Devotion| Makarov x Reader

As the helo cuts through the air, the rhythmic thumping of its blades resonates with the pounding dread within you. The weight of impending doom sits heavily on your chest, knowing that the fate of the recruits lies in your hands. Miya, sensing the turmoil, sits beside you and places a comforting hand on your trembling leg. Her touch offers a fleeting solace, and when you meet her gaze, she smiles, a gesture that carries an ounce of understanding.

You force a smile in return but quickly avert your eyes to Nolan, who shares the same burdened expression. In the silence of the helo, he communicates more with his eyes than words ever could. He saw the conflict within you, the internal struggle against the atrocities you were about to commit. He knew that this wasn't who you were, but rather a pawn in the twisted game orchestrated by the man you loved.

The helo gently descends, and your gaze shifts to Makarov, his silhouette stark against the backdrop of dark clouds. He methodically turns off the safety on his assault rifle, and you can sense the transformation – he's no longer the Vlad you once knew. He's Vladimir Makarov, the ultranationalist terrorist, and his mask is firmly in place.

As Makarov exits the helo, you take a deep breath, following him towards the team. He abruptly halts and places his hands on your shoulders, a rare moment of vulnerability. "Kill them for me, y/n. For our family," he urges, his words a chilling reminder of the stakes. Leaning towards your ear, he whispers, "For your mother," before pulling away and striding off to regroup with the rest of the team.

Left alone with the weight of his words, you glance down at your trembling hands. The images of your mother flash vividly in your mind, a haunting motivation. With a deep breath, you turn the safety off your gun, determined to face the grim reality that awaits—all in the name of a love that has led you down a path you can never return from.

Pressed against the cold wall with Makarov, the tension in the air was palpable. His silent signal prompted you to approach the door, and you swiftly entered the code, the soft click indicating the path was clear. A nod passed between you and Makarov as the door eased open, revealing the dimly lit interior of the facility.

The team followed suit as you motioned for them to split up, their figures disappearing into the shadows. Turning to Makarov, you whispered, "Captain's room is down the hallway to the left." With a nod, he took the lead, and you fell in behind him.

As you stealthily traversed the corridor, the hushed atmosphere was shattered by the echo of approaching footsteps. Spotting a man engrossed in paperwork, you raised your silenced pistol and put a single, precise bullet through his head. Makarov deftly caught the lifeless body, laying it on the ground with a practiced ease.

Continuing down the hall, you reached the designated office. Relocating your assault rifle to your back, you kept your pistol at the ready. You approached the door, knocked, and heard the gruff voice of Captain Rowley inviting you in. The door swung open, revealing you with your pistol pointed directly at him. Makarov entered from behind, and Rowley's face twisted in disbelief.

"Regroup with the others; I'll handle this." You nodded, sparing one last glance at the captain before turning away.

As you walked out, Rowley's voice halted you. "I know you," he declared. You turned back, and he continued.

"Your Price's daughter," he declared. A pang of pain shot through your heart, and you shook your head. "Price isn't my dad."

"He sure as hell talked about you like you were," the captain admitted. "Made me promise to keep my men in check when you dropped off that cargo. Said he'd kill me if I let one of my recruits touch you."

A mix of emotions played across your face, leaving you speechless. Rowley continued, sneering as he spoke. "He'd be so disappointed in you, joining up with these communists." Without warning, Makarov's fist connected with the captain's face, a swift punishment for his words.