ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏɢʜᴏᴜsᴇ || ʟᴜᴠɪᴀ & ʀᴀᴠᴇ

[Luvia]

❝ 𝒜 𝒹𝑜𝑔 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝓅𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝑜𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 ❞ ​ ─── a roleplay by Luvia and Rave 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 She's a spoiled brat, Daddy's princess, a power-trip in a strapless dress and stilettos. Everywhere she goes, she attracts attention, gained by attitude and family history. The daughter of a high-profile Russian arms dealer, raised in California from childhood, she's chased away every nanny, butler, and bodyguard since she was twelve. Fed up with her antics, her father seeks an answer from the Motherland. Recommended by his oligarchian clientele, a man that can finally do the job flies across the earth for it. It's been a month, and unlike the others, he doesn't yell, he doesn't scream, he doesn't defy her. Yet, more importantly, neither does he yield. She can't walk all over him like she did to all who came before him. He can put her in her place, no matter the tantrum she might throw. He gets her home, even if he has to throw her over his shoulder to do it. Tension boils between them, growing, ebbing, nearly crashing her waves upon his shore. In a last ditch effort, she comes to a conclusion: If he sleeps with his boss' daughter, surely he'll be fired, right? Daddy would never stand for such a thing.​

 

[Luvia]

POLINA VOLKOV twenty-one | daddy's princess | spoiled ❝ 𝒟𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 𝒹ℴℯ𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃ℴ𝓌𝓈 𝒷ℯ𝓈𝓉. ❞​

𝅘𝅥𝅮 now playing : 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓈​ Polina perched on the edge of a plush leather sofa, a little out of breath and a little sweaty. God, dancing was fun. Up on the second floor, her eyes flicked down from one person to the next, taking in the scene beneath her: strobe lights sliced through the haze of smoke and movement, casting jagged shadows across the crowd. The club pulsed with an energy all its own—chaotic, electric, intoxicating. It was as if the very air had been laced with a heady mix of rebellion and power. And she, at the center of it all, reveled in the high of it. The people here were all different from what she was used to—no men with sharp jaws and tailored suits, no women wrapped in designer gowns who salivated at the chance to talk to her. They all wanted something, usually. Attention, connections, a fleeting moment of indulgence. But Polina Volkov wasn’t like them. She didn’t need anything. Not from anyone. Her family’s wealth, her name, her beauty—it was all enough. Enough to stand alone, enough to make the world bend to her whims. The DJ, perched high in his booth, spun tracks that sent waves of sound crashing through the room. She let herself be swept up in it once again, walking up towards the velvet VIP banister, moving her body in time with the rhythm. Her dress, a slip of bright sequins, clung to her frame as she swayed, the fabric shimmering like molten silver under the lights. She knew how she looked. She didn’t need to check the mirror. Heads turned as she passed, whispers followed in her wake. She could feel their eyes, the longing, the curiosity. It was always like this. In this world, no one knew the real her. They had no idea who she was or what she could do, and that was exactly how she liked it. Tonight, she wasn’t here for approval or to impress anyone. She was here because, for once, she could be. She'd managed to shake him off—her father's dog. For the last month, he'd been following her around and had monitored her like a hawk. Being Aleksandr Volkov's daughter came with endless amounts of perks, though ultimately, it also came with a terrible downside—the man himself. Her daddy loved her, no doubt. It was precisely his love for her that crippled Polina in more ways than one. Her mother had died shortly after she'd been born. The result, was this: Aleksandr spared no effort in providing his one and only child with the best of the best—a galore of nannies and butlers and bodyguards to keep her comany. The man was as notorious as he was busy. And, controlling. Even now, at the respectable age of twenty-one, she was prohibited from going out by herself. If she wanted to socialize, he would arrange play-dates with the daughters of trusted partners. If she wanted to party, the occasion and her company were chosen for her. She was free to do whatever she wanted, and yet, she wasn't. ──────────────── ୨୧ ────────────────​ "My, my, it seems you have an admirer." An arm slung around her shoulders and caught Polina by surprise. Her carefully trimmed eyebrows furrowed, and she turned her head to look into the face of... Who was this again? Ah. Daria's ditzy friend. The girl who had invited her tonight. They'd met when she'd tagged along to a fleeting shopping trip. Emma, that was her name. "Oh, come on, don't look at me like that. I know, I know, you're used to guys fawning all over you. But listen! This one—he's so hot. Look!" She had half a mind to ignore her, to resume what she was doing. But then, she felt it—a gaze. It wasn’t the usual hungry stares of the men who followed her every move. No, this was different. This was intentional. She turned, just slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of him across the room. He was standing near the bar, his posture straight, the kind of stillness that made him stand out in a sea of movement. His eyes were fixed on her, unwavering, as though nothing else mattered. Her breath caught, just for a second. And then—dread. Unfiltered and raw dread stabbed her in her chest. Him. It was him. But how...? "Excuse me, I'll be right back." Shit, shit, shit, shit. Think! She had to be quick. The dog. He was here. To make matters worse, he looked fine. Completely unscathed. She'd hired men to make tonight possible, men who had been paid handsomely in cash to attack him. All she'd needed was a moment to slip away, to catch this annoyingly observant guy off-guard. Polina had hoped that after today, she'd never have to see him again. If not hurt beyond repair, she'd hoped that it would get him fired, at the very least. Inciting her father's wrath was easy when it came to her and those who disappointed him were punished severely. As she quite nearly ran past several groups of people, her heart was in her throat. She refused to be dragged back. It was exactly what he would do if he got his hands on her. Feeling cornered, her steps led her to the women's restroom. Drunk girls were by the mirrors, fixing their makeup. "Hey ladies, if I really needed to disappear right now, how would I do that?" They stopped in their tracks, one applying more mascara, the other some lipstick. "Babes, is it a guy? Do you need help? We could—" The expression on her own face suggested more urgency. That was a no. The girl trailed off. The other one piped up instead and shrug her shoulder. She pointed to the back. "Well. If you meant that literally, I guess you could try the window in the last stall over there." Polina followed her line of sight and her eyes sparkled. Oh. Ohhh, it was perfect. ​

