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fantasyescapes17 · 11 months

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Wings (Part 1)

Your debut in society was as spectacular as one could be, but nobody had prepared you for what came afterward. When you find yourself overwhelmed during your very first season and unable to keep up with the rat race to secure yourself an eligible husband, a curious mentor appears- in the form of notorious flirt and self-proclaimed rake, Mr. Kim Mingyu.

Genre: Mingyu x Female!reader. Regency!AU (It's sort of Bridgerton-esque in the sense that I give zero attention to historical accuracy and prioritize aesthetics lmao) You are Jeonghan's sibling so your last name is Yoon but the reader has no other physical characteristics.

Warnings: Reader frequently displays signs resembling (undiagnosed) social anxiety.

Word Count: 5k+

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Series Masterlist [You WILL need to read Patience, the earlier installment in this series first in order to understand the character dynamics in this story. Reading Candle before this is also strongly recommended.]

Your mother's grip on your arm was painfully tight.

Today was, after all, one of the most important days of her life. Mrs. Yoon had presented one of her daughters at court a few years earlier (your elder sister) but the stakes were much, much, higher with you.

"I never had much hope for your sister," your mother said dismissively as she fussed with the exquisite fabric of your dress. The heavily embroidered gown had been custom-ordered for today; the day of your presentation. Being presented in court before the queen was a vital ceremony that every marriage-minded young lady undertook to enter society as a debutante.

"Mother…" you said patiently, but she ignored you, too caught up in her own nerves to notice your discomfort.

"I knew that your sister would cause trouble and look what she did- courting a widower-oh! I cannot bear to think of it. Thank goodness she is not here to ruin your debut. My darling, you have no need to worry. You are far more beautiful than your sister, and your manners are sweet and reasonable. You will make us very proud."

You may have been sweet and reasonable, as your mother liked to put it, but you were not ignorant. The weight your mother had placed on your shoulders to make a splash during your debut social season and snatch up an eligible gentleman was not easy to carry.

Neither was the dress you wore that weighed about two tons.

"We are next," your mother released your dress and turned her attention to your hair. "Remember what I taught you. Walk slowly and confidently. Keep your face lowered but not so low that they can't see your pretty features, and-"

Your mother did not have time to finish. The man at the entrance to the royal throne room announced your name loudly.

"Miss Yoon, presented by her mother, Mrs. Yoon!"

Your chest tightened. Taking a deep breath, you walked forward slowly and gracefully in the same way that you had practised hundreds of times at home. The large hall was filled with quietly chattering members of the ton. The most elite society of London had their eyes on you.

You did not look around the grand hall in fear of setting off your fragile nerves. Instead, you chose a spot on the velvet carpet at the foot of the Queen's throne and fixed your gaze firmly on it as you walked forward. You finally reached the throne and bowed deeply.

"Hmm," the Queen said as she observed you. You did not dare lift your eyes to look at her. "A pretty little thing. She will do well."

Relief.

You could almost feel your mother's delight radiating from a few steps behind you as you bowed once more to the queen and turned to leave. The walk back felt much easier. Although the dress was just as heavy as it had always been, some of the imaginary load had been shed and your shoulders felt lighter.

The presentation had gone well.

Or at least, it had not gone badly.

Your mother embraced you once you were outside and you allowed yourself to slump against her in a mixture of exhaustion and relief. You had been dreading, dreaming and preparing for this day for weeks, and it was finally over.

"Sister!" Jeonghan hurried out to greet you. You beamed at the sight of your half-brother.

"Was I all right?" you asked hopefully.

"You were excellent," Jeonghan promised you with a smile. He was accompanied by his newly wedded wife; a cheerful young lady who had been very kind and welcoming to you since your arrival in London.

"You were the most beautiful young lady in the room," your sister-in-law told you excitedly. "The Queen only spoke to two of the other girls- so you were certainly one of her favourites. Her Highness never said anything to me during my debut," she added with a laugh.

You found that difficult to believe. Jeonghan's wife was incredibly beautiful and charming.

"Thank you so much-"

"All right, it is time we took our leave," your mother interrupted stiffly.

It was no secret that your mother did not like her step-son, and she disliked his new wife equally. Your sister-in-law had unwittingly usurped your mother’s position as the lady of the Yoon household. The two women clashed on multiple subjects and could not seem to agree on anything- from the colour of the upholstery to the treatment of household staff.

You preferred not to be caught in the middle of that particular storm.

Jeonghan nodded. "Then we will see you at dinner. Congratulations, sister. The most difficult part is over. You will have a wonderful season ahead of you."

If only your brother had known how terribly mistaken he was.

—-----------------------------------------------------

Dear sister,

I have heard from Jeonghan that your presentation at court was spectacular. I expected no less from you. You are undoubtedly one of the most beautiful young ladies this season. I am sorry I could not be there, but mother insists that I stay away from London for fear that my status as a spinster will raise questions and cast a shadow over your prospects.

Do not worry for me! It is peaceful here back home. Mother’s absence makes it easier for me to write to Seungcheol; and if circumstances allow, he may come visit me soon (of course Mother must never hear of this). Seungcheol sends his best regards for your first season and asks me to warn you to be wary of rakes- but I am sure Jeonghan will keep you safe from them. Once you take your pick of London’s finest, we may have a joint wedding!

I am sure that offers for your hand will begin rolling in soon. Mother and Jeonghan shall be quite overwhelmed. Do not forget to write to me often!

Your loving sister.

You folded the letter and tucked it safely away in your drawer. You knew that your elder sister wanted nothing but the best for you. It had been years since she had fallen in love with Choi Seungcheol- a widower and father to a young boy. But their match was unseemly and your sister had kept the courtship hidden for many years out of fear that it would tarnish your future prospects. Even now, the couple waited patiently to be married until you had secured your own matrimonial bliss.

You were not ignorant of their sacrifice.

Both your sister and Seungcheol were very dear to you, and although neither of them would ever say it aloud, you were the reason they could not live together as husband and wife. You considered it your responsibility to make the most of your time in London. You would secure a husband before the season ended.

Surely it could not be so difficult?

Your mother had insisted on putting you in the most restrictive of dresses (‘to better show your figure, my dear!’) so you felt breathless and anxious throughout the carriage ride to the Graham manor. You were on your way to the first social event of the season- the Duchess of Graham’s spectacular opening ball, where you would experience London society at its grandest for the first time.

“Sister, are you all right?” Jeonghan asked you worriedly, as he helped you down from the carriage.

You swallowed and nodded. “Y-yes, of course.”

“You look rather unwell.”

You felt unwell. The enormous Graham manor loomed before you in all its grandeur, and multiple carriages were parked on the road with various well-dressed ladies and gentlemen descending. Many paused to glance at you curiously on their way to the manor, and you felt exposed and anxious.

It was dawning upon you how enormous this all was. Most of the people at the ball would have heard of your presentation in court. They would be watching you, judging you, talking about you. Even the smallest mistake could mean the end of your season.

You suddenly could not breathe.

"Come, sister," Mrs. Yoon (your sister-in-law) said. She had noticed your anxiety and took your arm in hers in a friendly manner. "Your presentation at court has caused quite the stir. There are many gentlemen eager to share a dance with you this evening, so you shall not be left wanting for dance partners.”

“It’s only… this is my first ball…” you choked out nervously.

“Not to worry! I was terribly nervous during my debut season as well, but you will begin to enjoy it soon!”

You had no option but to take her word for it. There was a sea of fashionably dressed people gathered in the foyer of the manor. More than you had ever seen at once in your life, having spent most of your youth at your family’s remote countryside estate. Numerous eyes were on you. You could already feel your skin heating up underneath your heavy gown, and sweat beading on your forehead.

“Well! If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Yoon Jeonghan!”

Your brother and sister-in-law were interrupted by greetings from a pair of gentlemen. You did not recognize either of them- so you had no choice but to stop and force a smile as your brother and sister-in-law greeted them warmly.

“I am surprised to see the Lees have arrived in London early this season,” Jeonghan said to them with a smile.

“We could scarcely continue to hide in the shadows after our sister married a Viscount. Her marriage has given the rest of us renewed hope for our own prospects,” the taller of the two laughed jovially. He was very handsome- with a bright smile and kind eyes. Your stomach clenched in anxiety once more as he turned and his eyes fell on you. “Oh! Is this the much-anticipated debutante Miss Yoon?”

You forced a curtsey.

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes- this is my youngest sister Miss Yoon. She was presented in court only last week. Sister, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Lee Jihoon and Mr. Lee Seokmin. They are the brothers of Viscountess Hong, whom you may have met earlier this week.”

You had a vague recollection of meeting the Viscountess at a ladies’ tea a few days ago. But the memory was pushed to the back of your mind when you discovered a large hand extended towards you. It belonged to Mr. Lee Seokmin- the owner of the bright smile and kind eyes.

“We have heard so much about you, Miss Yoon. May I ask you to join me for the first dance of the evening?” Seokmin asked.

