Welcome to Moscow - 18+ MNDI
OG Vladimir Makarov x Reader
My first smut finally arrived. Enjoy. <:
Makarov wasn't the type to have relationships. Not in his early years, and definitely not later, when he became one of Zakhaev's soldier. When he quickly ascented the ladder, higher and higher up, until a few years later he stood beside him as his right hand man. He was only 25 at that time, just right before the assassination attempt on Zakhaev.
The assassination was horrible. He still remembered it vividly, even days, weeks later. He was sitting the car, the driver's seat. He was one of the very few Zakhaev trusted with his own safety— naturally, Makarov drove like he was drivint the Tzar himself.
When Zakhaev was shot, he instantly forgot to drive like that. When Yuri and others dragged Zakhaev into the car, Makarov drove away like a maniac. The old man was bleeding like hell, Yuri tried applying pressure to his arm— or what remained of it. From the look of it alone, it was caused by a heavy sniper rifle, but did not lingered on that thought much, as he sped towards the nearest place he kbew, where they could find a doctor who can try to safe that shredded arm, or at least the man's life.
~~~
Naturally, their enemies thought Zakhaev probably died. Their only luck was the wind that day, because if there wasn't any, the bullet would've probably pierced through Zakhaev's chest of head instead of his left arm, which the doctors couldn't save.
Zakhaev needed time to heal, and until then Makarov, and Zakhaev's son, Viktor took over the duties. It was tiresome - the work itself, lots of paperworks, calls and all, and the fact Makarov needed to deal with Viktor. He was a stubborn bastard.
~~~
Makarov wasn't the type to indulge in romance, and relationships held little appeal tovhim either. Not his style, he always said, and absolutely no time for it. Of course, he was a man, he had needs he needed to satisfy, but Moscow offered more than enough female company for that, ones that closed their mouth if paid enough. That was more his style. One night stands without any attachments.
Up until he met you.
He had no idea who you were, he just knew he never saw you before in that bar. Not that he was a regular there, but he popped in from time to time, when he wanted some company at night. The women there were always easy. A few drinks, maybe a few rubels if they were that type, and he was sated for days or maybe a week.
Not with you. When he sat down beside you, ordering a refill of your drink from the bartender, you only chuckled, as the bartender filled up your glass again. Before you wanted to say anything to him, maybe a thank you, maybe a what can I do for you, he was quicker, in slightly broken, heavily accepted english - of course he assumed you're a tourist. If he only knew.
"You don't look like you belong in Moscow." His voice was a little raspier, one that he knew women liked to hear, as he watched you from the side, trying to study you.
He saw you first when he entered the bar, you stood out like a sore thumb. While the other women were dressed in colors, formfitting, showy dresses, heavier makeup on their faces and statement earrings or necklaces adorning them, you looked... simple, in a good way. Your black dress hugged your body like it was designed for you, not extravagant, simply elegant with red heels— probably a brand Makarov did not cared to remember. Your natural makeup accentuated your eyes and the small lopsided smile that you made when -after going there- he ordered you a refill. You were a sight for him and from the looks of other patrons, for them too. Many wanted a little excitement, and tourists who doesn't belonged often looked for this kind of company— just a night where they can be domeone else, where they can enjoy themselves in ways they wouldn't normally.
"You always order for women you want to have sex with, or am I a lucky one?" You asked bluntly, turning towards him with another lopsided smile.
He gave you an amused expression, one he rarely let himself do. You two wouldn't meet again, so there was no harm in it.
"Only for the lucky ones" and with that you two eased into light chatter over drinks. Nothing specific, a few words about the bar, a few about Moscow and it's sights you should see. A half hour later you two already left the bar, and were already at the hotel lobby where you spent the night. The ride in the elevator was calm, you two standing beside eachother quietly and calmly, walking towards your room, key in hand, no rushing. The night was long anyway.
But once inside and the door closed shut, Makarov didn't waisted any seconds. He grabbed you by your waist and turned you around, the keys dropped from your hand in the motion and landed on the carpeted floor. And it remained there for the rest of the night.
The first kiss was anything but gentle. It tasted like hunger and the vodka he drank at the bar. Intoxicating in itself enough to make you moan into his mouth, before his hands pulled you close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Your hands ran up on his chest, feeling how the hard muscles tensed under your touch— they were well hidden under his clothes, as he did 't appeared as the overly bulky built. How wrong you were.
His big, calloused hands found the zipper at the back of your dress and started to pull it down, while your hands started to unbutton his dark shirt, all while his kisses stealed your breath and made your pulse spike even just from his lips. When he pulled down the zipper, he tugged down the dress feom your shoulders, making it soon pool around your ankles, leaving you only in a black, lacy bra, underwear and that infuriatingly red heels on your foot.
