Bound in Rouge Chapter 2: Amplification
cw: gore imagery, sexual fantasies, mdni
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You arrive in Russia with Simon on your joint mission, he as your bouncer, and you as a dancer...
°❀⋆.ೃ⋆˚🐝˖°ʚɞ°❀⋆.ೃ࿔
It's strange how sometimes when you get so cold, it starts to feel like burning; Human nerves are sensitive little fuckers, you’d had your fair share of massacred axons to know that pain was like fire.
Your blood vessels begin to spasm, desperately trying to conserve the heat in your core. Slowly, the aches in your bones give way to an inferno.
The windburn outside the small cottage on the outskirts of Volgograd whips through the woods. The freezing roar of the night’s howling gale nips at your eyes, drying the moisture as you enter the cottage, a bundle of cut wood underneath your arm. You move silently across the room, dropping to stoke and feed the fire as you hear the mutterings of plans occurring in the kitchen.
Stepping in, your eyes drag over the group of three men, Johnny, Kyle, and Price, all standing hovered around a screen, Ghost sitting on the other side giving his daily report.
You’d arrived in Russia a week ago, immediately, Ghost was placed in a bouncer position in Bliss Burlesque to avoid suspicion. He was in a small apartment in Volzhsky, the same apartment you were due to join him in after today’s op.
During this week, Ghost has slowly built up surveillance in the area, bugs and hidden cameras are placed in every part of the small club. Getting everything ready for your entrance. Thankfully, one of the girls had recently left after coming across a large sum of money.
Hmm.
They were holding auditions for being one of the showgirls tomorrow afternoon. You slept pitifully that night, nothing soothing you, not even the sleepy murmurs of your teammates in the room. Mind running rampant, your thoughts become muddled as the sun comes up and the men vacate the space.
Slowly, you had built your persona perfectly, twisting yourself, contorting like a funhouse mirror to change yourself. Like a snake sheds its skin, you slowly tear yourself from one person, molting it as the next takes hold.
A shapeshifter.
From your personality to your facial expressions, it morphs into something new, something bendable under your own whims.
Location—Volgograd, Mission–Terrorist Infiltration, Name—Nadzeya “Poppy” Smirnova
Yes, Poppy was a young girl, twenty-two, just moved to Volgograd one month ago from a small village in Belarus. Her father, a poor and gambling man, had neglected her from a young age. Mother absent and uncaring of the abuse of her father’s hand. As soon as she saved enough money, she escaped to Russia. Yet, funds ran out, and she needed a job.
Taking a breath, you allow yourself to sink into your muscles, letting your bones stretch the inside of your skin as you absorb her into yourself.
Location—Volgograd, Mission–Terrorist Infiltration, Name—Nadzeya “Poppy” Smirnova
Taking your time, in the silence of the dark, dingy room you sat in, sleeping bag doing nothing to soften the hard, rotting wood. The scent of musty frozen earth penetrates your nose as you take a deep breath. Deconstructing every element of the girl’s life, was she bullied? Did she like warm or cool colors? What was her favorite meal growing up?
Losing yourself in the silence of it, the bright flashes of a life never lived passing behind the lids of your eyes. Using any emotional memories to connect to the past.
Location—Volgograd, Mission–Terrorist Infiltration, Name—Nadzeya “Poppy” Smirnova
You pick yourself up, grabbing your ruck with you; you dress in the outfit a meek and shy Poppy would wear. A long-sleeve tight maroon sweater, fleece-lined leggings, boots, and a thick jacket.
You feel… exposed like this, without armour. You don’t remember the last time you wore civvies that weren't sweatpants. You step out, face free of the white facemask and black keffiyeh you commonly wore on ops. Makeup done in a popular Russian style, eyes dramatically framed in thick black liner, creating downward-facing tails in the creases of your eyes. Cheeks encased in a rosy hue, giving a doll-like complexion. It was perfect, you didn’t look remarkable, you looked like a common girl.
Exactly what you were going for.
Stepping out of the room, you see the three men all dressed in an array of different civilian clothes, dark and inconspicuous colors covering them. Johnny makes a noise as you step out, eyes wide as he takes in your face—one you didn’t commonly show.
“Och, Bonnie, you look…”
Price makes a short warning sound as the man’s eyes widen innocently and his hands go up. Your eyes roll, glossed pinkened lips in a glunch as you glare up at them. “were you ever tested as a child. For anything?" You snap, all the men making sounds of amusement as you right yourself. "Let’s get this moving.”