It was as though you had forgotten how to speak. Mr. Lee Seokmin waited patiently for you to respond but despite your thoughts whirling at a hundred miles an hour, you simply could not force your lips to make any noise. There was a brief silence before your sister-in-law spoke on your behalf.

“I am sure Miss Yoon would love to join you for a dance, Mr. Lee,” she promised. “You must simply allow us to visit the refreshment tables first. A glass of water is much needed in this warm weather.”

Seokmin nodded in understanding. “Of course! You must wait here and we will find someone to bring you some water immediately.”

You felt your tense shoulders relax slightly when the gentlemen disappeared into the crowd of people, and you were left alone with your sister-in-law. She turned to you with concern.

“My dear, are you all right?”

“I am fine,” you reassured her breathlessly. “I-I do not know what happened, my mind simply seemed to freeze and I could not think of what to say to him. He was so handsome and gentlemanly and I-I…”

Mrs. Yoon grasped your hand and smiled.

"You seem so nervous! You must not worry. Mr. Lee Seokmin is a very nice young gentleman- I have danced with him before myself -and I think it is an excellent idea for you to start your ball by dancing with him."

Her words felt distant. They did nothing to ease your anxiety. There were still too many eyes on you and your chest still felt tight. Your mind would not stop considering all the different scenarios in which this monumentally important evening could go terribly, terribly wrong.

You were grateful for the silk gloves that concealed how sweaty your palms had become.

Seokmin returned a few moments later with a glass of water for you. You accepted it with a trembling smile, and forced yourself to drink a little as your sister-in-law engaged Seokmin in polite conversation about his family.

"Ah- I believe the dancing is beginning!" Seokmin announced suddenly. The musicians had taken their places, and he held out his hand to you. "Shall we?"

You took his hand and glanced at your sister-in-law, who gave you an encouraging smile. Your feet felt numb as you followed your dance partner to the centre of the room. The ballroom was enormous. You could see other young ladies far more graceful, confident, and beautiful than you standing up to dance as well. Miss Hong, Miss Ella Williams, and even the Duchess herself stood with their dance partners.

How could you compete? How could you stand up in a dance beside these accomplished women? Yes, your mother had paid for a tutor to teach you how to dance but she had said nothing, nothing about how positively nerve-wracking it would be to stand up in a room full of people with their eyes on you while other ladies smiled and glided effortlessly along!

"Are you all right, Miss Yoon?" Seokmin asked you kindly as you took your place among the dancers. "You seem rather flustered."

Your throat still felt tight. "I-I am fine…"

He nodded and smiled. The music began, and Seokmin slowly led you into the dance and initiated a light conversation.

"You bear a striking resemblance to your elder sister. I knew her rather well. I and some of the other gentleman here who were privy to her… courtship with Mr. Choi often danced with her to ward off other suitors."

Mr. Lee Seokmin was not at fault. He had only done what any gentleman meeting with a new lady would do. He had found a topic of shared interest and attempted to initiate a conversation.

He could not have known that he had said the worst possible thing to ease your nerves.

You thought of your sister- your poor, darling sister who was depending on you to have a successful season and snatch up an eligible husband as soon as possible; your sister who had suffered through so many balls dancing with men she did not love solely for your benefit. She would be sitting at home and waiting to hear news of how you had charmed all of London's young men.

The thought of disappointing her made you sick.

"Miss Yoon?" Seokmin asked when you did not respond. He laughed uncomfortably. "I apologise, I did not mean to offend- perhaps this was an inappropriate setting to mention your sister or Mr. Choi…"

Your eyes widened.

"No!" you cried. "No, I…"

*Yes?"

"I love my sister very much!" you blurted out loudly.

Seokmin blinked, surprised at your sudden declaration. "Ah; yes, I imagine so. She spoke of you often. I understand you are very close?"

You nodded. It was your turn to speak but you could not think of anything to say to him. Your mind raced in a panic as you tried to think of something to reply with while keeping pace with the dance. You stumbled; Seokmin was surprised but managed to keep his grip on your gloved hand and ensured you did not fall.

You were mortified.

"I-I am so terribly sorry," you stammered.

Seokmin chuckled. "That is perfectly all right, Miss Yoon, it happens to the best of us. Are you all right? Did you wish to sit down?"

Your ankle suddenly throbbed painfully. The stumble had thrust it into the wrong position and the sheer pain brought tears to your eyes. You blinked them back as you shook your head.

"No, no," you said hurriedly. To sit down in the middle of your very first dance would surely attract far too much attention. You could not afford that kind of infamy. A young lady's first ball set the tone for the rest of the season, your sister-in-law had said so many times before, and you could not allow it to end like this.

Seokmin frowned. "Miss Yoon, you really do not seem-"

"I am fine," you insisted breathlessly. You desperately tried to focus on anything but the pain in your ankle. Swallowing back your tears you looked up at Seokmin. "D-do you have any siblings of your own, Mr. Lee?"

He tilted his head in mild confusion. "Well- yes. You met my brother Jihoon earlier, and the Viscountess Hong is my sister. I also have three younger siblings who are not out in society."

Oh no. You realised your stupidity too late. Of course Seokmin had siblings, Jeonghan had told you about them mere minutes earlier! How could you ask the Viscountess' brother if he had siblings? What a fool you must have looked to ask a question that you should have known the answer to!

"I-I apologise, I should have known-"

"Not at all. It is your first season, Miss Yoon, it is perfectly understandable that you may have been confused."

You flushed in embarrassment. You were ruined. Seokmin would tell all the other gentlemen of the ton that the younger Miss Yoon was a bumbling idiot; that she had no idea how to dance, or hold a conversation, and that she was rude enough to ask him about his siblings when she should have known them by name….

You could not look at Seokmin. The awkwardness and concern on his face was only adding to your growing dread. The pain in your ankle was becoming more and more difficult to conceal, and you could not keep your thoughts in order. Tears were springing to your eyes again.

The dance finally came to an end. The silence that followed the last few notes of the music brought with it an immense relief, and you did not even wait to thank Mr. Lee Seokmin for the dance before you hobbled away from him. You needed to get away from the noise and the crowd and the staring eyes and judgemental faces, you needed a moment to simply breathe.

The Duchess of Graham's manor was enormous and it was not very difficult to slip out of the ballroom relatively unnoticed. Your ankle was in incredible pain and you could not go far. You found the first door and burst out onto a deserted balcony.

The cool night breeze allowed you to take a refreshing gasp of air. The combination of the pain in your ankle and your crippling anxiety led you to simply close your eyes and lean against the barristers. You had not been able to manage one dance without panicking! How would you make it through the rest of this evening?

Perhaps you could hide here until the dancing ended?

It was the only option you had left. You could not-would not- go back into that crowded ballroom full of watching eyes and fashionable young men and women that were so confident and graceful and intimidating. The mere thought filled you with a deep and intense dread. Your ankle throbbed, and you slumped down with your back against the barristers and cradled it as you fought back more tears.

You did not know how long you sat there on the balcony. The distant music from the ballroom must have stopped and restarted a few times before you suddenly heard the door to the balcony open once more.

You froze. A tall, startlingly handsome gentleman entered the balcony with a cigar held loosely between his lips. He did not notice you immediately; he was too busy trying to light the cigar despite the gentle breeze blowing. He grumbled to himself a few times before finally managing to light it. The man took a long, satisfying drag and the balcony was filled with the smell of tobacco smoke.

There was a sudden, sharp gust of wind that blew the smoke in your direction along with a wave of pollen from the lush, blooming garden below.

You sneezed.

The man jumped in surprise and turned to you with wide eyes. "For heaven's sake- what are you doing down there?" he demanded.

You were mortified. You could not speak. He squinted at you in the dim light streaming through the manors windows.

"Are you injured?" he asked, noticing how you were clutching your ankle. He frowned and peered at you more closely. "You look very familiar… surely, you're not…ah! Are you the younger Miss Yoon? I know your sister!"

It was too much. The mention of your sister tipped you over the edge that you had been teetering on all evening.

You burst into tears.

The young gentleman looked horrified. He stood there for a moment with his mouth gaping open before he pulled out a handkerchief and tried to give it to you. You were too mortified to take it. You simply buried your head in your hands and sobbed your eyes out.

You heard the gentleman leave- there was the sound of the balcony door closing, and then it opened again after less than a minute and multiple footsteps were audible.

"Oh! Here she is- my dear, we have been looking for you everywhere!" your sister-in-law's arms came to wrap around you and you allowed yourself to relax in her warm embrace. Your brother was not far behind her.

"What did you do, Mingyu?" Jeonghan demanded with a frown.

Mr. Kim Mingyu- the gentleman who was rapidly putting out his cigar against the balcony railing, paused and looked both bewildered and affronted.

"What did I do?" he cried. "I will not pretend as though I have never made a young lady cry, but really, Jeonghan, I barely said a word to her before she burst into tears!"

"Nobody saw you?" Jeonghan insisted.