You finally came up for air when the air of the room his your body, and a shiver ran down your spine as you looked into his eyes— one green and one blue, as you realised in the bar, but right now his pupils were so dilated they almost looked pitch black and filled with hunger. Your hands pushed him a little, not hard or enough to make him budge, but he surprisingly complied, taking a step backwards and leaning against the cabinet next to the door. You lowered into your knees in front of him, your hands unbickling his belt and his trousers with quick efficiency, letting them drop down at his boots. His dark boxer looked painfully tight as his erection strained against the fabric, demanding to be freed. You ran your hand over the fabric, earning a deep growl from him, before you freed his cock from its confines. You looked up into his eyes as you slowly licked up a long lone from the bottom to the top of it, never breaking eye contact with him.
That earned you something that not many were saw during their (short) lives— Makarov's cold, resilient composure breaking down. On the battlefield, that meant certain death to his enemies, but in this room, it meant you will certainly walk funny the next morning. He sneaked his hand into your hair, his fingers tangling into the soft curls as he guided your head closer to his erection— a silent command. And who were you to not comply?
His head fell back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his jaw clenched tightly as he tried to stay in control that he prided himself for— but it seemed to fry at the edges with every movement of your tongue. He rarely indulged in foreplay of any short, he usually got straight to business with his one night stands, but God, he might actually consider doing this more often with you with his next one night stand.
After what felt like forever, he pulled your head away by your hair, not to hurt, but firm enough to make you comply. Before you realized what was happening, he grabbed you and lifted you upwards, making you straddle his hips and cling to his shoulders in the sudden movement. His cock stained against your still clothed pussy, but he had the easiest solution to that: with one hand holding you up, the other ripped the material off of you easily. You gave him a nasty look for it, but said nothing, instead kissed him as he lined himself up at your entrance.
"Ya isporchu tebya dlya lyubovo drugovo muzhchiny." (I'm going to ruin you for any other man.) he said, his words slipping out in russian. You arched into him as he slowly entered you inch by inch, making sure you felt every ridge and vein as he did. He didn't even realised you cussed out a quiet "Bozhe moy!" (My God!) as he slid into you. He would've probably stopped if he realised, to question you if you actually knew russian, because tourists usually didn't. Luckily he seemed oblivious, which was a rare thing for him.
When he was fully seated, he gave you a few seconds to adjust before he started to move, setting a rythm that felt too much and not enough at the same time. His hips slapped hard against yours and you were sure you'll have bruises tomorrow, but you didn't seemed to care at all. The feeling of him filling you uo again and again as he moved was way too enjoyable than to worry about some bruises.
Soon he seemed to fall behind in tempo, and he decided to walk away with you still in his hands towards the bedroom where big, ceiling to floor lenght windows stood. He put you down before one, moving your front towards the window, pushing on your back a little, so your front leaned against the cold glass, while he grabbed your hips and entered you again, making both of you moan at the feeling. His name, what he gave you at the bar, only his surname, fallen from your lips like a prayer as you neared your end, and he started to be more vocal, guttual groans emerging from his chest as he was nearing his, and soon you came, followed by him closely behind, his cum filling your insides. You panted as you were holding yourself up against the window, while he seemed to cstch his breath, still holding your hips in a bruising grip.
~~~
To be honest, neither of you remembered how you two ended up on the bed after, or when did any of you fall asleep. You were already tired thanks to the jet leg, and he was from all the extra word he did in the last weeks. When you woke up, you still catched his form leaving through the front door. He was turning around just for a second to catch your eyes, before he offered his parting words: "Welcome to Moscow." and with that he left. You decided to lay back a little bit, before you stood up with a sigh and took a shower. You needed to get ready soon anyway.
~~~
Makarov was already on his way out of the hotel when he checked his phone, and there was a message from Yuri, stating Zakhaev wanted them to meet at the Radisson Collection Hotel at 8:00. The reason was not stated in the message that came about half an hour ago, and he was in the lucky position that it's exactly where he stood as he was reading the message. Just in time, because Yuri and Zakhaev arrived within minuted.
~~~
They were waiting for Zakhaev's daughter, as it turned out. He never heard about her before, but Zakhaev explained it shortly: she was sent away into Europe when she was young to learn and to stay hidden. Being a Zakhaev, being a daughter of Imran was a dangerous position. He only nodded in acknowledgement, saving the information for later.
A good 10 minutes later, when the clock ticked into 8:00 Zakhaev's face seemed to brighten up just by a fraction, a rare lift of the edges of his mouth was the only indication he seemed happy, as someone walked over to them, hugging Imran.
Vladimir was speaking with Yuri before he turned towards them to see who they were waiting for— and for a full second, his mind froze. Because in front of him, in Imran's hug was the woman he spent the night with. After the initial shock that got away as quickly as it arrived, he straightened himself, when Imran introduced her. Makarov only offered a neutral expression and a few words: "Welcome to Moscow."