 

[Rave]

YURI IVANOV thirty-one | doberman | fed up ❝ My patience is increasingly thinning ❞​

Yuri Ivanov had been given many assignments over the years. High-profile clients, dangerous targets, jobs that required precision and an unshakable will. First from the army, securing the Motherland's interests overseas. Then, from private contractors, one interested in hiring men of his unique skillset. But this—this was different. This was not a mission. It was glorified babysitting. Aleksandr Volkov, Russia's biggest arms dealer, had called upon him personally, a man accustomed to having his orders followed without question. He wanted his daughter kept in line, protected from the world, from herself. She had burned through every guard before him, chewing them up and spitting them out with little more than a tilt of her head and a calculated pout. She was reckless, spoiled, and insufferable. But Yuri was not like the others. He had spent the past month shadowing her, curbing her tantrums without raising his voice, redirecting her defiance without playing into her games. She threw everything she had at him—manipulation, provocation, outright hostility. And yet, she had not broken him. Like a leashed puppy, she had been reigned at every opportunity. Every bark from her thin throat resulting in nothing more than whimpering protest. He had to admit, though; she was uniquely qualified at getting under his skin. The men had been predictable. Hired muscle, disposable at best. They came in numbers, but numbers meant nothing when they relied on brute force over skill. The first had swung at him, wide and careless. A mistake. Yuri caught his wrist, twisting it until a sickening pop cut through the alley's din. A howl of pain. Another lunged, a flash of a knife catching in the dim light. The blade never found its mark. A single step to the side, an elbow driven into the man's ribs, and he crumpled like a marionette with its strings severed. Two more followed, each just as foolish. They fought with desperation, the kind that came from being paid well but not enough to die for it. And that was the difference. Yuri fought with purpose. His hands moved with the precision of a man who had been doing this his entire life, a machine honed by discipline and necessity. When the last man staggered back, gasping, his lip split and one eye swelling shut, he saw it. Fear. Good. Let them take their bruises and broken bones and crawl back to their employer. Let them tell her that it had failed. He stepped over them, his breath steady, his posture unruffled, and disappeared into the night. Finding her had not been difficult. Polina was not the type to blend into a crowd. She was a beacon, a live wire of reckless energy, drawing eyes without even trying. Up on the second floor, bathed in neon and strobes, she preened under the weight of attention, a goddess of youth and alure in her element. But when her gaze met his, the shift was immediate. A spark of recognition. A flare of panic. She ran. Of course, she ran. Yuri exhaled through his nose, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before moving. He did not rush. There was no need. Wrinkling his fine black suit and the white dress shirt underneath any further than it had been from the attempted attack earlier would only raise his irritation at the whole ordeal. She was really crossing lines this time. Through the undulating crowd, she slipped, winding past bodies that swayed to the bass-heavy pulse of the music. She was fast, he would give her that, but not fast enough. He had spent the last month memorizing her patterns, anticipating her next move before she even made it. This would be no different. When she disappeared into the restroom, he did not follow. Instead, he walked outside. The back alley was dimly lit, the scent of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol hanging thick in the air. His steps were unhurried as he moved toward the far end of the building, stopping just beneath the row of narrow, high-set bathroom windows. And then, he waited. Sure enough, a scuffling sound. A moment later, a figure wriggled through the opening, limbs flailing, balance lost. Polina tumbled gracelessly from the window...and Yuri was there to catch her. Strong arms closed around her waist, steadying her with infuriating ease. For a brief second, she was weightless, held against him, the scent of expensive perfume and adrenaline clinging to her skin. His grip was firm but not harsh, a silent reminder of control. His skin was warm, but not heated. No sweat upon his brow, a reminder that he hadn't broken one from her attempted discarding of him. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Amused. "Going somewhere, princess?" ​

 