"Of course not. Everyone was far too busy chatting about Miss Hong and that unfortunate business up in the library-"

"All right, all right. Thank you for calling us."

Your brother came over to help you up. Jeonghan sighed when he noticed your ankle. "Can you walk?"

You shook your head miserably.

"All right. Here- lean on my shoulder. Your mother is going to be furious…"

—----------------------------------------------------

Your mother was furious.

"I should never have trusted you to chaperone her!" she yelled at your sister-in-law. "How can you tell me that she danced only once- and to have allowed her to injure herself! How will she dance at the upcoming balls?"

Your sister-in-law sighed.

"Madam, I will confess that perhaps I could have kept a closer eye on her, but really, the injury was an accident. I am not sure how you expect me to have prevented it from happening," she retorted irritably.

Your mother was incensed. "I shall certainly expect nothing more from you! I shall escort my daughter to all the balls for the rest of the season myself!"

Your eyes widened.

"Mother, no…"

"Hush," your mother snapped. "I don't want to hear another word from you. Injuring your ankle at the very beginning of the season! As though you had never been taught to dance! I want nothing from you, except to heal that ankle as soon as possible!"

You bit your lip. "Yes, mother…"

"I am off to Mrs. Patty's to see what the rest of the ton thinks. We must count our blessings that the Viscount's sister made an absolute spectacle of herself the same night, so word of your poor debut was not the most gossip-worthy event of the evening."

You bit your lip. It seemed unkind to take relief in another young lady's misfortunes but those were the cards you had been dealt. Your mother stormed out of the parlour and your sister-in-law came closer to you.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently. "How is your ankle?"

It was swollen. The doctor had been by and had advised you to rest for a few days and that you should be in a position to walk normally in a week's time.

"Better," you lied.

"You look quite miserable, my dear."

"I-I dread to think of how I shall manage the next ball. Mr. Lee was so gentle and kind, but I still panicked and could not bring myself to converse normally with him. I am sure he will tell the entire ton that I am a bumbling fool!"

"I am sure he will not," Mrs. Yoon said firmly. "He is not so unkind."

"And if the next man is not as kind as him? What if I make a bigger fool of myself in front of someone far more important? How shall I ever find a husband if I cannot even dance or converse with gentlemen? Were you this nervous when you debuted?" you cried.

She sighed. "I will confess I was not. We each have skills which come more naturally to us than others. But you need not worry. That does not mean that you will never be able to charm a gentleman. It only means that you need more practice in the arts of… conversation and flirtation than others."

You blinked at her. "Will you practice with me?"

"I would love to- but it will not help. You are too comfortable with me. You need to practice under more realistic conditions with a real gentleman. But a gentleman with whom the stakes are low, and who will not mind if you make a few mistakes."

A servant entered the parlour and curtsied. "Mrs. Yoon- a Mr. Kim Mingyu has arrived to see you."

"Yes- please show him in," your sister-in-law replied before smiling at you. "Your practice gentleman is here, it seems."

You stared at her in disbelief.

"What?"

Mr. Kim entered the room. You had not been able to see him clearly in the darkness and emotional haze of the Duchess' ball the previous night, but he appeared in front of you now, in all his present glory.

Kim Mingyu was tall and handsome, with a charming smile and twinkling eyes that radiated a mixture of playfulness and confidence. He wore a fashionable riding coat. His dark hair was soft and brushed his forehead lightly.

You were stunned into silence.

"Excellent," your sister-in-law said when she noticed your horrified expression. "That look is exactly what we are hoping to ease you out of, with enough practice. Mr. Kim; come join us!"

Mingyu gracefully took a seat across from you and flashed his perfect smile.

"Miss Yoon," he greeted you. "I must apologise for my behaviour the previous night. I really did not see you on the balcony."

You opened your mouth to respond but no words came out. Clenching your fists, you forced yourself to respond calmly. "No-I mean…it was not… you did nothing wrong… I was hiding…"

Mr. Kim bit back his smile.

"Ah," he said calmly, with a tone of understanding. "I see the problem."

Your sister-in-law turned to him. "As you can see, Miss Yoon is having some trouble engaging in conversation. I thought, as one of the more experienced bachelors of the ton in matters of flirtation and courtship, you might be persuaded to take her under your wing."

Mingyu grinned. "I would be delighted."

You stared at them. "But-but…"

"Mr. Kim is a notorious rake," your sister-in-law told you matter-of-factly. You stared at the gentleman sitting across from you in shock, expecting him to be offended by her name-calling, but Mingyu only nodded solemnly.

You had to object. "Sister, surely he is not-"

"No, Mrs. Yoon is perfectly right," Mingyu interrupted you. "I have gathered quite the reputation for myself and it is wholly deserved."

"O-oh."

"Mr. Kim has generously offered his services," your sister-in-law continued. "He is not only prepared to teach you how to flirt and converse with gentlemen at social events, he is also prepared to enter into a public courtship with you until you are ready to venture out on your own."

"A courtship?" you demanded.

"It is, of course, a false one," Mingyu explained to you calmly. "It may take some time until you are fully ready and confident enough to converse with your real suitors. Until then, I would be happy to play the part of a jealous, lovesick suitor who intends to keep you all to himself. I shall interfere and sweep you away from any gentlemen you are not ready to speak to. I can prevent further uncomfortable situations and act as a buffer. This way, you will not appear rude, and the blame for any unpleasant situations will fall upon me."

"I see…."

Your sister-law nodded. "Once you are ready, you may publicly end your courtship with Mr. Kim and proceed to pursue the man of your choosing. Nobody will blame you- he is a known rake, after all, and you would not be the first young lady to have her heart broken by him."

"Well," Mingyu chimed in with a gracious smile. "I will not presume that Miss Yoon wishes to have her heart broken by me. If it suits you better, I will be delighted to pretend that you were the one who broke my heart. We may orchestrate the ending of our courtship in a manner of your choosing."

You swallowed. "But my mother-"

Your sister-in-law grinned. "Mr. Kim is an only son and is the sole owner of a very wealthy estate not far from where the Chois live. Your mother will not object to him courting you. Of course, she need not know the truth."

It was an elaborate and dangerous scheme. You were not sure if it would succeed but you could see the genuineness in your sister-in-law's eyes. She really wanted to help you, and after the disaster at the Duchess of Graham's ball, you would be a fool if you did not admit that you needed all the help you could obtain.

You would have to trust her.

"Miss Yoon?" Mr. Kim asked with a charming smile. "Do I have your permission to court you?"

You took a deep breath and nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Kim. You do."

—-----------------------------------------------------

#mingyu scenarios #seventeen scenarios #mingyu fluff #mingyu x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #regency!au #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fluff #mingyu angst

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peachyteabuck · 7 months

Text

let it happen (it's gonna feel so good)

↪ summary: now that you're officially kate's again, she puts you to good use.

sequel to the plum tree blossoms even in winter

a commission for someone who wishes to remain anonymous

↪ pairing: kate bishop x reader, yelena belova x reader

↪ words: 10,043

↪ trigger warnings: heavy pet play, implied kidnapping, dehumanization, blowjobs using strap-ons, face-sitting, vaginal fingering, strap-on PIV sex, manipulation, mob au, dark au, mentioned free use, mentioned primal play, use of 'daddy'

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

News of your return travels fast. Gossip does that in this business - all people have is the word of mouth and their reputation. The second one utters a juicy bit of conversation over a line or while on guard, a clique of power-hungry goons are picking it up and spreading it around as far as they can. Kate’s one of the most powerful mobsters in the Northern Hemisphere, visible in ways leaders hadn’t been in the past. Women, certainly not pretty ones, are ever as influential as she’s been.

So, you’re not surprised when every bodyguard, goon, runner, rat, dealer, and saleswoman who walks through the doors of her home or office looks at you with a mix of pity and smugness. The former because they knew what happened to those that betrayed the all-powerful Kate Bishop. The latter because people had been placing bets on how long you’d make it out in the real world, and you’d learned from Carol that very, very few had actually thought you’d last the year.

Honestly, the fact people were gambling on your ability to survive hits you less than you think it should. In truth, you wouldn’t have bet on yourself either. There are no underdogs here; only winners, losers, and those throwing money between them.

You try and remember the positives of being back in Kate’s care. Warm beds, always. Food that tastes good and doesn’t come from a bag. Her large bathtub with massaging jets. Her personal chef. Her caves of heated blankets you can hide in during traditional New York blizzards. Her chilled pool during hot summers. Fleeting memories of your time on the street bring your gratefulness into perspective, choosing to ignore your feelings of inadequacy as people you’ve known for years gawk at you like a newly revealed zoo animal.

It’s not as if all of them are mean – Kate would never allow them to throw things at you, touch you, or even come within a few feet of you without her express and explicit permission. But their heavy gazes, their snickering…it all makes you curl even deeper into yourself as you curl against the large dog bed. Kate has bought a new one, the deep gray contrasted by “Kate’s puppy” embroidered off to one side. Your skin occasionally brushes against it when you’re sleeping, yet another sensory reminder of your place.