You move to the van, dark colors blending as the doors slam shut, Gaz reading the debrief file as you shoot off towards the city. “Isaak Mashcov, next in line for the Mashcov family line, thirty-two, current CFO of the Cherepovets Steel company. He frequents Bliss Burlesque every Saturday. Sometimes with business partners, others, always accompanied by Roma Abelev,” You flick to the image of the dark scowling man in a leather jacket, “trusted guard of the Mashcov family.”
You nod, showing the image to Johnny as you speak, “The plan is to infiltrate the club, and gather intel, hopefully, they discuss some type of plans, or we’re able to bug him from the club.”
“No risks, we’re on capture duty, they want ‘em alive.”
That complicates things.
The SUV skids to a stop a few blocks from the club as you slip out. Jacket covering your body against the biting chill of the afternoon. You walk through the door, and no longer was there a soldier, no more Sparrowhawks, and no more Mozu.
Location—Volgograd, Mission–Terrorist Infiltration, Name—Nadzeya “Poppy” Smirnova
Name—Nadzeya “Poppy” Smirnova.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Ghost could understand Russian, knew what the contrast between hard and soft consonants meant; he was able to read all the upside-down pages marked in the Cyrillic script. Yet he could not speak it, unable to wrap his mouth around the unique sounds in a way that didn’t come out grated. Never could he lose the Manchester-lilt that stained his voice, consuming his vocal cords in a gruff and deep resonance.
Receptive bilingualism, Gaz called it—a bloody bother to deal with. Spanish, he could seem to grasp, though there was no rolling of his ‘r’s.
It was a common reason he didn’t do undercover missions; his imposing form and brooding presence commanded the room’s attention. All eyes were drawn to him, pulling their stares in like a supermassive black hole, trapping them in the deep gravitational weight.
Yet… the thought of Mozu being on this mission without him… it set a deep feeling in his chest. Nothing all encompassing, or particularly painful, but an almost bothersome… pressure. It kept building as he watched you walk away that day, mind flipping through the images of what could happen on this mission, what could go wrong with you alone.
So, he fixed Price with that hard glower behind his skull mask, shoved off any of his Captain’s attempts to level or prompt him. Something that Price sees in him at that moment… it makes him pause his opposition. Simply nodding while he walks away, muttering about ‘Bloody ingrates.’
Acclimation is seamless; his quiet nature only aids his ability as a bouncer. Balaclava covering his face as his eyes skirt the room. The entire area was cast in a red glow at night, the only white lights the ones beaming down on the center stage where the girls performed. Plush booths and tables scattered throughout the rooms, two separate bars lining the northern and southern walls. Billiards rooms, smoking area, private dance rooms, and the backstage dressing rooms made up the rest of the space.
He hadn’t seen much of Mozu since he’d implanted into the club, glimpses of your covered face passing the camera as you fed the fire. It made questions roil within him. Were you avoiding him?
Shaking off the question, his eyes watch as Miss Petrov mutters to herself, tsking and crossing off names as girl after girl comes through. None seemed good enough for her. The slight doubt that Mozu would even be able to pass the test of that woman was growing within Ghost. Some of these women were good…or Ghost thinks they were? He wasn’t sure. The bartender would mutter on about it, one girl in the Ballet, others sang opera, even the Cirque…
A name gets called out, and he freezes, eyes snapping to the stage as a girl walks up; she’s small, eyes downcast as her hair obscures his gaze. “Hi… I’m…I'm… Nadzeya.”
Nadzeya… Mozu’s alias.
Miss Petrov already looks dismissive, wrinkles on the corners of her eyes as her face downturns into a scowl. “Proceed.”
A static cuts through Ghost’s ear, the first chime of his teammates filtering into his mind as they no doubt observed through the screens in the van. “She in?”
“Affirmative.” Ghost grunts out, eyes drawing to her hips as you begin a routine, the kick of the band starting off into a rippling jazz.
You get a few steps into the audition when Miss Petrov cuts the music. “Stop... stop, what the hell do you think you're doing?”
He watches as Mozu… no Nadzeya seems to flounder, bright eyes going wide in the spotlights, wet and glowing. It catches his attention, draws him in as if he were a moth to a flame. The almost golden lit glow of your irises caught in the dark club, alighting your gaze like jewels. “T-trying out?”