[Luvia]

POLINA VOLKOV twenty-one | daddy's princess | spoiled ❝ 𝒟𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 𝒹ℴℯ𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃ℴ𝓌𝓈 𝒷ℯ𝓈𝓉. ❞​

Tight. Squeezing through that window would be an awfully tight fit, but she could make it work. Her dress might not survive it, but at this point, it was the least of her concerns. She had a thousand others like it and could afford a thousand others by tonight if she so wished. First, she'd dropped her purse. Then, her shimmering, silvery heels followed. Soon after, it was Polina herself who emerged next. How the hell did he manage to find me? She was so absorbed in thought that she hardly noticed that the very same man who she was cursing was already waiting for her, right there. Watching her, as she made a fool of herself. As she held on for dear life, dangling clumsily and suddenly regretfully as she questioned her own choices that had brought her here, another thought occurred to her. Judging by the depth of the fall she'd have to take, she wouldn't be able to walk away unharmed. Huh. Wait. Actually, this might work out. A crazed idea formed in her head. If she ended up spraining her ankle, perhaps that was for the better. If she got hurt, she could just pin it on him. Maybe that was what it took to make him disappear. She had never harmed herself, deeming the entire notion boorish and her body too precious. But now? Now—she fell. In lieu of landing on the hard concrete however, something decidedly worse happened. Something much worse. She'd leapt right into Yuri's arms. A soft gasp left her cushioned lips as she realized it. Her lithe body in his arms froze. Fuck. Being so close to him did all sorts of things to her, all at once. The most astonishing, for one—this man smelled good. Like mouth-watering heaven. And then, there was that annoyingly attractive voice, drifting so close to her ears. She willed herself to ignore the slight shiver it managed to coax out of her. Instead, Polina focused on something else. Something that got her blood boiling immediately. He sounded amused. Smug prick. "Let GO of me, ugh," she pushed at his shoulders and began to kick her legs, "Set me down, you stupid dog!" Shortly after, her feet hit the ground and she stumbled a few steps backward, regaining her composure and huffing. When their eyes met, she leveled him with a glare that was scorching. Oh, if looks could kill. For a split second, her gaze hushed towards the end of the alley, watching as people passed it. "I refuse to go back. I won't go back." She bent down to retrieve her purse and to pick up her heels. She paused as she studied the diamond encrusted butterflies on them, as if contemplating on whether or not she should use them as a weapon. It wouldn't be the first time. "Touch me and see what happens. I'll scream if I have to."​

 

[Rave]

YURI IVANOV 31 | doberman | fed up ❝ If Looks Could Kill ❞​

Polina smelled of expensive perfume and the remnants of something sweeter—liquor, perhaps, or the indulgent, heady thrill of her own rebellion. Beneath it all, her body was warm, tense, every muscle coiled as though she could will herself away from him. But it was useless. He held her without effort, his grip unyielding but careful, as if handling something both delicate and volatile. A mistake, she realized, and he knew the precise moment she did. The gasp, soft and unguarded. The way her breath caught just so. The fleeting second of stillness before she remembered herself and reignited into motion, a whirlwind of petulant outrage. Her palms pressed against his shoulders, small and ineffective, though she shoved as if she could move him, yelling away as if her bark was somehow stronger than her bite. Yuri could have kept her there, suspended in his grasp, long enough to make her truly squirm. He could have let her feel the inevitability of it, let her recognize that her tantrums would always meet the same end. But instead, he let her slip from his hold, feet finding the uneven concrete beneath them. She stumbled—briefly, beautifully—before righting herself with a huff, her glare searing into him like she might set him alight where he stood. She refused to go back, the declaration childish. Stubborn. He had heard it before, dozens of times over the past month, always accompanied by some new scheme to shake him. This night had been her boldest attempt yet, but like all the others, it had failed. Yuri inhaled deeply, exhaling slow. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his phone with the kind of measured patience that he knew would infuriate her further. The call was brief, spoken in low, fluid Russian. Contrasting his English that was still laced with the accent of the Motherland. "Подъезжай назад. Жди." Bring the car around back. Wait. His gaze remained on her as he spoke, watching the way her fingers curled around the straps of her heels, her grip tightening as though she were considering whether or not to use them as weapons. A ghost of amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. It wouldn't be the first time. Yuri tilted his head, watching her as one might observe a particularly dramatic storm—unbothered, vaguely entertained, yet entirely unsurprised by the spectacle. "Scream?" His voice was smooth, edged with something dangerously close to mockery. "Here? Who would hear you? A squirrel?" The alley was secluded, the distant pulse of the club muffling the sounds beyond it. Pedestrians passed in the distance, wrapped in their own worlds, oblivious. No one was coming for her. No one was waiting to save her from the inevitability of this night's outcome. And Polina—spoiled, untouchable, used to bending the world beneath her whims—must have known it too. He stepped toward her. One slow, deliberate step. "I have no patience for your antics tonight. You've ballet practice in the morning." Then another. He already knew the fight in her was simmering just beneath the surface. Anticipating it. But he was faster. In a single motion, Yuri closed the distance, catching her wrist with the same efficiency he had dispatched the men she had hired. No wasted movement, no room for struggle. He turned her smoothly, pressing her back against his chest as his arm secured around her waist, locking her in place. Like a child throwing a tantrum, she was lifted off of her feet again, a single muscled arm all he needed to control her. It tightened, lowering from her waist to beneath her ass, perfect feminine crurves now hoisted against his arm as if a throne. He pinned her against his broad and toned chest. Her arms were free, but no amount of wiggling from her lower body could free her from this. The limo driver had listened to orders, pulling up just as she was lifted, the headlights practically blinding for a moment, its sleek black exterior gleaming beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. The driver, ever discreet, did not turn his head as Yuri reached for the door, pulling it open with one hand while keeping her writhing form secured with the other. She was practically thrown inside, depositing her into the back seat before stepping in after her, shutting the door behind them. The air inside was cooler, quieter, the distant bass of the club now just a dull tremor beneath them. Yuri leaned back, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before meeting her gaze with calm certainty. "Домой." Home. The driver obeyed without question. The car eased forward, merging seamlessly into the city's veins, carrying them away from the neon chaos and back to the world where, no matter how she fought, she was still his responsibility. ​

