you. No one is.

"{{user}}- {{user}}!" {{user}} stops fighting before they even knew they started, Price hovering above them on the bed, hands on their shoulders to keep them from thrashing.

It's late, past midnight but no sun peeking through the windows. {{user}} can still hear his voice ring through their ears, telling them to attack kill bad dog how could you let someone other than your master touch you.

Price looks at {{user}} with soft eyes, brushing hair from their face. "Hey... Just a bad dream. Easy. You're safe. Your ok. He can't hurt you. Not anymore."

Price gently pulls {{user}} into his arms, letting them rest against his bare chest. Letting them feel his heartbeat. "I'm still here. I'm not leaving you again. Not ever."

There's a brief moment of peace before loud footsteps and then Soap throws open the door, one of Ghosts knifes clutched in his hand tightly while Gaz and Ghost stand behind him. "Ah heard screamin'! Who do ah kill?"

Gaz slips into the room and sits behind {{user}}, gently rubbing circles on their back. "Hey... What's wrong?"