Forgot that I wrote a whole bunch of shit I can post here now here’s some Simon Riley x reader workplace fluff and listen, the jealous mean girl trope will never be overdone for me I love it as a former bullying victim to have those bitches put in their place
Simon becoming enamored with you, the new administration assistant. Thinking about how to show affection without being vulnerable, he orders flowers to be delivered, researched their meanings and everything. Not signed and with no note but absolutely for you.
It becomes a weekly thing then, every Monday a new bouquet is delivered and on Friday you bring them home to press them. They’re even scheduled to arrive when the team is on missions.
Six months in, a new girl starts working there and after two weeks is jealous and annoyed by the attention. “Accidentally” knocks over and shatters the vase, Simon runs out and has you fill up his water bottle and put them in there instead. One Monday the flowers are intercepted by her and thrown away. Simon checks the cameras and calls the delivery guy to confirm and insists a new one be delivered on Tuesday instead. Simon confronts the woman saying he knows she’d done it and the woman claims it’s unfair that “someone like her” gets all this attention from an admirer. Simon asks what, “someone like her” means, “so, kind and gentle and thoughtful and funny and smart?”
You overhear and confront him. Asking if it was him who’d been sending the flowers, he admits it shyly and that he’d never been good at stuff like this. You smile and blush and stutter that he’ll have to come over some time and see what you’ve done with the pressed flowers. He’s in love.
Simon is driving out of the city, leaving behind the noise, the suffocating air, and the blinding lights.
His grip on the steering wheel is firm, and after a few minutes, he takes a turn to the left.
The hum of the engine falls silent.
He steps out of the car, welcomed by the cool air of the summer night, the breeze slipping between his fingers.
The dry grass, scorched by torrid days, crackles beneath his footsteps as he approaches the passenger door and opens it for you.
An unspoken custom he has followed since the very first moment the two of you met. Simon does not doubt your ability to perform such a simple gesture yourself, yet he wants to make you feel special in every way he can think of.
You are greeted by the same midnight chill, wrapping itself around your body and brushing away the exhaustion and tension of the week.
Simon leans against the hood of his old car. The paint has begun to wear away in places, rust creeping along the edges, and the side mirror has been repaired more times than either of you can count.
Yet he cannot bring himself to part with it. The car has witnessed nearly all of his history - from the tragedies of his past to the happier moments he now shares with you.
He takes your hand and gently guides you closer.
His arms snake around your waist, pulling you against him. Simon lowers his head to the curve of your shoulder, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin.
You lean further into his touch, basking in his familiar warmth and presence.
Your gaze lifts toward the moonless sky, where countless stars glimmer softly.
A gasp escapes you as you point toward a falling star.
"Simon, quickly! Make a wish," you say in a hurry, your voice laced with childlike wonder.
For a moment, you are no longer an adult, but the little kid who stayed up late to watch the meteor shower mentioned on the morning news.
A soft chuckle leaves his lips.
"There is nothing more I could wish for," he replies in a whisper.
Arms molding around your body in a protective, adoring way.
Scarred palms caressing soft lines, fingertips leaving behind a trail of warmth and tenderness.
Breath on the nape of your neck - shivers blooming all over.
Dry lips adorning your skin in jewels of love along your neck - a silent testament to deep desire.
You tilt your head, exposing more of yourself.
A hand traces a path from the curve of your silhouette, traveling up between the valley of your chest to rest against your jawline - guiding your lips to his.
A sigh escapes him the moment your lips meet.
Starved for you, he was.
Always.
Never enough.
Your whole being consumes him.
And when you pull away - breaths heavy, uneven - you smile, something mischievous flickering in your eyes.
He wears GLOVES. Thick ones. Them puppies would be so butter soft around the scars. Like he would touch you roughly but the skin? SO soft you're jealous.
I take no commentary on this, and I WILL die on this hill.
cw: Fighting, uncomfy male oc, obsession, possessive behavior
You've caught the attention of Issak Mashcov, son of the leader of a Russian Mafia. How will Ghost react to this new attention?
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Leaving the stage, your heart would not still in your chest; it was a constant pounding of a hummingbird rattling around in your ribcage. The girls congratulated you sweetly as you walked in, giggling and smiling as you hurried back to the dressing room, feeling more exposed than you’d ever been before.
