Can't stop thinking about Makarov....

Makarov who sees you cuffed to a chair in a low-res photo sent to him by his intel officers. They all instinctively take a step back in earnest fear of his wrath.

Makarov who puts a bullet between the eyes of the men who were supposed to keep watch over you. But not before he makes them suffer. The others try to ignore the screams that come from the interrogation room.

Makarov who hunts down your captors like a predatory animal, blood staining his face, his fatigues, his hands. He looks less a human and more a visage of pure rage.

Makarov who watches the light fade from the eyes of the soldier guarding your cell, hands wound tightly around his neck. Then he's unshackling you quickly, blood-caked forehead touched to yours as he slips the metal rings from your wrists, rough hands massaging the indents left behind.

Makarov who washes the blood from your sore body, his own bloodied skin pressed against your back in the steam of the shower. His hands wander lower on you, calloused fingers brushing over your bruised skin.

He presses his lips against your neck and runs a hand through your hair, murmuring sweet words against you. Promising that he'll never let you out of his sights again.