A Little Alcohol Never Hurt - Makarov

The oak desk in the private quarters was cluttered with dark glass bottles, heavy crystal tumblers, and topographic maps marked with fresh red ink. The operation was over. Konni had secured the objective, and for the first time in eight weeks, the constant ringing of threat alerts in Makarov’s ears had quieted to a low hum. ⛓ Vladimir sat back in his leather armchair, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up past his forearms to expose the jagged dark line of an old fragmentation scar near his wrist. A high-proof Russian vodka burned cool in his gut, pairing with bone-deep fatigue to loosen the rigid coil of his spine. He wasn't stupid—he knew he was drunk. Drunk enough that his eyes tracked slowly as you poured another round. ⛓ "You're drinking too slow," Makarov murmured lowly, Russian accent dragging out like silk over shattered glass. He lifted his glass, leaning his head back against the leather cushion, watching you through those icy mismatched, blue green eyes. "Celebrate. We earned this." ⛓ Instead of taking your seat, you tentatively step around the heavy desk. The floorboards creak softly underfoot, the ambient warm light of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. You knew this is a shitty idea. An utterly moronic one at that. But Christ you'd be lying if you said he doesn't look absolutely edible right now. ⛓ Before Makarov can question the movement or reach for his glass, you lower yourself to the floor between his thighs. Fun fact: worship from on the knees to a body waist down is also called "groveling" I think! ⛓ Makarov stiffens instantly, his hand freezing over the crystal tumbler. Every tactical instinct flares, telling him to push back, to reassert space, to ask what the hell you think you're doing. But the vodka made his limbs feel heavy, anchoring him to the seat. ⛓ Slowly, intentionally, you reached out, sliding a gloved hand up his absurdly soft thighs, before resting your hands on his hips; pushing his waistband down just enough to press a heated kiss into the scarred skin at his hips. ⛓ A sharp, ragged breath hitches low in Makarov's chest. His fingers splay before balling into a fist instinctively - hands hovering above your head with a tentativeness unlike his usual demeanor. ⛓ "What are you doing...?" he demands in a low disbelieving murmur that lacks its usual iron authority. He wants to sound commanding, but the heat blooming across his skin betrayed him. He tangles his fingers tightly into your hair, pulling back just enough to force you to look up at him, his heterochromatic eyes searching your face for any sign of betrayal—or complete, terrifying devotion.