She's My Collar - Katya x Reader

1: I Won't Crucify the Things You Do

Trigger warnings: graphic descriptions of injuries and a minor medical procedure

"I don't take her number, just don't think I'd call her
I take her down to somewhere dreading all day
I clear my system, I don't need no other
This is my persona, secret lover (she's my collar)"
-She's My Collar; Gorillaz feat. Kali Uchis

You lugged the bag of trash back through the alley, huffing slightly with the effort of hauling the huge, slightly leaking plastic bag. You were so sore after a long, grueling shift, and you couldn't wait to get home, shower the last eight hours of hell off of you, and go the fuck to sleep. You grunted as you hefted the bag up and into the open dumpster with a crash, and sighed in relief, dusting your hands and rubbing the small of your back.

It was late, and the bar was closing down, the last patrons stumbling home and your coworkers wiping down the bar and putting up chairs before they left you to lock up alone, as they usually did. Assholes.

You were about to head back inside, shivering in the frigid night air, when you heard a scuffle at the end of the alley and paused, turning to squint into the dark. It was probably none of your business, and it was probably something better handled by the police than by some wayward bartender, but.

There, haloed by the hazy glow of the streetlights, someone fell out of the back of a cab and stumbled over to the entrance of the alley. Just a drunk, then. You sighed in relief and reached for the door handle, but you heard a crash and a moan and whipped around.

The figure was slumped against the wall, groaning. Maybe not just a drunk, then, because those sounds were less "drunk and going through it" than "actually injured." Your instincts took over, and you sprinted to the mouth of the alleyway, skidding to a halt in front of the forlorn form slumped against the wall.

It was a woman, you noted with some surprise. She was absolutely stunning despite having being obviously beaten, probably in her late thirties or early forties with white blonde hair streaked with gray and cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, and you noticed the wound in her side at the same time as the woman looked up at you with icy blue eyes and ground out in a raspy voice, "помощь."

You dropped to your knees, scanning her body automatically. She was well-built and toned, obviously in amazing shape, and you personally did not want to know what the other person had looked like if she had ended up this worse for wear.

"Where does it hurt?" You asked before you remembered herself and said, in your still-clumsy, stumbling Russian, "куда?" The woman pointed at the wound in her side and then her face, where bruises were blooming and her lip was split. "Anywhere else?" You asked, not knowing the Russian and desperately hoping the woman spoke English. God, you were such a stupid American. The woman shook her head, and you reached out, prying her arms away from her side and pulling up her blouse, which was obviously very expensive and finely-made, and which was now soaked in blood. "Shit," you cursed eloquently, looking at the slice in the woman's side. It was fairly superficial, but bleeding profusely, and would need stitching.

You tried not to notice how absolutely jacked the woman was, feeling her abs rippling under your hands as you examined the cut. It was still oozing blood at a rate that made you nervous, and you grabbed the hem of your t-shirt and pulled it over your head, leaving you in your thin tank top, and folded it quickly, pressing it against the woman's side.

"держи это," you said, indicating for the woman to hold pressure. Her hands were calloused and tipped in well-manicured, short nails, blood drying in the creases of her knuckles and on her palms. You got your feet under you and wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulders.