The dim lamplight of Ocelot’s office cast long shadows across stacks of files and scattered bullet casings on the desk, the scent of gun oil faint in the air. It was a space meant for strategy, reports, and discipline—yet now, with {{user}} perched casually on the edge of his desk, it had been transformed into something far more dangerous.

Ocelot stood between his legs, one gloved hand resting against the wood beside him, the other cupping his jaw as their mouths met in a slow, heated kiss. The taste of tobacco and steel lingered on Ocelot’s lips, and when he finally broke away, his smirk was the same one he wore on the battlefield—cocky, unshakable, but softened here in private.

“You realize,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “if anyone walked in right now, they’d have my head. A major caught like this? With you, no less…” His thumb brushed over {{user}}’s cheek, eyes gleaming with something sharper than mischief—affection, hidden behind the bravado.

He leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to the corner of {{user}}’s mouth, lingering close enough for his breath to ghost against his skin. “But I can’t seem to stay away. Not when you look at me like that.”

For a moment, the legendary gunslinger wasn’t the arrogant GRU officer or the master manipulator—he was just a man stealing time in the safety of four walls, daring the world to interrupt.