 

[Luvia]

POLINA VOLKOV twenty-one | daddy's princess | spoiled ❝ 𝒟𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 𝒹ℴℯ𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃ℴ𝓌𝓈 𝒷ℯ𝓈𝓉. ❞​

She couldn't see it, but she could feel it. When his hand disappeared inside his coat to retrieve his phone, her left eye twitched. Infuriating. He—was infuriating. Ungracefully and entirely vulgar, Polina flipped him off as he made his call. If there was one thing that she didn't tolerate at all, it was being ignored. And he did just that. Worse, he proceeded to mock her in the same way she'd grown to despise. Undisturbed and collected. He was her direct antithesis, a solid rock against her tumultuous and violent waves. "I'll take my chances with the squirrel. Maybe it'll come and tear into you." She raised her chin at him, proudly. "You'd deserve it." The way he appraised her was measured and cool, as if he had her all figured out. No, there was more to it. Yuri Ivanov had the likeness of a sharp dagger, sleek and precise, its edge honed by years of careful calculation. His gaze, however, was not the hurried glance of someone quick to judge; it was deliberate. He wasn’t merely seeing her—he was analyzing, calculating, weighing her worth in the way a predator would inspect its prey. His features were coldly handsome, sculpted like the edges of that very dagger. His eyes, though seemingly impassive, glittered with the intelligence of someone who was never truly fooled. They didn’t dart or shift, instead remaining fixed and unwavering, as though his mind was already five steps ahead of hers. There was an unsettling stillness about him, a calmness that never cracked even in the most tense situations. He was so unlike all the others who had been in his shoes before him. Polina recognized that quality in him and it vexed her—it vexed her that he wasn't someone she could control. At least, not entirely. The moment he lunged for her and locked her down in a tight hold, she made good on her promise. She began to scream. It started out as a flurry of curses, which rapidly evolved into yelling as he hoisted her up, then into full-blown, proper screams of indignation as he walked them towards the limo. Being tossed inside like a sack of potatoes was the last straw and earned him another final insult from her. "засранец!" Asshole! ──────────────── ୨୧ ────────────────​ Silence. Ever since they'd taken off, tonight has been different from their usual. It was quiet inside the limousine save for the sound of her angry texting. Polina refused to spare her uncouth kidnapper another glance, fully intent on ignoring him for the entirety of their ride. As they neared the opulent estate that was her home, she finally locked her phone and glanced up. The gears inside her head were turning, though this time around, it was difficult to tell just what she was thinking about. When their journey came to a stop and the driver moved to open the door for her, she exited the limo with the grace of a woman who expected nothing less. She didn't thank him, nor did she stop to look back. This was her turf, her territory, and it was only right that she carried herself in a way that reflected that. Just as it seemed as if she had dismissed Yuri's existence entirely for the rest of the night, she tossed her purse at him with a simple and degrading "Fetch." The corners of her mouth curved into an upward slant, undoubtedly sly and purposely demeaning. She associated him with a dog for a reason. As much as he was tasked with keeping her in line, he was also tasked with following her every command. If within her daddy's rules, no—for Yuri—was not an option. Polina sashayed inside the well-lit mansion, walking up a beautiful flight of stairs that led into her very own floor. It housed three in total; one for their servants, one for her, and one for her father. As they neared her bedroom, her steps slowed, though didn't stop. So far, Yuri had never been privy to how it looked like. Or rather, he'd never been inside it. That would change today. She was evidently still upset about what had happened earlier, angry at him for spoiling her good fun. She'd chosen to punish him by dragging him along and making him do whatever the fuck she wanted. She was spiteful and petty like that. "Stop." Once inside, she motioned for him to stand in a corner, close to where the door was. The way she spoke to him carried that bit of spite with it. "Be a good boy and stay right there, won't you? It's what you're so good at. My purse has been through a lot. Keep holding on to it until I grow bored of it."​

