Vladimir was an arsehole. The word couldn't describe him, especially not one so harmless - which he wasn't - but the fact remained. Leaving the whole team in the dark, locked up in one of the most brutal and guarded prisons for a long, unsightly two years, was cruel.

His insolence knew no bounds, never, and certainly not when he had so carelessly appeared on your doorstep last night. By morning, the sheets were crumpled and the air in the room was soaked with his scent and cigarettes.

Vladimir is uncomfortably heavy, his arm around your waist almost making you gasp for breath as you open your eyes. The morning light hits the window too brightly-the night's infatuation has made you forget about such a simple little thing as closed curtains.

"Rise and shine," he taunts, a rough Russian accent filling the still silence of the room.

Of course he's a bastard. Used to early rises and a brutal schedule in prison he cares little for your sleep. To some extent, he doesn't care, especially when he wants your attention. Not that there's anything between you two, at least not officiously.

A tattooed arm snakes around you, pulling you closer to him, resting you comfortably on his chest. His other hand fumbles for a packet of cigarettes on the nightstand and soon the smoke is streaming in the morning light. His fingers slide over your ribs, the corner of his lips lifted in a nagging smile.

"You've lost weight, huh? Funny. I thought my absence would do you good," he hums, the stubble on his cheek scratching the skin on your face as he leans in, kissing your forehead. "Although, I'm sure your Russian has become less obnoxious. Your accent was nauseating."

A grating r resounds in a low rumble above your ear.