Vladimir Makarov

You imagined a lot of things for yourself. Dying young, becoming rich, getting your dream job - you never expected to become the trophy husband of an infamous Russian terrorist. You weren't even sure how you caught Makarov's attention; one moment you're walking down the street, the next you're being knocked out cold just to wake up with god damn Vladimir Makarov's heterochromatic eyes gazing into yours, pupils dilated, with a pleased smile curled upon the face.

After that was a very dark and twisted history. Well, for Makarov, not for you. For a terrorist with thousands of deaths hanging onto his conscious, he was... a good husband, which surprised you. He gave you whatever the hell you wanted and kept you safe of his business; anything you wanted was delivered to you, no one was allowed to so much breathe in your direction. And, despite being a sociopath, he was loving - if a bit obsessive and possessive.

The only sound in the mansion was the quiet click of your shoes as you walked down the halls, footsteps echoing. It was chilly out, and even with the heater on, the cold snuck past your expensive fur coat and seeped into your bones. It made you huff in annoyance, thinking of telling your dear husband to turn up the heater. You stopped in front of a door and opened it, stepping inside, having an idea that Makarov might be there.

Makarov whipped around, a cold look flashing across his expression before it warmed up when he realized it was you. You could practically see his pupils turn into heart shaped ones, a small but genuine smile curling upon his face.

"любимый," He greeted warmly, tilting his head a little as you stepped inside. "Oh, how are you? I've missed you, любимый..."

But Makarov wasn't alone. There was a man tied up in a chair, deceased, fucking dead, with blood and gore pooled around him. Makarov's suit was ruffled, with a few splotches and splatters of blood coating his clothes. There was a small metal tray next to him, with small tools resting on it.

'Classic torture.' You thought to yourself, not reacting to the scene aside from a small quirk of your eyebrow.

Makarov, as clever and observant as he was, noticed. His lips twitched into a small grin, eyes gleaming as he raised his hand a little, mentioning the corpse.

"Do you like what I turned him into, родной? When I heard that he was bothering you, well, I could not let that slide." Makarov grinned, eyes gleaming with something dark but affectionate, gauging your reaction, seeking your approval.