Natasha is the first one to really meet with Kate after your newfound arrival, the two of them chatting over drinks and dinner. You get occasional bites of the lobster rolls (one of Natasha’s favorites), but as the meeting leeches deep into the night, you’re too tired to do anything else but keep your form.

She looks you up and down as you remain in position in the corner, your thick collar keeping your head up and face forward. It’s a strain, but one that’s familiar enough to feel…nice. You choose not to lean into the comfort, just letting it warm you from the inside out.

“The pet’s back, huh?” she asks as she shakes her head and turns back to watch Kate sign checks. Money laundering is a complicated business that requires careful precision and planning. These include cutting real, legitimate checks for fake, bloated amounts. Kate could have one of her assistants do this, but she likes to double-check the numbers – she refuses to be on the other end of such a heinous crime. “She’s prettier than I remembered.”

Kate grunts out a laugh. She’s known Natasha since the two of them were mixing coke with pre-workout…the redhead is allowed to make comments that would get other people shot. Still, Kate doesn’t need Natasha getting too big for her britches…even if those britches are currently skin-tight leggings that flatter her ass tremendously.

“Yeah,” your owner says, not bothering to look back at you. She’s still shaky in her belief you’re back for good this time, and doesn’t want to jinx it by going soft. “They just can’t seem to stay away.”

“Has it really been a year?” Nat careens her own neck to rake her eyes up your form once more. She’s not as into such discipline as Kate is - preferring a little more push and pull with the ones she decides to fuck. Even so, she can’t deny the scene in front of her is hot. Your form is perfect, with your back arrow straight and your gaze unflinching. Not to mention your nipples are hard as diamonds as they’re exposed to the chilled office air, and you shiver every so often when the air conditioning sputters to life.

Kate hmms after a minute or so, shoving the stack of checks into an envelope before pushing them aside. “And about a week. Time flies so fast, doesn’t it?”

It's Natasha’s turn to murmur a response, the both of them watching you now. It takes all your might not to look at them, keeping your eyes trained on one of Kate’s small vintage horse statues she got into collecting a few years back. Most of them were tossed when she moved into her new office after her old club was mysteriously burned to the ground after an undercover cop was found flirting with an escort Kate hires every so often. The insurance money was quite a lot, enough to build her a new office, and buy a whole lot of new decorations.

But that horse statue, somehow, remained unscathed. Depicting a wild stallion running through a river – its eyes wide, mouth open, teeth barred as fish flip uselessly around it, hair tossed from imaginary wind, and light brown coat speckled with dirt – you wonder if she had kept it for any particular reason. The statue, though dynamic, was neither large nor immediately thought-provoking. You also wondered why it was so low on the set of black matte shelves, given its old place had been higher and on an adjacent wall.

“You know what they say,” Kate leans over to graze her knuckles over your cheek. You don’t flinch, instead leaning into her touch. She rewards you with a smile. “Pets always find their way back to what they know.”

Natasha doesn’t disagree but does turn the conversation away from you. She’s not a prude, but watching you get eye-fucked by a mafia boss is not her idea of a fun evening (at least, not now. You’re always more interesting when there’s an audience). She’s certainly not against voyeurism, but in a world where she can touch…she’d always rather be at the center of the action.

“When are you meeting with the Russian?”

Kate takes a sip of her drink. The bourbon is just how she likes it, neat, and she hums in appreciation. She may be a very complicated woman, but she prefers a very simple drink. “Tonight. Said she’d come later into the evening when the club was busiest.”

If this were anyone else, Natasha would say something sarcastic, mocking the person for hiding in the sea of hot, sweaty bodies (not that it would work, Kate’s team of bodyguards are exceptionally well-trained in the art of track and trace.). But they’re not talking about just anyone, and although Natasha isn’t afraid of her…it’s just best not to invite the devil to your dinner table. “Makes sense. You know how they are.”

“Speaking of which,” Kate leans over and unhooks your collar, a sign you can lay down and rest for a little bit. “Don’t want her all worn out before our special guest arrives.”

Natasha says nothing. She’s pushed her luck enough.

“But yes, I’m intimately familiar. When they shave your head after kidnapping you and do it poorly, you tend to remember their cruelty.”

She wrinkles her nose at the memory – including the number of wigs she had to buy once she was safely returned. She was young when it happened, and her hair had long grown out since then, but her skin still remembers the itch of the growing stubble atop her head.

“Anyway, you know what I need from you,” Kate shakes her head to push the experience back deep into the recesses of her mind. “Everyone is hands-on, everyone tracks her. I don’t want a single person entering or exiting this club without us knowing any affiliations.”

It’s not as if Natasha knows the protocol – she was the one who developed it after an unfortunate incident with a Bratva a few years back – but she nods along as if it’s the first time she’s heard it. It’s easier that way.

As she goes to leave, Kate stops her – a wave of emotion cracking through her harsh façade for just a moment, before her steeled brow resets itself into its regular position. “Keep her safe. I can’t lose her again.”

The redhead just nods once, silently, before going back to the security wing with the rest of the team. Even underground, she can faintly hear the deep bass of a particularly rancid EDM remix, but mostly the only noises are the sounds of tactical gear clacking against itself. Loopholes in a military overstock program meant police departments were willing to exchange gear for cash with nonsequential serial numbers, and Natasha was always the first in line when silent auctions went live. It’s what she liked, it’s what she was good at: protecting, watching, strategizing.

She liked Kate trusted her enough to give her as much freedom as she does. That’s where she saw other mobsters fall—egos too big it couldn’t fit inside of them, imploding the whole organization from the inside out in a single generation. Natasha didn’t want to a freelancer anymore—the money was good, but stability had become more important in recent years. Maybe she’d gone soft, maybe she’d just gotten older. Either way, looking at the vast away of screens that covered every inch of the club and its perimeter…she felt truly at home.

Back in Kate’s office, you lay in your dog bed while your owner smokes a cigarette. It’s not something she does frequently—she’s a busy woman, she doesn’t have time to press pause every hour to hunch outside. Plus, she hates smoking with other people. She quit for the reason most people refuse to: the social aspect proved a worse taste in her mouth than the nicotine. Even the e-cigarette people didn’t find themselves outside, instead blowing fruit-smelling air into whatever closed space they felt entitled to.

Whatever, she sighs, putting it out in an ashtray that looks suspiciously similar to your pussy. I’ve got more important things to think about anyway.

Kate sees the suit first – a muted orange with fantastical patterns woven into the fabric, reminiscent of tapestries she remembers from a museum visit from a job farther down the East Coast. The thread glimmers in the light, a subtle way to signal her importance. Heeled boots thump against the tile as she walks, her loose, bouncy blonde hair framing her face. Unlike most of the people in the club tonight, she’s perfectly relaxed. It’s as if she’s sitting down at a family restaurant she’s been to a million times before, confidence in her step you’re not used to seeing.

“Yelena,” she says, gesturing to the seat where – just last night – Kate fingered you until you squirted all over the floor. She made you clean it, but your face still heats at the thought of her sitting there. “Come, sit. I will have my assistant pour us a drink, if you’d like.”

Assistant. Its double meaning hanging in the air like a dark, ominous cloud.

Yelena looks you up and down, eyes raking over your form as if you were a painting she was attempting to commit to memory. Her eyes seem to see not through you, but all of you – flesh and bone and sinew. You’re not sure what to make of her heavy gaze, the way she stops every few inches for just a moment before continuing. People watch you, stare at you, all the time – some shocked, some less so. She doesn’t look at you the way they do, like a starved animal seeing its keeper dangle fresh carnage outside of its cage. Rather, she’s a fully fed bear, fat and happy as it revels in its hunting ability. She knows she doesn’t need to kill, doesn’t need the destruction or chaos or unspeakable violence; but she can. She very easily can. And that’s all that matters to her, and her prey.

You’re wearing a gag – that part isn’t new (she’s not some sniveling virgin) – but what surprises Yelena ever so slightly is that it’s shaped like a dog bone. Drool pools at the side of your mouth, dripping down your chest and covering you in your own spit. All you can do, though, is look up at her with wide, empty eyes.

That is, until you remember your manners and turn your gaze downward.

“I don’t intend to stay long,” she says. It’s not meant to be sarcastic or clipping. It is what it is. Still, as she looks you over once more, a small smile curls at her lips. “Bishop-“

“Kate, please,” the brunette insists. “We have enough history to be past that formality, don’t we?”

Yelena doesn’t correct herself, continuing to stare at you. Her gaze is so intense you can feel it without looking back, small fires igniting down your spine under it. “I see you found a way to occupy your time since we last spoke.”

You wish you could see her, but all you can do is stare at the floor while the tension in the room builds in the way one expects the crash of a tsunami. Kate keeps much of her time in the Eastern Bloc a secret lost to time, but you’re not that much of an idiot to understand what silence means in these spaces.

