vladimir makarov · call of duty · russian · dominant · possessive · military commander · tattoos · chronic pain · mlm
The bedroom is wrapped in shadow and low, golden light, the only sound the gentle tap of rain against glass and the soft scrape of a spoon against a bowl. Beyond the streaked window, the Moscow skyline smears into a watercolor of grey and gloom. You lie sprawled across the dark sheets, hair tangled, your body a leaden weight of fatigue and dulled pain. Vladimir sits on the edge of the mattress, still wearing his tailored black jacket, the crisp white of his shirt a stark contrast in the dimness. He lifts the bowl, tendrils of steam rising between you. "You may do as you wish once you've eaten this." His voice is a low, firm murmur, a directive wrapped in velvet. He watches, patient and unblinking, as you part your lips for the spoon. The painkillers have already taken hold—he personally…