 

[Rave]

YURI IVANOV 31 | doberman | fed up ❝ If looks could kill ❞​

Yuri sat beside her in the limo, a figure of stillness and poise while she seethed beside him, thumbs flying furiously over the screen of her phone. Her anger was palpable—a storm barely contained within her slender frame—but she refused to acknowledge him. Not a glance. Not a word. Only the sharp, staccato taps of her furious texting filled the space between them. He watched her in the reflection of the window, noting the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the way her lower lip jutted out in a subtle pout of frustration. She was angry, yes—but beneath that, something more simmered. Her schemes had failed. Her pride had been bruised. Good. Only one problem. Beyond the satisfaction of victory in hunting her down and finding her, he couldn't help but think the one thing he kept trying to avoid. Something he couldn't verbalize lest he give her all the power and rob him of any control he could have over her for the forseeable future. Even if the reflection was the only current mirror to her face, to her body, to the way her dress clung to every one of her curves like it was designed with her in mind; she was so fucking beautiful. ---​ As they neared the sprawling Volkov estate—an opulent display of wealth and excess tucked behind wrought iron gates and manicured hedges—Yuri's gaze shifted from the passing scenery to her. He could sense her mind churning, thoughts spiraling, plots forming. She was always thinking, always planning. That was the danger of a mind like hers—it never rested. The limo slowed, pulling to a stop in front of the grand entrance. The driver stepped out, moving to open her door with practiced subservience. Polina exited first, all grace and entitlement, the cool composure of a woman who ruled this domain and expected the world to kneel before her. She did not thank the driver. She didn't spare Yuri a glance. She didn't have to. The purse came flying through the air without warning. "Fetch." The word landed with the force of a slap—sharp, degrading, intentionally cruel. The smile that accompanied it was laced with venomous satisfaction, the kind that came from asserting power, from testing limits. Yuri caught the purse in one hand, just barely before it touched the ground and turned grass-stained, his fingers curling around the delicate straps. Silken. Expensive. Pointless. He was of half a mind to throw it into the nearest fireplace he could find still lit within on his way up behind her, but cooler heads prevailed. He followed her in silence, the sound of her heels echoing through the vast, marbled halls of the mansion. She ascended the staircase with the sway of a woman who knew she was being watched, each step a deliberate provocation. He matched her pace, footsteps quiet, presence steady. This was her kingdom, and unfortunately, despite...some leeway, he was servant to the Queen. At the threshold of her private floor—an entire level dedicated solely to her whims and desires—she finally slowed. Her hand touched the ornate door to her bedroom, and then— An order, to stop. He did. Instantly. She turned, eyes gleaming with spite, and gestured toward the corner of the room just inside the door, every word that followed demeaning him one after the other. Yuri's eyes met hers, calm and unreadable, his stance as relaxed as it was deliberate. She always barked like this when defeated, and this was surely her way of getting back at him for the night. It didn't matter, in the end she was home, not at the shitty club where who knows what could have happened to her. He didn't move toward the corner just yet—no, not immediately. Instead, he took a slow step into the room, just enough to let the door swing closed behind him with a soft click. Still holding her purse, he tilted his head slightly, as though considering her command with the same weight he might give a request for his life. For a mere moment, he imagined what he might do to her if they were back home, and he was under no contract from her father. This ungrateful brat, in his opinion, really needed leashing. To be thoroughly put in place. Perhaps in another life, he thought. "As you wish." The words were smooth, low, carrying just enough deference to satisfy her demand. He stepped toward the indicated corner, his posture fluid and unbothered, settling there with her absurdly expensive handbag still held in one hand. His eyes remained on her, sharp and watchful, as though he were the one indulging her with this little game, rather than the other way around. It was true that he'd never been inside her bedroom before, decorated pristine and elegant as the very woman who slept in it. It felt a very private space, that he was invading, but orders were orders. "Let me know when boredom sets in, princess," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear as she moved about the room. "So that I can go tell your father you're safe and home by bedtime." ​

 

[Luvia]

POLINA VOLKOV twenty-one | daddy's princess | spoiled ❝ 𝒟𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 𝒹ℴℯ𝓈𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝓃ℴ𝓌𝓈 𝒷ℯ𝓈𝓉. ❞​

