All of Makarovs men were scared of him and almost no one got away with touching him and he’d often snap at his men and shoot them when he wanted.

But you were different. You were his. You were his boyfriend.

“How’s my little terrorist?” You said as you came up behind and him hugging him while he was trying to work.

“If I didn’t love you, I’d shoot you.” He said bluntly, but you knew that was his way of affection and he’d probably never not threaten your life.