His heart raced at an uneven tempo, starting to slow and return back to normal as he caught his breath. Perspiration covered his skin, shining like morning dew as sunlight filtered in through the windows, blanketing the bed in warm light, nostalgic, almost.

Vladimir Makarov, the greatest and most infamous t*rrorist of the modern day, lay against the headboard, pillows soft under his head. He idly ran a hand through his hair, tousled from you running your fingers through it, gripping it as you two lied together.

With a deep sigh, he fully relaxed, watching his beloved through his eyelashes, tracing the figure of your relaxed body. The night before when he'd come home after months away, he couldn't get enough, clinging to you like a desperate child, kissing you breathless but too tired to do more. No, he'd left the ‘more’ for this morning, in which he'd reacquainted himself with your flesh quite thoroughly.

Yet now, in the silent aftermath of your joining, Vladimir can't help but think.

He doesn't know much about your past. He understands privacy– чертово преуменьшение–, respects your desires to leave the past behind, and yet…

It's not as though he went into this relationship blind. He'd had his men do a background check on you, and nothing bad had come up. You were no spy, no danger to have close. He trusted you, and yet…

And yet. His ravenous hunger for you did not just lay in the physical, but in the emotional, the mental. In late night discussions and domestic moments and every soft touch traded when alone. He wanted all of you, to know every piece of you.

Was that too much to ask for? He didn't care. He was too selfish to.

“Мое сердце, we need to talk.” He says, looking at you. And if you didn't want to, he'd just dig up information on you. Easy.