The words come out stuttered, unsure. The way your hands come down to clasp one another, twisting and weaving your fingers together in a complex coil, only gives off proof of your anxieties. “I don't think so.” Miss Petrov snaps angrily, “This stage is for professionals, not some little girl playing dress up in Mommy’s closet.”
The smoldering candlelight burns for a moment, a flicker passing across them, it was so…quick. Just a moment, a blink, and then it was gone. Yet, it was magnificent, alighting them like a comet striking across an inky black sky. “I…I understand this is your club and all, Miss Petrov—be as rude as you wish— but I have been dancing since I was young, so don’t you dare tell me I’m not… professional.”
The girl’s eyes snap toward the two of them; the contortion is an agitated pout, lip jutting out. Simon can’t help the way his eyes trace the protruding plushness. “I may not have been to a professional dance school, but I have a lot of talent. If you would just give me a shot, I promise.”
The elocution that you have chosen flutters across the space perfectly; it’s not quite the same as Miss Petrov or the way the other women around spoke. The unique w sound is severely lacking in the other's accent. Nothing too obvious, but perfect enough for her cover as someone from Belarus.
“And what exactly can you bring that these girls can't?"
“Ghost, what the hell is goin’ on in there?” The chime of Price in his ears does little to distract him as he watches Mozu’s body stiffen, a calculating ponder passing through your face before you nod once.
“I can sing.”
“She can what?”
“Och, she’s takin’ the piss.”
‘Chatter boys.”
Trying to ignore the murmurings on the line, Ghost grunts, watching as Miss Petrov seems to flounder for a moment. “You can sing.”
It’s not a question, more a condescension. Face cast in a scowl. The entire room seemed to be waiting, staff peeking from behind corners, girls watching at the battle stirs between the two women. Ghost doesn’t know what to do, only fingers itching toward his hidden S&W tucked beneath the layers of black clothing. Taking note of those whom he would have to take down first.
Mozu nods, “One song. You don't like it, I'll walk out the door, but you have to give me a chance.” There’s a beat as Miss Petrov seems to take your words into consideration, the comms silent and tense as they await the answer that would make or break this mission. “I know every number in your repertoire, every move, just let me prove it.”
Did you know every dance? It had been a week, he supposes, a week to learn however many songs a place like this had under their belts. He didn't know that Mozu even knew how to dance, never mind sing. The body that's usually bulked by tac gear and layers of rigid armour plates and Kevlar is smaller than he’d assumed it would be. Uniforms always made someone take up more space, he supposed. Yet, seeing you in civvies? In something that clings to each and every divot and curve of your body? It did things inside of him.
The words seem to work as the woman looks at her deeply, nose still upturned, before you turns back toward the band. “Track 19, hit it!” Miss Petrov calls up as Mozu nods, settling herself beside a chair, shaking out the strands of your hair with your hands before breathing.
It is silent, nothing but the sound of breathing, before a loud, raspy, husky growl that rips through the room. “Oh…”
The entire room freezes, the slow stop of movement as everyone draws in a breath. “Oh yeah, yeah!”
“Bloody ‘Ell.”
Ghost murmurs, settling against the walls, hidden in the shadows as you lean down, expelling almost her entire breath and letting out another belt. “Ooh yeah yeah!”
The way you breathe, the way you move, it’s transformative, as if everything in her is coming out. The melisma comes out so intricately as you weave together the sounds to make the room’s breath catch. It was… mesmerizing, the way you yanked the oxygen from the room for herself, a greedy gulp of air that left everyone else gasping.
Mezzo growls fill the room as you kick off the chair with a swoop of her hips. “I need a tough lover, yeah yeah yeah…”
“Fucking hell is that Mozu?”
There’s something in Gaz’s voice that makes Ghost want to yank the earpiece out and snap it beneath his boot heel. There’s this feeling of almost anger as he realizes that his team had a perfect view of the stage—of Mozu.
“I need a, a tough lover, woo!”
Shaking the thoughts, he keeps his dark stare on your body, the way it rocks as the band picks up, the rise of music kicking off your confidence as you push out a leg sensually. “I need a, a tough lover, yeah yeah yeah…a tough lover, ooh yeah!” There is a pause as you jump your gaze up, the dance in your form as you pick up the beat, body moving in a slight jump as the energy of the songs consumes you. “When he kisses me, I get that thrill…” Your perfect lips pucker into an innocent moue. “When he does that wiggle, I won't keep still!”
Your body picks up, hands sensually grabbing your curves as you begin to lose yourself. It wasn’t as if you had perfect technique or the best dance extension, but… there's this exuding of ambition and sensuality that pulled everyone in like magnets.