A twisted sort of satisfaction made a home for itself in her chest when he complied with her command. It was small moments like these that kept this little arrangement of theirs somewhat tolerable for Polina. Nothing was as thrilling as making men like Yuri bend to her whims. But, within this particular instance, the thrill was short-lived. Although the fleeting obedience in his voice was there, she could sense, his defiance—so quietly simmering. It never truly left, even when his body followed her orders. His gaze remained fixed on her, rather than on the floor where it belonged, as if daring her to push him further. It pissed her off. It wounded her ego, only seeming to feed a darker, sharper edge to her. Over the course of the last month, she'd done a myriad of things to get under his skin. None of them had worked. She'd tried to incite his anger, had tugged at the seams of his patience. She'd splashed water at his face, slapped him, forced him to tend to her like a slave would to its master. She had been cruel, mouthy, disrespectful and harsh. And still, he prevailed. Her eyes narrowed and her lips twisted into a brief, displeased pout. Princess. She hated it whenever he called her that. Coming from him, it wasn't endearing in the slightest. It was a mockery, an insult wrapped in a word that should have held power. She continued to observe him as she moved herself towards her bed, crossing her arms, taking a seat. Her body bounced off of it in a subtle manner, indicating that it was likely made of the most soft and comfortable material. Her silken sheets reflected the light from above, basking them in a soft sheen. "Try me. One more word out of that offensive mouth of yours, and you'll be standing there until dawn." Making him watch her sleep whilst she deprived him of it? It was almost genius, almost. Polina doubted however that she could sleep at all with him in her personal space. It was exactly where she didn't want him to be, unless it was to teach him a lesson. Like now. With a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes tiredly, her own unceasing frustration a hard pill to swallow, before she opened them once more and bent down to reach for one of her heels. Through sheer coincidence, their gazes met for the split of a second, and she caught it. She caught him. A flicker of interest in those shamelessly scrutinizing eyes of his. Her brain misfired as she processed this. She stopped in her tracks, her fingers halting against her ankle. Then, with the slow deliberateness of a lioness, she raised herself back up and tilted her head at him. That's when it clicked. She had an epiphany. Time and time again, she'd tried to set him on fire in a very figurative sense. She'd tried to stoke a violent wildfire, one that was destructive in nature. Clearly, he wasn't a man that was easy to aggravate. However. There was something much simpler than eliciting a man's rage. Something much more carnal, but just as primitive. Desire. Lust. If what she'd seen hadn't been a figment of her imagination, then even the great Yuri Ivanov wasn't immune to the wiles of a pretty woman. To her. It meant that this game, their incessant tug-of-war, was far from over. Oh no. She could still break him. She crossed her legs, perching one over the other, her every movement calculated, practiced. She placed her manicured hands on her bed, leaning back a little, her mannerisms transforming into something decidedly more feline and provocative. She tipped her foot in his direction, once, twice, three times. She tilted her head again, willing him to look. Then, Polina spoke. "I've changed my mind. You take them off. Do it slowly." She dipped her chin in a wily nod, a new kind of smirk settling on her lips. The kind that was sensual and seductive. "On your knees."​

 

[Rave]

Yuri Ivanov 31 | doberman | fed up ❝ don't test me ❞​

She was a vision. A creature spun from decadence, lounging against sheets that gleamed like liquid silver beneath the soft glow of the room. The subtle curve of her body, the way her ebony hair cascaded over her shoulders, the sultry, knowing tilt of her lips—it was all designed to tempt, to ensnare. And Polina knew it. Every movement, every glance, every slow, languid stretch of her limbs was an unspoken dare. She was exquisite, the kind of beauty that could ruin men, and she wielded it like a weapon. Yet, it was the fire in her eyes, the wicked intelligence lurking beneath the surface, that made her dangerous. That made her lethal. Yuri tried not to flinch. Not at the command, nor at the way she lounged before him, draped in arrogance and allure, a queen on her silken throne. He had spent the last month tempering her fire, weathering every storm she threw his way with the unshakable patience of a man carved from stone. And yet—this was different. This was not her usual defiance. This was something else entirely. Her foot, adorned by her priceless heels, tapped the air in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Once. Twice. Thrice. A taunt, an invitation. Her smirk curled, velvet and sin, as she tipped her chin toward him, the soft light of the room casting a halo over her golden hair. The words dripped from her lips like poison honey, thick with satisfaction, thick with promise. Another order, one contrasted to all that came before it. It wasn't not to touch her, no, it was to touch her more. On his knees. To slip her of the very heels she nearly stomped on him with countless times on the way home. A silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Yuri exhaled through his nose, slow, steady. This—this was a new game. He had always known she would escalate, had anticipated that she would push him past patience, past restraint, to something far more dangerous. But he had not expected her to choose this route. Clever girl. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he held her gaze, as unmovable as ever. He could refuse. He could remind her who was in control, that no matter how she tried to wield power over him, it was only ever an illusion. But that would be letting her win. In truth, he had no capacity to refuse such a command, humiliating as it might have been. So, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he was near enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lowered himself onto one knee. The air shifted. His large hands, rough with the remnants of old scars and callouses earned through years of violence, reached for the back of her calf. But when he touched her, he was unbearably gentle. The contrast was stark—these were hands made for breaking, for bruising, for wielding cold steel. And yet, as they encircled her delicate ankle, they were reverent. Careful. Soft as they descended down every inch of skin until calf gave way to heel. His thumb ghosted over the thin strap of her heel before he undid it, painstakingly slow, drawing the moment out like a blade dragged along tender skin. The warmth of her seeped into his fingertips, the pulse of her heartbeat barely perceptible beneath the fragile curve of her ankle. Yuri did not look up at her. No. He wanted her to feel this. That the road she chose was not a one way street. To feel the way his fingers slid along her skin, the feather-light pressure of his touch as he peeled away the first heel. The way he lifted her foot with one hand, his grip firm but careful along the curve of her foot, before placing it back against the lush carpet, bare and vulnerable. And then, the second. His hands traced the length of her calf again with unhurried precision, fingertips grazing along smooth skin, up to where the second heel rested against her foot. He could hear her breathing now, could feel the way her muscles tensed, waiting, anticipating. Another slow tug, another deliberate drag of his fingertips as he freed her from the last of it. Yuri did not speak, did not move to rise just yet. Instead, he let his hands linger for just a second longer than necessary, his touch whispering a silent warning against her skin. Finally, he let her go, rising to his full height with a grace that did not match his size. His gaze found hers, dark and unreadable, lips curved just slightly—not quite a smirk, it curved in the opposite direction. Irritation. Whatever she was doing was working. This was getting under his skin. "Happy now, принцесса?" The words were soft, edged with something that coiled low in the space between them. He had done as she asked. But at what cost? ​

