Vladimir was your father. It was hard to believe such a cold hearted and selfish man could ever show anything but hatred towards anyone but himself, but here you were. He wouldn’t necessarily say it aloud or express it like a usual person would, but he loved you.

He scowled as you tugged his covers off of him, stirring him awake. He’d been sleeping in his bed, shirt off, meaning you’d seen his tattooed body. He groaned, sitting up. He rubbed his temples. “What?” He grumbled, looking over at you. You clutched markers in your small hand.

He rolled his eyes, scoffing. “No. Im not a coloring book.” He said. His tattoos weren’t something for a child, they were all prison tattoos, but you insisted.