Kate gives a tense smile, stepping to give Yelena some space. You’re not sure if the guest is asking for it, or if Kate needs it to cool down. “Sit, please. We’ve got much to discuss.”

It’s hard to track the movements of their feet through sound, but the slight scrape of the chair legs against the hardwood floor is too distinctive to ignore.

Kate tries to ease them back to the intended conversation, the experienced gears in her mind turning as fast as they can. “As I told Melina, your ports would be an incredibly valuable asset to us, and-“

“What are you offering me?” Her accent is thick, her tone straightforward. It’s one of the things Kate likes most about working with Russians – they don’t dance around the issue, they don’t fuck around, they don’t ask her to read between the lines. They say what they want to say without preamble or metaphor. Life is easier when you know what kind of target you’re shooting at. “You want access to several multibillion-dollar ports for what, the shithole Jersey has to offer?”

Kate narrows her eyes. “Underestimating your enemies seems to be a thing with your people, isn’t it?”

Yelena just laughs. It’s a dry, husky sound, and you do poorly at dampening the flutter in your chest. “Governments are very temporary where I’m from. No sense in vesting yourself in something that can’t touch you in a country so big.”

Both women pause. In the distance (or maybe right next to you), you hear waves crashing ashore—the sound of car alarms and windows breaking and people screaming. It’s here. It’s here and you are stuck in the middle of it.

“What do you want?” Kate remains outwardly calm, combing through her knowledge of the other woman to try and find some middle ground. It’s true – dock access benefits her much more than her Eastern counterpart. But she’s made people agree to a lot more for a lot less.

The woman across from her hmms, but stays silent otherwise. It’s that heavy, weighted silence; the kind that begs for another party to ask a question, lower their offer, barter for less. It’s an anvil that hangs over the both of them, swinging as they work against each other to determine where it will fall.

“Sign this deal, give me access to the ports, and if all goes well I’ll let you stay a week with my puppy over here,” Kate says plainly. Your head shoots up and your eyes widen when you realize what she’s saying, that she’s offering you up as bait for this deal. The bait part isn’t so surprising, you’ve been used as a carrot much more than you’ve been used as a stick. What causes your heart to stop is how sincere she sounds. Kate’s poker face is akin to a brick wall (maybe concrete – a brick wall has too many imperfections to be compared to your owner), but you’ve known her long enough to know how her tone wavers just a little when she’s lying. You hear nothing, no notes skipped or rests added. Just a sincere, long melody that rings throughout the room in a minor key.

It’s not as though Yelena isn’t gorgeous – with her plush lips, soft face, and eyes lined with dusty eyeshadow. She has this relaxed air about her that screams “I know exactly what I’m capable of, and you do, too.” And if your relationship with Kate is any indicator, you’re very attracted to that energy. Still, a pretty unknown is still an unknown…and you’re worried your recently lost seniority with Kate could have devastating consequences.

“I can give you money, drugs, equipment, girls,” Kate tells her. “But you said you willing to come and talk, so I’m assuming you didn’t come here just to-“

“No,” Yelena cuts her off. Fucking bold ass Russians, Kate thinks. You’d think they’d at least let you finish “I want to take the puppy out on a nice dinner, a little…what is it you Americans call it?” She smiles, laughing to herself just a little. “Dine and wine?”

Kate doesn’t correct her.

“Whatever it’s called, I want to do it to the pet. One night, including dinner. That’s what I want in exchange for giving you dock access.”

Kate clenches her jaw just a little. You don’t notice, head perking up at all the attention on you. It’s nice to not be a little toy on a shelf sometimes, everyone staring at you but no one touching. Having merely the focus of one person is a nice change, especially in a restaurant as fancy as you presume Yelena frequents. Perfectly literate in poverty, you can tell this woman and Kate fall in the same tax bracket (if they paid their taxes accurately).

They work out the details on their own, details far above what you’re able to hold in your own brain. All you care about now is what happens next, your body thrumming with excitement. If you’ve gotten the attention of this woman, you’re curious of what others would do for you.

Kate cuts up pieces of the food to feed to you from her own fork, pausing every so often to take a bite of her own. It’s awkward, sitting there just out of view but so exposed, hands bound in front of you as you’re denied the chance to feed yourself.

Sharon blinks, face blank. “Must we do this now, boss?”

Kate just smiles, watching as you eagerly swallow the spoonful of mashed potatoes. Ever since your return, she’d had her chef prepare comfort food she knew you’d missed while you were on the run – macaroni and cheese, pot pie, chicken noodle soup, decadent desserts. Watching pleasure wash over your face with every bite was worth denying you all those months. It’s something Kate’s had to learn intimately; how torturous waiting is. Still, she knows she—and you—are better off with abundance of patience.

“This is the only time I have available to speak on this matter,” she doesn’t look away from you as she speaks, her tone light while her words pointed. “We can either discuss this now, or you can wait in three days when the subject in question is back in position.”

The blonde’s jaw sets, her hands balling into fists under the lip of Kate’s massive oak desk. It’s not like she’s some prude, like that one guard who lasted twenty-four hours before begging to be moved to another post. She just knows that, less than four feet away, you’re clad in only soft panties and a large t-shirt that shows off your hardened nipples, collar jingling with each movement and your hands kept inert. If she had her way, she’d be bending you over and filling your holes with her fingers, laughing as you wept from the pleasure.

She’s not a prude, she’s just really fucking horny and wants to go home so she can watch the most intense porn she can find. Alone. With her vibrator and thruster and noise-canceling headphones and maybe an expensive bottle of Scotch. Or an edible. She doesn’t know, yet – part of the joy for her is sitting with the process and going with whatever sings to her heart the most.

So, Sharon shoves down the memory of your moans, of past promises of letting you loose in Kate’s mansion while Kate’s most trusted within the organization hunt you down like prey. She digs her nails into her palm as a distraction, but all it does is think of them digging into your hips.

“Are you really going to let her do that?”

Kate doesn’t move a muscle, and, for a split second, her blonde counterpart thinks she’s going to crack. Sharon knows what you mean to her, what your return symbolizes. When you decided to leave, Sharon remembers how angry she was, how often Kate came home with bloody knuckles or a split lip from forcing Nat to spar with her. To have you back and then immediately do something she’s never done before with you—letting someone outside their tight-knit group lay any sort of claim on you…it worries her.

But she’s Kate fucking Bishop, she has no flaws, admits no wrong, displays no weaknesses.

“We need several billion dollars, and all we have to do is let our little pet out into the world for the night,” Kate says with a shrug, looking at you with the same critical eye of an art collector. “Seems like a good deal to me.”

“Plus,” she pets the top of your head as you nuzzle into her knee. “Yelena’s not an idiot. She knows we’ll be watching and if anything happens to my prized pet that she’ll meet the end she was promised by the Red Room.”

Sharon nods just a little, trying to imagine how much a nightmare tracking you, the Russian, and the Russian’s own security will be awhile keeping Kate in the loop. She and her team can get it done (not as if they have a choice), but it'll be the definition of a logistical nightmare.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Kate coos to you. You keen under her words, pressing your face into the side of her knee and rubbing your face against the fabric of her jeans. “Daddy will always keep you safe.”

“Kate,” Sharon can’t tamper down the bile that rises in her throat as she imagines a Kate without you once more. “You’re sure?”

She ignores her, instead forcefully grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to face Sharon. You let out a small yelp, which Kate simply ignores.

"Do you want to be a good girl for me?"

You nod, desperately trying to push the fear to the back of your brain. Needless to say, it doesn’t work – you can feel it oozing down your spinal cord and settling into your stomach. You’ll be good – you’ll do anything to be good…but you worry your clammy hands and shaky breath might give you away.

Kate pulls you back so that you’re facing her, forcing a whimper from your throat.

“Then don’t leave that Russian’s side for a single fucking second, you understand?”

You nod as much as you can, eyes wide with fear. You truly have no plans to run again—you’d spent enough time on the streets to know that even if you somehow got away (which, in and of itself, is about as likely as you jumping off a building and flying), there’s nowhere for you to go. You have nothing to your name, nothing to barter or trade for on the streets. Kate is, in all ways, the devil you know. Better her than what waits beyond her scope.

The woman holding you face smiles—not the kind that comforts you, but the kind that has you bracing for what comes next. “Perfect.” She pushes you away as she lets go, patting your cheek hard enough that you’re sure it qualifies as a slap. “I knew you could do it. Now, Sharon, walk me through the security protocols, please.”

Kate’s bedroom in her mansion is technically categorized as a “master bedroom,” but feels close to its own apartment within the house. It’s bigger—much bigger—than the home you grew up in, certainly larger than anywhere you found to sleep while away from her. She’s got a large vintage wardrobe that’s been fitted with the favorites of her toy collection, a huge bathroom with a tub large enough for three people, and a small kitchenette.