Look, you’d been a marine since you turned eighteen, in the field not long after that. You weren’t… prudish, or even shy when it came to nudity! The number of times another person watches you take a piss in the military is a very high amount—and that was just medical. Nevermind being in the field, showers, and changing, in front of groups of all different people. There was no room for hiding your body away from others—it was just another tool at the end of the day. A blunt object with the stamp of Property of the U.S Government across your back.
Yet…this was different. Soldiers usually don't look back, and when they do, it’s rarely with that starvation lurking behind their gaze.
You had done dance before—knew enough of a mix of hip-hop and ballet from your time during your childhood, when you’d sneak into the dance studio and watch them practice. Back then, it was used as an escape, running away from the brutalities of home to slip behind a mask. It was a little thing; you’d found a gap behind the mirror wall where you could just squeeze your body into enough. On the other side of it was a small unused room, just enough space for you to follow the steps and practice.
It was something that stuck with you, a way of working out, keeping your body trained in a way that most others weren’t. Coordination, footing, and spatial awareness are all similar building blocks of both fighting and dance; mix the two, and you get a deadly pair.
You were no Anna Pavlova, but you could catch a beat and knew how to move your hips on rhythm.
Zelena was seated in the vanity beside yours, large Hollywood bulbs illuminating her porcelain-like complexion, the sharp swoop of her cheekbones casting shadows across the shallows of her cheeks. The upturn of her nose and bright green eyes were definitely striking. You knew that she’d been in the ballet before—forced leave after an acl injury.
You shoot her a sweet beam as you sit in the seat next to her, placing the white silk robe on. “Wow—is it like this every Saturday?” You ask breathlessly, making a show of fanning your blush underglow.
The woman sends her a faintly hidden look of disgust before ‘schooling’ her expression as she turns to fix her eyeliner. “Well, when you’ve been in the business for long enough, you’ll start to notice when the trends are.” Zelena lets out a high-pitched, ‘hmm’ before continuing. “Guess it’s just something that comes with… experience.”
Okay, you hated this girl for Poppy.
You get it, you’re stepping on her toes, taking the spotlight, but that wasn’t Poppy’s fault. Plus, you hadn’t even taken anything from her—you both had solos tonight. Zelena’s was supposed to be edgier and more serious than yours; also, completely opposite styles. While Poppy played on desires and sweet temptations, Zelena was more… lurid.
Yet, you do nothing, because Poppy would never have caught on to the obvious venom coating. “Wow, yeah, I guess when I’m as old as you, I’ll get it.” Well, almost nothing.
The floundering brings you immense satisfaction, and you almost let out a chuckle when a timid voice interrupts you all. You both turn your heads, hearing a quiet, “U-uhm, Poppy? It’s for you.”
Getting up, you quickly cross the room, ducking costume racks and hot irons as you get to the door, passing Irina, who gives you a concerned look. You almost question her, until you open the door and see your Lieutenant standing outside. Looking probably three inches taller than his already massive form as he spreads his chest and squares his shoulders. You look behind your shoulder, directing her a cheeky wink before you slip out of the room, grabbing Ghost by the arm of his hoodie and yanking him further down the hall into one of the private rooms. Ignoring the zap of electricity as the tips of your fingers brush the dark fabric.
“What?” You hiss, almost seething that he would make contact with you in the field, in front of coworkers; As if that weren’t breaking the mission rules.
The man doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t speak until he seems to look you up and down, the hardwood stare picking everything about you apart. “What?” He echoes, dry. “‘What?’ She fuckin’ says, as if you didn’t just put us all on the line.”
You tilt your head at him condescendingly, “You mean doing my job? Completing the fucking mission?”
“Your mission was to get close to Zelena—”
“My mission was to gather intel on the Mashcov family and take them down.” You whisper, voice a hairbreadth of sound. “And I have not failed a mission yet, Sir.”
Ghost lets out one sharp chuckle before he nods once, tilting his head at you. “And you think shakin’ your arse at the enemy is gonna do that, yeah?”
Not to be outdone, you mimic his forward step, anger causing your shoulders to pull up, the patter of your pulse sounding in your ears. You're close now, so close you can smell him. The cool tobacco curling around you, filling you with the smoky undernotes of oak.“I’ll do what it takes.”
Before he can respond, a knock sounds at the door, and he growls. It rips through his chest and expands in the room. Filling it to the brim with menacing grit. It sends goosebumps scattering across your exposed skin, heart dropping as he yanks open the door.
It was the first real show of anger you’d ever seen from him, directed at you.
It was the first show of any real emotion you’d seen from him.