 

[Luvia]

POLINA VOLKOV twenty-one | daddy's princess | intrigued ❝ 𝒪𝓃 𝓎ℴ𝓊𝓇 𝓀𝓃ℯℯ𝓈. ❞​

He could have refused. He could have walked out of that door and hand in his resignation by tomorrow morning, for disobeying her. That was the point. If Yuri had been a man of integrity, he wouldn't have acquiesced, he would have excused himself and left. Unsurprisingly, he didn't. He dared to take her bait, which meant that she had been right in following her intuition. What she'd seen hadn't been a figment of her imagination—he fancied her. Unlike all the other times, when he had deemed it necessary to put his hands on her for entirely different reasons, he was being uncannily gentle now. It caught her off-guard, though Polina wasn't easily impressed. She had been around enough of her daddy's tutelage to know: Men like him were far from gentlemen. More likely than not, he was one tough, stubborn bastard. Heavy on the stubborn and additionally twice as prideful. For that reason alone, she knew that she was playing a dangerous game with someone like him. She was a fearsome individual in her own right for doing so. It was quiet inside the room save for the sounds of his careful exploration of her legs, of her fingers against the sheets as they shifted on them in response to his ministrations. If she had been unsure before, she would have been certain now—his touches weren't the kind one would expect from a man who was merely acting on duty. Those would have been more clipped and clinical. No. His warm fingers followed the curve of her calves too thoroughly, his hands pressed into her skin too firmly. He lingered close to her for far too long. Although she was observing all of this calmly, her heart began to flutter a little faster. A realization hit her. He wanted her to know. He wasn't trying to hide that he was attracted to her in the slightest. He was warning her to not tempt him. Not on this. Ha. Inwardly, she scoffed. The nerve. More bewildering than that, however, were her own reactions to this sudden turn of events. Did she feel a sliver of excitement? Why, because of him? Her? How fucking ridiculous. Polina denied it. She refused such an absurd possibility. She saw and met beautiful women and men every day, actors, models. People who were sought after for their good looks, paid. And yet, none of them had been able to draw out the exact same feeling that she was feeling now in the face of this insufferable man. She felt high on power and something else—something that made her want to push him further. With her bare feet now on the floor, she chose to stand as well. She was much smaller than him all of a sudden, but her ego remained the same. Intact. "Not at all. When did I say that you could stand? I said—on your knees." Her countenance was resolute and firm, evident in the obstinate way her eyebrows furrowed and her lips flattened into a grim line. The fire in her eyes held authority, as if to dare him to refuse her at last. It was a look that could either ignite a battle or provoke a surrender, and she wasn’t sure which she wanted more. Her resolve was unmistakable, yet there was something beneath it, something deeper. Where was this leading to if he continued to do as he was told? What would SHE do? Polina decided to dig the knife deeper. Her hands went to her hips, smoothening over her dress in a downward motion before she grasped it by its seams. "I feel dirty now that you've touched me. I should take a shower." A shower did sound amazing right about now. Her dark gaze bore into his, never breaking eye contact. She wanted to catch it again; the moment when he involuntarily allowed his own desires to peek through the cracks of his well-maintained mask. Her hands began to raise her dress up, up up up, until she had it all bunched at her waist, above her navel, revealing a sight that Yuri should have never been privy to. Her shapely legs transitioned into a set of lush thighs and well-shaped hips. Her stomach was toned, her physique slender but fit. Hers was a body that was artfully crafted by years of ballet and private sessions of reformer pilates. "You will make yourself useful. Take this off too." She let go of her dress with one hand and dipped a finger underneath the string of her thong by her hip, a flimsy little thing made of lace and luxurious cotton. She lifted it, then removed her finger, making it snap back against her skin. That same feline smile from before returned. "With your teeth."​

