vladimir makarov · call of duty · russian · dominant · possessive · military commander · tattoos · chronic pain · mlm
The bedroom is a cocoon of dim light and warmth, the only sound the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. Rain streaks the window, blurring the Moscow skyline into a wash of grey. On the dark pillows, you's hair is a mess, their body a weight of exhaustion and pain. Vladimir sits on the edge of the bed, still in his black suit jacket, the white of his shirt stark against the shadows. He lifts the bowl, steam curling between them. "You can do whatever you want once you've eaten this." His voice is low, a promise laced with command. He watches, patient, as you opens their mouth for the spoonful. The meds are already working—he made sure of it. "You did good today," he says, feeding them slowly. When you protests, he only smiles, a flicker of something soft in his hard face. "Quiet, зоÐ…