Pure frustration, vexation radiating through the deep resonance so viciously that it burned. Like a damn shot of fucking morphine, setting your veins on fire before a soothing numb follows.
Why does it make your stomach…swoop?
Miss. Petrov is standing outside, glancing over her shoulder swiftly, as if to check on something before she turns back to you two. The dark wine gaze roves over you two, the close bodies, your wide eyes, and Ghost’s seething form, and she seems to put something together in her mind. “No personal pleasure on the clock.”
Ghost's body snaps, the entire thing drawing back like a bowstring, taut and ready to fire off at a twitch of the fingers. You step forward, cheeks a flustered pink that you didn’t have to force. “O-of course, Miss. Petrov, I am so s—”
“Save your breath, you’re being asked for a special thank you.” The rumbling sound is back, low and baritone, snaking down your skin and settling itself in the heat of your belly.
Before either of you can make a fool of yourself, you nod hurriedly. “Of course, Miss. Petrov, I’ll be right there.” You shoot a glare at your Lieutenant before following obediently after her, slipping the robe off on your way. Barely even flinching at the freezing whip of Ghost's leer, the darkening of his eyes, swallowing the brown, the intense furrowing of his brow that causes his nose bridge to crinkle.
Barely.
You shouldn’t be surprised when you’re led straight to that half-moon table, a pack of wolves snarling behind their white conciliatory smirks. You’re drawn in, like a roe deer being corralled, bites nipping at your heels as they try to outlast you. Exhausting you until they can all pounce.
Poppy plays her part well. You come out, beam on your perfectly polished lips. The glinting of your costume captures the hazy carmine lights, scattering like rubies. Ghost follows soon after, exiting out of the doorway to lean on the bar as he observes you.
The air is thick with the cigarette’s brume as you cut through the crowd, people parting and sending you compliments; showering you in praise as you pass. It was electric, the kind that tinges the air right before a summer storm. That sticky, heated sort of tingle that starts low in your bones and thrums until you can feel your hair stand up. You wonder, almost half-heartedly, what the team must think of you now. You don’t meander on the thought. Only take another step toward malediction. You find your way over to them, your shimmering heels lengthening your legs as you parade through. “Красный…” Isaak’s voice breathed as you approached, squared jaw dropping in an almost reverence. A glimmer of…something in his eyes. For just a moment, sizzling plasma flowed through the slightly obscene blue of his irises. They weren’t a calming cobalt like Johnny, no. They were the kind of shade that caught the light, illuminating the pure white of his sclera in an off-putting way. Yet as you approach, they’re overcome by his pupil expanding.
It takes your mind a moment to adjust from the hushed English to your practiced sugary Russian. “Hello…I heard you were asking for me?” You ask, perfectly mawkish, an innocent widening of your expression, a slight tilt of your head.
Issak trails up and down your body without any restraint, humming a satisfied sound when he reaches back to your face. “Indeed, you’re new, no?”
You nod, a little shyly, as you wave slightly, “I was just hired earlier this week.”
“An amazing addition.” He concedes coolly, looking at the men at his table. “Wouldn’t you all agree?” They don’t hesitate before bidding to his words—out of truth or obligations you couldn’t tell. Though the way your skin is left untouched by the ravenous, lazy fixation of their stares…it makes you feel like it was a heady blend of both.
“Baby I wanna touch you…I want to breathe inside your well…”
Ears pricking at the soft velvet sway of Zelena’s song number, your head turns for a moment, expecting Issak’s to follow, but he simply watches you instead, waiting. You can’t help but feel the way dread fills you at the intensity of the stare. The weight behind his interest was damning, and you didn’t want to admit that it frightened you a bit. While you were dedicated to your mission and would do anything to ensure its completion, the slightly manic glaze of his face sets you on edge. You’d never seen someone look at you like that… not since…
“See, I gotta hunt you…I gotta bring you to my hell…”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Russia, yeah, not your native country,” Isaak comments as he moves to slide further in the booth, arm across the back of the seat as he nods at the small gap he’d opened. “Sit, please.”
It isn’t a question.
Feet moving before you can stop them, you drop to his side, trying to dismiss the prick of Ghost in your peripheral vision. You can’t imagine where his mind was as you slid on the vinyl seating. Your bare thighs brush against the cool material as you settle in beside him. The strong smell of vodka and beer mixes heavily between the two of you, thick cigars left burning as the plume of smoke swirls upwards.
