Greater Siberia—49 years ago.
"mm," Ophelia Sarkissian, the Viper, Madame Hydra, Lady Russia, and Mistress of Moscow hummed when she raised her pearl jade eyes to see the Asset, painted with gore, standing in the doorway to her study. "You're home, moy pitomets."
After being stripped of weapons that would never truly belong to him and unloaded from the van, the Asset had been escorted inside her lavish country mansion, hunkered down in the snowy hills of Caucasas, by an armed triple. The sight of her flooded him with belonging, and the something sinister ever lurking uncoiled a little.
Mistress mine.
It had been precisely three weeks, sixteen hours, fifty one minutes and five seconds since he had seen her last. Everything ached. While he desperately yearned to go to her, he knew better than to make a move without her permission.
"Tak zhe, kak lyuboy khoroshiy sobakoy~. You've done so well." She tossed a file aside and stood, snakeskin boots brimming above her knees.
"I'm so sorry for the mess, Madame," one of the STRIKE members babbled, breath labored. The Asset despised the scent of his sweat. The man cradled his left arm. Several of his fingers stuck out crookedly. "We tried to take them from it, but it wouldn't fork them over."
The Asset's arm recalibrated with the fresh wave of rage in his nerves, tightening his grasp on the sacks he held. Thoroughly saturated, red puddled on the glossy marble beneath them.
Mistress smiled. "Yest' te, dlya menya?" she asked, eyeing the three sacks, bulging and bloody, hanging from his hand.
He nodded. Yes, they were for her. Only her.
She zeroed in on the young STRIKE member, exuding all the kindness of the bloodthirsty shark. "Him, you idiot. Not it."
But only with her. To all else, the Asset had no gendered pronoun. Only to her.
"And of course he didn't. I told him to bring the organs to me. Didn't I, pet?"
The Asset nodded affirmation stiffly, his heart rate accelerating.
Mistress chuckled indulgently and withdrew the sacks from his possession. The Asset relinquished them without question, much to the apparent resentment of the wounded man. Then, lacking all tenderness, she thrust the sacks into the STRIKE member's mangled arms.
The Asset listened to the man wheeze in pain. The Asset liked that sound.
"You're new here," Mistress hissed to the STRIKE member. "And I suppose you've learned your lesson," she mumbled, sharp eyes flickering to his injury. "This—" With a flourish of her hand, she placed her palm on the Asset's leather plated chest. He surrendered with a shudder and a growl of a groan. "Is a creature of instinct. He requires special, delicate handling. It's natural for males to despise other males for competitive reasons, and serve the female. That's why Johan entrusted him to me." Her hand slipped up into his hair.
Dazed from the affection he seldom received-and enormously grateful-the Asset leaned into her fingers as they combed and caressed.
"He's more animal than man. More creature than human kin. And he wouldn't hesitate to kill every last one of you, if I ordered it."
The Asset's focus remained locked on her face. He wouldn't miss a second, no time even in the smallest measurement, to look at her, hoping she would look at him. Typically vacant eyes pleading for approval, he stood as a stone sentry at the threshold.
"Now. Assuming you're not completely incompetent, I want the three of you to deliver these packages to Zola. And collect my payment while you're at it."
"Yes, Madame," Wounded grouched.
The second STRIKE member spoke while the other two turned to leave. "What about i—him?" he asked, indicating the Asset with the butt of his gun.
Mistress smirked. "He's absolutely fine right where he is. I want him with me. Now go." With fluttering fingers painted in forest black, she dismissed them. "I'm tired of looking at you."
Dutifully, the STRIKE team stalked away. The Asset listened to the sounds of their boots grow fainter down the corridor.
Finally, Mistress met his eyes.
"There there, now. You're home. Vy sdelali khorosho dlya menya, moy domashneye zhivotnoye~." Mistress carefully removed the black mask, the muzzle, from his face. "You must be hungry."
Another, more hesitant nod.
"Well." She smiled. "What are you waiting for?" And gestured solicitously to the pool of blood by his boot. "Pitaytes' khorosho."
Pitaytes' khorosho = Eat well. The rest are patronizing little comments and sweet talk. I have no idea what I'm going. I just NEED more of this in my life. Fic idea came from Cherry Bomb, an amazing piece of art on Archive of Our Own.
Yes, I live. Will I be updating my other fics? I have absolutely no idea.