You have your own walk-in closet, too, not that you really use it. On occasion, you’re arm candy to a fancy dinner or meeting, or you need to catch the eye of a target to leave them vulnerable. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of clothes hang, sadly, mostly unused, as you clap (yes, clap, Kate is not one to spare any expense, especially when it comes to you) the lights on.

You wish you had been given some sort of dress code; you’re not really used to dressing yourself. Truthfully, you’re not used to making any decision on your own, and now that everything rests on you… you’re terrified of messing it up.

It takes what feels like hours, but soon you’ve got three options. A vintage satin wrap dress that hugs your figure but gives you room to breathe, a strappy emerald green floor-length gown with a visible slit that parts every time you walk, and a plush pink sun dress that barely hits your knees but whose sleeves and straight neckline give the illusion of modesty.

In the end, paired with black stilettos and diamond jewelry you’re nearly completely sure was stolen from the Met, you choose the wrap dress. You’re not sure what Russian mobsters like, but you think it’s a safe bet that they enjoy plunging necklines, a high, hidden slit, and perfectly winged eyeliner.

(Or, at least you hope so.)

The car Yelena said would come at eight comes right as the clock ticks into the hour, one of Kate’s servants alerting you to its presence as it pulls into the winding driveway. It’s empty, save the driver, who attempts to neither greet you nor converse with you. He opens the door for you and helps you over the curb, certainly, but the car ride there is completely silent.

Wherever you go, someone seems to be right at your side. The driver escorts you into the restaurant, and the hostess walks you to the far back, where Yelena is already sitting at a perfectly set table in a private room.

“Sit,” she says, pouring champagne into shiny fancy glasses. “We have much to discuss.”

You do as you’re told, taking a champagne flute from her. Initially, you’d hope the alcohol would calm your nerves. Now, you’re settling for it warming your skin.

“It’s nice to have you alone, маленький щенок. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your face heats—you know your existence is the elephant in the room in many meetings with Kate, but having people know you when you don’t know them has never gotten less strange. Still, your lightweight nature begins to mask itself as bravery as you down the rest of the bubbly liquid. “Anything in particular?”

Apparently, the champagne, while calming your nerves, also dulled your inhibitions.

Yelena, to her credit, just laughs. Like her voice, it’s deep and raspy and goes straight to your center.

“Just that you are a very, very good girl who would do anything for her beloved owner.”

Her energy is electric, enigmatic. This must be what Eve felt like in the garden, with the snake swirling around her in its impossible size. Truthfully, you’d bite into anything Yelena asked you to, if she did it in the same way she asked the waiter for a booth in the corner or how she requested a more “balanced” selection of wine from the sommelier. She even lets you order for yourself, something Kate has never let you do.

It’s interesting to see the differences between the two of them.

As you watch Yelena cut a thin bite of bloodied steak, though, you realize how similar they really are. Yelena, like a knife with an intricately carved handle, and Kate, like a baseball bat with blood in its grooves, may not be mirror images of each other. It is easy to imagine, though, the both of them, side by side, waiting for their turn to torture someone who had wronged them in some way. Danger, regardless of its form, settles its heated self into your lower abdomen.

The conversation is light, flirty. It reminds you of a first date, the kind you went on before Kate domesticated you. You feel…warm, the light of her gaze. It’s hazy, too, the way a fire is in the wee hours of the morning. You feel that same sort of flush, that sort of vulnerability that only reveals itself in the hours before the birds start to sing. It feels both like decades and like seconds before you’re splitting a cherry crème brule and Yelena is sliding the waiter her black card. She holds you close to her with her arm around your waist, her thumb drawing small circles even as the directs you into a black car with the same driver as before. The ride is a daze, her hands dancing over your skin in complete silence.

She guides you into your destination—a hotel—in the same manner, the doorman pointedly making an effort to keep you from his eyeline.

The name of the place doesn’t register until you’re stepping into the lobby, a hand on your waist guiding you to an elevator hidden off to the side. Of course – this is the expensive hotel Kate gets rooms in sometimes to house guests she wants to keep an eye on. Yelena booked her own accommodation, and you doubt Kate needs as much retcon on Yelena as she does for a normal client, but what really causes your breath to hitch in your throat is the cost. A week here is more than most people make in a year, and you know she’s staying for two.

“You’ve been here before?” she asks as she hits on the buttons closer to the top row. The penthouses, you recognize.

“A few times,” you answer honestly. “But never for more than a night or two.”

The room Yelena’s staying in looks exactly like yours did all those years back—modern, tastefully decorated, almost too neat. You don’t have much time to look around, though, before Yelena’s got you pushed against one of the walls while presses her lips to yours. She doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to—simply bunches your dress in her hands to pull it off you.

It falls to the floor in the same way you think Marie Antoinette’s head did – smoothly, and with silent, eager onlookers watching as it finds its place on the ground.

You expect, or at least hope, there was more fanfare, more witnesses to her destruction. All this dress is getting, as you step out of it and deep into Yelena’s arms, is one woman’s lust. It’s easy to see, though, how anything the Russian does would overpower a crowd of thousands; in the same way her silence screams louder than an army, the way she tugs her bottom lip between her bright teeth says more than anything anyone else could tell you about her.

Her hand rests over your clothed pussy, skimming over the soft skin there. “What a good girl you are.”

You can feel the heat rise to your cheeks and over your chest. You wonder if this is what being burned alive would be like—the light tinging the border of your vision and painful heat quickly turning into pleasure.

“I like them well trained,” she murmurs into your skin. All you can do is grab at her shoulders, holding her close. If Kate said it was okay…

“I’m a busy, busy woman, little puppy,” Yelena peppers small kisses across the base of your throat, her soft, plush lips sending shockwaves through your body. “I don’t have the time to break the brats my…colleagues seem to enjoy so much. But you…you’d do whatever I’d ask you to, wouldn’t you?”

If the room was on fire, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to tell until the roof caved in. Heat licks at your abdomen, sparks flying across your center as you cross your legs in an attempt to dampen the flames. It, needless to say, doesn’t work at all.

“Oh, puppy,” Yelena grins as the hand begins to ghost over your tummy. “No, don’t do that. Don’t hide from pleasure, my darling.”

Your mouth feels drier than a desert as you meet her heavy gaze, her eyes lined with artfully smudged black shadow. She’s stunning, there’s no way around that (not that you want to avoid it); but, truthfully, you’re also not so sure what she sees in you. It’s easy to forget your insecurities, though, when one hand is suddenly moving south and pushing your carefully curated panties to the side.

Her hands remind you of the rest of her—rough, skilled, no-nonsense. She teases you for a moment, ghosting her fingertips over your desperate cunt. You want her, you want her more than a man dying of dehydration craves an endless freshwater ocean. She knows it, too, watches through dark lashes as you pant and chase her lips when she pulls back.

It's only when you begin to whine that she slides her fingers into your dripping pussy, a moan passing her own lips the same as yours. “Oh щенок, you’re wet after just a little kissing, huh? You like it when I touch you there?”

You swallow the frog in your throat, trying to find a way to defend yourself. The choosing you, the conversation in the restaurant, the touches in the car…but your protests die in your chest as her other hand moves to your throat.

“Gotta hold you in place, щенок,” she murmurs. “Can’t have you running away, can I?”

She finds that special spot inside of you easily, like a scent hound to the hideout of a family of foxes. You can hear the beats of horses’ hooves in just under your ribcage, their owners hollering at the chance to hunt properly.

“I-“ You gasp, trying to find purchase against the wall. When the concrete doesn’t make way for your fingers, your find yourself digging them into her suit. “I-“

"Come on, baby, be good for me,” Yelena purrs. It’s sweet, sincere…but you also can’t imagine how fake it’d have to be for you to not feel a trembling in your knees. She could be a snake oil salesman, and you a harlot hypochondriac with money burning a hole in your purse, and you’re sure you would do whatever she asked. “Give me what I want.”

And so, you do – exploding from the inside out like dynamite inside a coal mine. It’s hard for you to keep yourself upright, and you find yourself leaning on Yelena entirely. She catches you, keeps you upright enough so you can catch your breath.

“I know, baby,” Yelena purrs, rubbing her thumb against the fabric of your dress. “I know, it’s okay.”

She holds you to her, gives you a moment to find your proverbial footing as the pleasure settles into the base of your spine, your knees no longer struggling to hold your weight. You pull back, leaning on the wall as her arms cage you in.

“What a pretty girl you are,” she says quietly, as if she’s merely confirming to herself that her assumptions were correct.

Your heart—the stupid, fluttering thing—thumps against your ribs as you reach for her belt.

Yelena lets you do as you please, finding your lips as your hand finds the toy placed just for you. “Mm,” she moves to nip at your neck as you spit on her cock, your hand finding purchase on the carefully molded silicone. “So good, too. I’ve heard a lot of rumors, щенок. It’s good to know so many of them are true.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and chest. You’re not sure what to say, or do. Even if you did, all of your focus is concentrated on releasing what you want from their confines. Yelena doesn’t stop you, but doesn’t help either. All she does is push you to your knees, one hand on the top of your head while the other guides the toy to your lips. You’ve done this thousands of times with Kate, with her own strong hands at the top of your head.