 

[Rave]

YURI IVANOV 31 | doberman | fed up ❝ don't push me ❞​

Yuri had expected her to push. It was in her nature—a spoiled brat, defiant, unrelenting in her need to test him, to find the chink in his armor and pry it open with delicate, manicured fingers. But this—this—was pushing boundaries that could lose him his job whether her obeyed, or disobeyed. Standing before getting his command to do so was a mistake, and he was made to pay the price for it. Again he was commanded to his knees, this time in tandem with her own rising that brought back the flats of her feet to the floor, and her slender legs to carry her up. Clearly, he was irritated, the annoyance on his face difficult to hide as brows furrowed and open eyes nearly closed into tighter slits in gazing at her. She was, for the first time, succeeding in actually getting under his skin. Yet he had to obey nontheless. As he lowered, to both knees this time, she stood before him, so much smaller than he was yet utterly fearless, wielding her own body as both bait and blade. For now, she had the height advantage. The room held its breath as she lifted her dress, as smooth, supple skin was revealed inch by maddening inch. Her legs—long, toned, sculpted by years of meticulous discipline—her hips, her stomach, every curve a deliberate temptation. "Ms. Volkov--" An immediate attempt to protest what was to come; But then—the final blow. Her fingers toyed with the thin lace of her thong, lifting it just enough for the elastic to bite when she let go. The soft snap was deafening in the silence. Shutting him up before the rest of his words could complete. Yuri remained utterly still. But his pulse—his blood—betrayed him. She was watching him. Hunting for that flicker of weakness, that slip in his carefully maintained restraint. She wanted him to react. To stumble. To break. His teeth the culprit that would put him on the path. The demand settled between them like a slow-burning fuse, poised to explode. For a long, weighted moment, he said nothing. He did not move. The air was thick, heavy, charged with something neither of them could ignore. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, dragged over her body with slow, deliberate scrutiny. If she wanted to play this game, he had no choice but to participate. "Your father would not approve." A warning, subtle, but poignant, that she was risking pissing her father off as much as she was risking Yuri's own job. But perhaps, with his cock's tightening in his pants as it grew and hardened in betrayal, that was tomorrow's problem. Then, he moved. He leaned forward—close enough for her to feel his breath on her inner thighs. His fingers found her skin, not rough, not harsh, but firm as he pried her hand away from where she held her dress up, forcing her to let him take control. He would have his agency in this at least, a sliver of it, even if his humiliation continued. The fabric pooled around her hips, still bunched, still waiting. And then—without a word, he set himself to task. His large, calloused hands traced the outer curve of her thighs, just barely, just enough to make her wonder if she imagined it, before his grip turned firm and strong. The heat of his palms ghosted over her skin, a stark contrast to the slow, searing burn in his gaze as he tilted his head, positioning himself exactly where she wanted him, half his face hidden beneath her mound from the nose down, the other half looking up at her with disdain carrying a hint of lust. The moment stretched, unbearable. And then—his mouth found her hip, his breath warm against her skin. He did not rush. No, that would be giving her what she wanted too easily. Instead, he let his lips graze the delicate lace at her hipbone, lingering just long enough to make her muscles tighten beneath him. It was as if there were unpressed kisses and bites, dragging across her skin until he found the perfect a little further in along the dip of her hips. Then, ever so slowly, his teeth caught the fabric. The fragile material resisted for only a second before yielding, slipping between his lips as he began to pull, inch by inch, dragging it downward in a way that forced her to feel everything. The slightest scrape of his stubble against her pubic landing, the press of his chin ever so momentarily against the hidden petals just above, the drag of his lips against her clit in innevitable consequence on his way down, the hotness of his breath against her core—intentional, precise, devastating. His fingers never assisted. He let gravity and patience do the work, teasing the lace inch by inch down her thighs, past the smooth expanse of her porcelain legs, almost in worship, until it barely clung to her ankles. Only then did he let go, allowing the flimsy scrap of fabric to fall to the floor in complete silence. For a brief moment, he remained there, knelt before her, his eyes trailing up the length of her bare legs with slow, languid appreciation before finally he saw what he had revealed. A perfectly pink, glistening, tempting slit staring him in the face from beneath her dress. A sight he should never have looked at in the first place, but now, could not look away from until he literally had to force his thoughts quiet and his face to fully look up at her instead. He could not be caught staring at the brat's little cunt. As tempting as it was. At least, he had done as she asked. "I suggest you stop now before this gets out of hand." A threat, that carried less weight than usual considering he was speaking it from his knees before her, and the fact that his cock was now firmly erect and tenting his pants. "Surely you have one of the many puppies following you around to do this kind of shit with you. You're on, what, your fourth boyfriend this year? I'll go call one for you." He snarled. "Maybe you can throw your little tantrum at him" Spite in his words, but it was...unconvincing. ​