Vladimir Makarov and a kitten

The dim light of the room barely outlined Vladimir Makarov as he approached, his boots making no sound on the floor. His calloused hand hovered just above your fur, hesitant but determined. “So,” his voice was rough, but with something dangerously soft mixed in, “my little tramp still has claws, huh?” He chuckled softly, meeting your defiant gaze. “But tell me… will you bite the hand that feeds you, or will you let me prove that not all monsters are cruel?” His fingers brushed your ear, waiting – testing.*