This is different, though, with Yelena. Different in the way swimming in an ocean is different than swimming in a lake; in the same way sexting through text is different than through a phone call. It’s indescribable but perfect, and you can feel yourself dripping as you lick up the length of the shaft.

“Look at me, красивая девушка,” Yelena murmurs, voice low as if to not startle you. She moans as you meet her heavy gaze, the corners of your eyes watering as you slowly swallow her cock. “Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

You’d smile if your lips weren’t so thoroughly occupied, the praise hitting you at every angle. The warmth prods at you, urging you on, with the world shrinking until it was only the two of you and no one else. There was nothing, no one, who could break the focus of you on Yelena, and vice versa.

It's easy, with her hands on the top of your head and endless sweet nothings tumbling from her lips, to swallow her down until your nose was pressed against her pubic bone. She’s got a tuft of light brown hair on her lower tummy, a happy trail you’re eager to nuzzle into when you’re not pre-occupied with her cock.

“Gorgeous,” Yelena whispers, seemingly more to herself than to you.

Funny enough, looking up at her, you’re thinking the same thing.

She swipes her thumb over your cheek, following the outline the silicone makes in the muscle. “Absolutely fucking gorgeous, милый.”

Her praise spurs you on, pushes you to force yourself further and further down until you can feel tears forming at the corner of your eyes and your lungs fighting for air. Yelena just watches you, eyes full of awe and one hand at the back of your head, as you pull back and sputter for air before licking up the shaft once more.

“Enough of this,” she says gruffly, suddenly, grabbing you and throwing you over her shoulder before you can so much as squeak. You’re tossed on the bed much in the same fashion, her hands unzipping your dress and tossing your panties aside as Yelena kisses you. She’s rough, passionate, moving you without pretense until she’s on her back, your core hovering over her face. “Now this,” she moves her head enough to kiss as your empty, waiting cunt. “This is what I’ve been looking forward to since I saw you the first time.”

You want to question her—ask her how she knows about you, how she saw you when Kate keeps you under such close supervision. The curiosity dies as she grabs reaches under your legs to grab your hips and seats you atop her, her lips and tongue moving in tandem. It’s hard to keep yourself from rocking against her, and so you don’t. You grind against her tongue, your hands finding hers to help with her balance. You cum easily, quickly, shaking against her as she moans into your pussy. As the pleasure subsides you push yourself away ever so slightly, seating yourself against her chest. Both of you catch your breaths, the shared panting the only sound in the otherwise quiet hotel room.

When you’re finally able to look down, to see her blissed-out face covered in your juices, you’re mesmerized.

Yelena just smiles up at you, eyes half closed. “черт возьми, you’re amazing. Give me a second, and we can do it again.”

The next morning, Yelena drives you herself, waving away the driver who passes her the keys despite his concerned look. She opens the passenger door for you and closes it once you’re fully inside, getting into the driver’s seat after that. As she drives off, silence settles over the two of you. It’s hard to make small talk in your situation, and so you wait for her to say something first.

Luckily, she does.

“You could come with me, you know.”

You don’t meet her gaze, if she’s even looking at you. All you can do is stare out the car window and watch as the world passes by.

“Americans have nothing on us,” Yelena continues. You wonder if she notices your hands balling into fists. “I could keep you safe, if you wanted to run. It’d be very easy to convince my own people to love you the way Kate’s people do.”

The car stops—a red light, hopefully—and her hand caresses your cheek. “Look at me, щенок. Please.”

And so, you do. Apparently, you’re very easily persuaded.

“Not sure if Kate has told you, but you’re quite the talk of the underground.” Heat rises on your cheeks, the horrors of being known pricking at your skin like needles. “Like some kind of cat tossed out the back. Many people were following your path, щенок. Many people were following Kate’s path as well.”

“W-“ you stop for a second as her thumb rubs at your bottom lip, the lip she was nipping not-so-long ago. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you are a trophy,” she murmurs, eyes flitting from your lips to your eyes to your heaving chest. “You deserve to be treated like one. And I’ve got a special place for you with me, if you want it.”

Yelena lets you look away from her as the light turns green, the world once again shirking its responsibility to be a quality distraction. The car goes too fast for that, and so you are stuck rolling her words over in your brain.

“I can’t,” you say when the club comes into view. “I just can’t.”

The blonde next to you sighs quiet enough that you barely hear it. She nods to the valet—some scrawny kid you’ve seen once or twice. Where your hands rest in your lap, you feel Yelena’s own sliding between your fingers and depositing a simple business card. On it is just a number, the characters a stark black against the thick eggshell paper.

“Maybe one day I’ll see you again, щенок,” she whispers into your ear. “Tell your владелец she can use the docks whenever she’d like.”

You don’t speak Russian, but it’s easy to tell who she’s talking about.

“Thank you,” is all you can say back, eyes wide and waiting. You worry there’s some catch, a bit of rope you forgot to step over that will make you hit the concrete face-first.

But you remain upright, familiar faces ushering you through. It’s still early in the day, which is something you’re grateful for. You don’t need to deal with the prying eyes of patrons on top of the pity from the workers who are mopping the floors and cleaning glasses. You pass a few of Natasha’s lower guards in the narrow, dim hallways—all of them staring at you as though you were a cow being sent to slaughter. They’ll feast on you someday (both of you know it), but you still can’t make yourself do anything but stare at the floor.

Kate shows no emotion as you step into the office, her face expertly wiped of emotion. Natasha, standing guard at the door, seems relieved. She and her guardswomen have always been a sort of Greek chorus, their reactions slipping through the cracks in their facades every so often. It makes their earlier expressions far more sinister.

“Go lay down, puppy,” Kate says without looking at you. “Daddy’s got some work to finish.”

You do as you’re told, taking your shoes off before sliding onto the dog bed. As soon as your skin hits the fabric you can tell it’s been cleaned – the blanket on top of it, too. It’s still warm from the dryer, smelling distinctly of the lavender dryer sheets she buys in bulk. The bed at the hotel was too big, uncomfortable in its never-ending borders. This feels closer to home, and you lose consciousness to the sound of Kate’s keyboard clicking and opera music playing softly from her desktop.

Hours later, you lift your head when you hear her desk light being turned off, the familiar click a moment of respite from the harrowing silence of the office.

She smiles – a small smile, but a smile nonetheless – when she sees you perk up.

Home? You ask silently, looking at her with wide, pleading eyes.

Home, she tells you through a silent nod.

You tamper your excitement enough to follow her calmly, her arm wrapped possessively around your waist as you exit. The club hums with the pre-opening anticipation, and your own eagerness mixes with the electricity in the air.

The ride home is silent, Kate looking more at her phone than you. She does, though, keep one hand on your thigh, and for that, you are ecstatic.

Once home, Kate grabs one of the collars and leash sets that hang inside a custom end table, a bowl of car keys on top hiding its true function. You drop to your knees without further prompting. It’s hard to fight the moan that bubbles at the familiar clicking sound, and so you don’t.

It makes your owner smile, and you preen under the attention. The hand not holding the leash cups your jaw as you, too, grin with her.

“Such a good puppy,” Kate purrs, looking you over for signs Yelena had failed Kate’s commands.

“If I see a single mark on her, I will kill you,” she’d simply said.

The Russian just laughed. “Going to be hard, Катя. How about just the neck?

Kate hmms, thinking about it. She certainly doesn’t need Yelena to pull out of this deal for something as simple as a few hickeys. “Fine. Anything below the collarbone is fair game.”

“Be careful what you wish for, baby.”

You do not heed her warning—you don’t need to. You’ve known Kate long enough to know exactly what you’re getting into.

“Come on, pup,” she says, standing up straighter as begins to walk towards her personal wing of her house. Just as she trained you, you stand and follow right behind her, eyes focused on the floor. You miss crawling, but know Kate likes to keep your favorites for when she’s really rewarding you. When you’ve proved you deserve it.

As you follow her, you pass a room that’s hidden from view - the door closed to warn the eyes from unwanted, unexpected visitors. Inside rests the larger pieces from Kate’s sexual collection - the full cage, the St. Andrew’s Cross, the coffee table with rivets made for rope. All custom-made to her specifications (and your body measurements).

It surprises you, just a little, when she doesn’t lead you directly to there. Kate has always preferred grand gestures to smaller ones, and that preference doesn’t end when she steps into the bedroom. Once, after receiving news a rival of hers was finally killed by another, second rival, she tied you to the bed and edged you for six hours. She set a timer and everything, telling you it was “an hour for each bullet in his skull.”

You swallow your shock, following her diligently throughout her large mansion. You like Kate’s predictability – even when it’s paired with brutality. This change…you’re almost worried, even as excited and the last thrums of your previous orgasms rush through your blood.