The room picks up, staff watching and bouncing along as they watch the performance unfold before their eyes. “I wanna a tough love…yeah, yeah. A tough lover, woo—yeah, I need a tough lover, yeah, yeah…a tough lover…hum, hum!” Your hands come out to fake-windmill in front of you, as if to balance your unsteady feet that never wobble. “The seven sisters got nothing on him…” Your body shimmies across the stage as your face lights up in a carnal beam. “I'm talking about a lover who's fast as the wind…everyone will talk about how he got me fixed!”
It’s like he can’t stop his mind from devouring every little movement you make, the roll of your hips, sassy swivel of impressive floorwork. “It ain't voodoo, it's just that twist!” Why did it alight his veins so much? He’d seen dancers before, been to his fair share of strip joints in his life. Yet this was different, no rapid pull of clothes or lap dances, just the tease. The slight whiff of something that makes his mouth water, opening to let the scent in deeper. Dragging in every fantasy and dream out for those to view.
You cross the stage, looking and winking at a group of waiters and waitresses standing off to the right part of the stage. “He's a tough lover…yeah, yeah! A tough lover…woo! He's a tough lover…yeah, yeah! A tough lover…oh oh.”
A tough lover…
Is that truly what Mozu wanted? The way you look on stage… It’s intoxicating, it’s as if staring at the sun itself. Not in the way it provides warmth and nourishment, no. You were a nuclear reaction, dragging in heat and pressure to let off sparks of energy. It was as if you took every heated stare, every wanting leer, and clenching need and simply… transformed it.
Siphoning their desires into fuel as your hips sway in a tantalizing need. “Hey, hey, yeah. He'll make me laugh…”
Easy chuckles in the morning mixed with monotone snips and blunt jokes spilling across sun-dappled bedding.
“He'll make me cry!”
Pleas of overstimulation, whimpers of need, adorned gaze wet with desperation as hands clasp the sheet. Skin on skin, heat on ice.
“He'll be so tough he'll make Venus come alive!”
Destructive affliction, that profound ache of desire settling across his chest. He wondered half-heartedly what your story would be, as the Roman stories did so often end in tragedy.
“He'll do anything that he wants to do!”
Because, he decides in that moment, when he feels that piercing prick of that damn arrow start in his chest, that you would have a story.
“Step on Jesse James's blue suede shoes, yeah!”
There were no simple ways to destroy something; the inherent chaoticness of the devastation of something so structured and controlled always created ruins. It was full of complexities, the chance of collateral chaos and entropy causing dangers untold.
Yet, as he sees you, the way you flounce with that classic jazz isolation and playful pouted taunts…something in the inner workings of Ghost began to snap; that wall that he’d devised so intricately in the rubble of ash decomposing with the simple twist of your hips.
“A tough lover, yeah, yeah. A tough lover…woo a tough lover…yeah, yeah. A tough lover…hey yeah, yeah yeah!
A tough lover…yeah, yeah. A tough lover…yeah, yeah!
A tough lover, oh oh!”
The room erupts into cheers as Mozu stands in the center of the stage, breathing in deeply, chest heaving with need, hair askew from running your hands across the stands. The thick darkness of your sweep over the crowd moves until it meets his eyes.
Ruination and subjugation.
That's what he found in your gaze.
An eruption of claps scattered across the room from the few that were in the club. Miss Petrov was sitting there, an almost clinical look in her eyes. “Your dance was off in the second half.” Her thick accent spills out of the room, and all Mozu does is let out a cheeky grin.
“So I was on in the first half?”
Honestly, Ghost has to choke down the gruff laughter that almost forced itself from his chest. A proud uptick of his lips under his mask.
It works for Miss Petrov, too; a slow grin lights up the normally downcast leer. Long black waves peppered with graying roots were tossed over her shoulder as she looked up at the stage. “Next time, lead with your voice.”
Mozu’s face splits in an excited simper, nose scrunching in a way Ghost had never noticed you did before. “So, I’m in?”
“I’m going to regret this…” The older woman shakes her head and almost lets out a smile as she turns toward the group of dancers watching. “Okay, then, you come back here tomorrow, you sing lead.”
“We’re in.”
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hello, from now on, there will be a song accompanying the chapters, yay! Yes reader can sing and dance, look at y'all, so talented, but y'all are badasses too, dw
Song: tough lover christina aguilera
