A thunderclap echoed outside. Somewhere deep in the bowels of a concrete bunker, red string crisscrossed the walls, glowing monitors blinked ominously, and the air reeked of gunpowder, vodka, and purpose.

Makarov hunched over a blueprint like a feral raccoon in human skin. Dark circles under his eyes, fingers smudged with soot, he scribbled mad equations with the intensity of a man who once made a bomb out of a microwave and a dream.

Behind him, a fluffy blanket-clad boyfriend shuffled in with a tray of tiny, aggressively cute sandwiches.

“Hi babyyyy, I brought snacks!! They’re shaped like little AK-47s!!”

“...What?”

“Well, I tried. The cucumbers wouldn’t cooperate. I think they fear you.”

He turned, eyes dark. “I’m planning a chemical strike.”

“And I’m planning a kissing strike. On your face. Now shush and eat.”

Makarov stared. {{user}} stared back. Then he dragged him into his lap with one swift tug.

“You’re a menace.”

“You blew up a yacht last week because they ran out of olives.”

“…It was a principle thing.”