It all melts away, though, when you feel Kate come up behind you, kissing at your neck. She pushes you towards the bedroom—the shared bedroom—the one with the bed you’re rarely allowed to sleep in. This is her version of affection, her language of love. She would never say it, never out loud, but it still makes your heart flutter.

“Good puppy,” she moans as she pushes you against the doorframe, kissing you fiercely. “Such a good fucking puppy for Daddy.”

One of her hands snakes between you, cupping your heated mound. It’s still sore from last night, but that certainly has never stopped her before.

“You’re so beautiful, too,” she murmurs breathlessly. “My gorgeous ray of fuckin’ sunshine.”

The beating in your heart travels south, Kate’s hands roaming over your hips and ass and thighs as she kisses you breathless. It’s easy for her to push your dress up, exposing you to the cool air. Kate laughs, staring at where your very expensive panties were no longer present. “She took ‘em, huh?”

You swallow, not sure what to say. In truth, you hadn’t even thought to look for them—Kate usually makes you go without.

She just laughs, going back to caressing your ass. “Can’t even blame her, I would’ve done the same thing if I had the chance.” She moans as her fingers sink into you. They’re not too deep, but that doesn’t do much to mitigate the stretch. “Fucked a lot of good pussy when you left me, but not a single one matches up to this cunt right here.”

You yelp as she slaps your clit, moans replacing the sharp sound as she circles it slowly. It’s easy to love her when she’s the one taking the pain away, even if she’s the one who caused it in the first place.

Without panties, her fingers slide in easily – your wetness already pooling under you. Your pussy is sore, but it only adds to the pleasure that spreads in your abdomen. It’s the kind of soreness you can feel everywhere—your shoulders, your thighs, your stomach, your arms. It feels good to be a well-loved toy, you think. It feels good to be used, to be useful.

“So wet already?” Kate purrs, a humiliating laugh tinging her words. “I bet I could get my dick now and I’d be able to fuck you exactly how I want to.”

You moan—you can’t help it—biting at your bottom lip.

“You want me to fuck you, puppy?” she asks, smiling as you nod feverishly. “Good girl. Strip, then go wait for me on the bed. Hands and knees, puppy.”

You scramble to take your clothes off and find your place as soon as she lets you go, almost tripping over your own feet in your frenzied desire to follow her orders. The bed, luckily, has already been made, providing you with a wide landscape in which to stake your claim.

Kate appears behind you, it seems, seconds later. The elaborate strap she’s chosen is gorgeous—all woven leather and silver hardware. She has a plethora of harnesses at varying levels of similar and dissimilar to the one she’s wearing, certainly, but after she wore it when she made you squirt for the first time…this one had remained her favorite.

You shiver, just a little, when you feel her hands running over your hips. Kate guides you, silently, closer to her. The silicone brushes against your bare core ever so lightly, sending another wave of desire through you.

“So wet,” she murmurs, her fingers everywhere except exactly where you want them. You’re about to whine, to cry, to beg, to do something to convince how desperately you want her, but before you can even open your mouth, you can feel the head of the toy slip inside of you.

“Oh,” you moan, barely fighting the urge to collapse into the bed, to let her use you like a toy. You know, though, that she likes to be the one to choose your position—if she wanted you with your face pressed into the sheets, she’s put you there with a hand between your shoulders. “Oh, please.”

“You’ve been a good little girl,” Kate muses. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the slew of pleads desperate to spill from your lips. “And well-behaved puppies deserve rewards, I suppose.”

You don’t have time to breath before she’s slamming into you, the toy fully sheathed as Kate pins you to the bed.

“Tell me who you belong to,” she hisses, the strap stretching your cunt. Unlike Yelena’s, this one is smooth, ridgeless, with a bulbous head that ends in a cone shape. It hits that spot inside of you with the kind of delicious pain Kate is so well known for—your cries interrupting her commands. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You can’t speak—you simply can’t. Your fingers grasp at the silk bedsheets, desperately wishing you had claws so you could hook them into the $15,000 fabric and tear them into shreds. Like a werewolf stuck in the middle of its transformation, the rabidness racing in your blood feels too much for your mortal flesh to bear.

And yet, Kate pushes.

“Say it,” she growls, barring her teeth as she thrusts into you.

“I-I,” There’s no way, no way you’ll be able to choke those words out, choke any words out – everything you want to say is lodged in your throat, stuck there like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. You thrash in the same way, knowing your fate but fighting against it anyway. What was that guy’s name? Sisyphus? He had it easy, rolling that boulder up that hill. At least he wasn’t getting his cock teased while it happened.

Or maybe he was…you couldn’t remember much of your early college English classes as a fire raged inside of you.

“It belongs- oh!,” you moan as Kate bottoms out, the leather of her harness pressing against the inside of your thighs. “It belongs to you.”

“That’s fucking right,” she moans, deep in her chest, as she fucks into you with purpose. “You’re mine, all fucking mine and no one else’s.”

Your cries punctuate her proclamations, hiccups and moans layered over her words.

“I don’t care how many other people touch you,” Kate tells you, ignoring you as your howls of pleasure. “I don’t care if every fucking night you’re at the center of some orgy. You’re mine. Not Natasha’s, or Maria’s, or even fucking Carol-“

You’re wailing now, sure the soundproof walls have disintegrated and are thin as paper—pieces of which flap against your sound waves. Kate, in her unwavering desire to ruin you for eternity, keeps going.

“And certainly not some goddamn Russian who doesn’t know when to stop fucking pushing.”

“N-no!” All you can do is wail, clutching to her so hard you’re sure there will be red marks down her back come morning. Kate won’t mind, though. She also likes a bit of pain to remind her of her own mortality.

“Good fucking puppy,” she whispers, panting into your ear. “Took a stray dog in from the street, gave it a collar. Look at it now, huh?” You can hear the smile on her lips—the kind hunters have when their prey whimpers below them. Kate could set a thousand traps, catch you a thousand times, and she’d still have that delicious grin plastered over her face. It makes you feel small, vulnerable, like a rabbit caught in a snare. You love it.

“Such a good fucking mutt,” she moans. “Good fucking mutt who takes my cock so well.”

It’s easy to come, then, already sensitive and desperate and so deeply happy to be back with he woman you love the most.

“Yes, puppy,” she moans. “Give it to me.”

And so, you do, over and over again. Kate continues fucking you, even as you begin to shake from the overstimulation. The world shrinks to just the two of you, Kate panting in your ear and you swimming in pleasure. There is no one, there isn’t a need for anyone, to exist outside of you and her.

You’re not sure when it ends. Like an ocean in high tide, you can only wait for her to recede and grant you peace under her thick duvets. She wipes you down with warm, fluffy towels with Puppy embroidered onto them, cleaning your slick and the dried lube from your center and inner thighs. When you gasp at the feeling of the cloth against your sensitive skin, to which Kate just coos and peppers kisses against your sweaty temple.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispers. “Go to sleep. I know you’re tired.”

Always the best at following directions, you allow unconsciousness to overtake you.

You wake up hours later, the darkness outside giving you no clues to the time. Your whole body is the kind of sore you haven’t experienced in years, the kind that reminds you of when your college roommate freshman year convinced you to run a 5K with her.

Kate sits beside you on the bed, reading some hardcover book about something or other. She likes older books, the boring kind you’d expect a dad to be reading in an old armchair.

It’s easier to deal with her when she’s satiated; when a deal’s gone well, or her product sold for more than she expected. She’s got a quicker step, and holds one hand in her pants’ front pocket as she smirks.

You’re not always the first thing she concerns herself with after her days go perfectly. She wants to brag—to soak in the euphoria of hard work done well with the people who benefit the most from her dealmaking.

But now, as she pushes sweaty hair from your face and smiles softly…it feels good. It feels right.

“How are you feeling, puppy?”

You blink, trying to clear the sleep from your vision. “M good, I think.”

Kate hmms. “Need anything?”

It’s only then you realize how dry your mouth is. “Water, maybe?”

She grabs it for you without question, reaching into the mini fridge hidden inside a less garish nightstand. She waits, patiently, until you’ve downed the whole bottle, before she speaks again.

“Now,” you can hear how out of breath Kate is, as though her restraint in not asking immediately after you’d woken up had driven her to the brink of madness. “Tell me everything she told you. I want every. Last. Detail. And I’ll reward you in ways you can’t currently comprehend.”

You’re not sure what to say at first, the fear of triggering Kate’s possessiveness is always a looming threat. What does she want to know? That you sat on her face? That she likes red wine? That her Russian accent thickens when she’s fucking?

Kate grabs your chin and forces you to meet her gaze, her eyes narrowed in determination. “Don’t think, puppy. Just tell me everything that happened in the order it happened. This sort of arrangement could change some things, could make you a much more important asset.”

You blink, still unsure. Kate’s eyes, though, don’t move from yours.

“Come on, puppy,” she leans down to kiss your forehead. “Tell Daddy what happened, and I can make you a very happy pup.”

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