You never did like the deep scent of fermented tar that would roll from the densely packed bundle of leaves. It wasn’t the tobacco that you hated—contrarily you actually enjoyed the smell of cigarettes. They were sharper, sweeter, a lighter air of paper. Your mother used to smoke them; they’d paint the already dirty walls yellow as you both huddled close. Maybe the heat was off, maybe your father had a bad day at the tables, either way. The smell was home, small, quiet slips of comfort in her otherwise disregarded existence.
Cigars were the opposite.
They were briny nights of trepidation and peat-tinged deception.
“Baby, I wanna fuck you…I wanna feel you in my bones.”
“No,” your soft accent rises above the music, the intense and heavy synthesizer, the room is dramatically dimmed, eyes smoldering in the candlelight as you lean forward as if indulging a secret. “I’m from Belarus!”
He laughs, a grainy thing that grates on your ears, feeding the growing pit in your stomach as you flutter your lashes at him. “See, I always know when someone is not from here, the accent.. It’s special, yeah?”
Exactly, which is why you picked a country close but not quite the same. A young girl from a small village in Belarus is a perfect explanation for the differences in accents and slips in words.
“Boy, I'm gonna love you…I'm gonna tear you into your soul.”
“Russia is very special, I’ve loved my time here.”
Isaak watched her, just staring at her for a moment, those intense glow illuminated by the glistening reds. “ So, what’s a good girl like you doing here? Hmm?”
“Desire, I'm hungry, I hope you feed me…”
The echoes of your song hit you as you force a titter, cheeks as warm as the room, a sweltering intensity that doesn’t seem to go unnoticed. “Oh… I love to dance, and I’m saving…”
You trail, biting your lip off-handedly as you glance away; handcrafting the look of faux embarrassment. The coruscate appears once again, a craving seeming to cultivate under your innocence. “A good girl indeed.” He agrees, simply.
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
“Well, of course, I’m no liar.” You don’t even recognize the sound of your voice, candy-coated philandering. You’ve never flirted before, really, never one to go out to a party or bar. In childhood and adulthood, you weren’t…shy, just…reticent. Maybe it was due to the rapid growth of your adolescence, the need to become an adult due to the lack of competency of those around you. The trauma pushing for development. The words themselves are ironic, a cuckoo placed so gently amongst the others, a mimicry, only to slowly take over and consume.
“How do you want me, how do you want me? How do you want me, how do you want me?”
The canines of his teeth catch dangerously on the light as they bare themselves, a mockery of a real smile. This was more so an impetuous bearing of tush. “I’m starting to see that…tell me, Poppy, where did you learn to sing like that?”
The words that come are reverent, as if he’s swallowing up the sounds of you all for himself. A truly gluttonous display that made your stomach churn with sick. It was just strange… how swiftly and suddenly he seemed to clock onto you. “I’ve been singing since I was young…it’s always been my passion.” You say simply, as if to wave off the magnificence of your actions.
His head shakes, scattering the thick curls of black across his forehead as he leans in closer to you, the smell of alcohol and an almost chemical sandalwood overwhelming now. “Well… It’s simply… intoxicating…” he whispered, his hand coming out to brush your cheek when you pull back shyly. His hand falls, and there is a split moment where he transforms. No more mealymouthed phrases or unctuous smiles, it was raw, real. A fleeting glance at the monster lurking underneath his skin. Yet it’s gone just as fast. “I look forward to seeing you again…Poppy.”
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
The noise grates on Ghost’s ears as he hears Price snap orders. Everyone is tense, Johnny hasn’t cracked a joke since he’d put the earpiece back in after your and his little, meeting, was interrupted. “Keep your eyes on them, he so much as twitches wrong—”
“Affirmative.” Ghost mutters as he watches you slide into the booth, tucking yourself in the side of the bratva, batting your eyelashes as he leans down into your space, a sweet grin on your lips. Have you ever looked at him that way? With those deep eyes that seem to suck you in and go on forever. He doesn't remember you making much of any eye contact with him. The man didn’t play by the niceties of social graces, never meeting someone’s eyes unless it was for intimidation. You’d rarely looked back at his heated stares.
Not until the fight.
“Honey, I wanna break you”
The way you’d taken a step toward him, thunderous in your anger as you seemed to crackle like the strike of lightning. It drew him in, a warm storm, a sunshower in the never-ending sands of the desert. Dry virga promising wisps of your righteous mizzles before it could hit him. Would you have hit him? Would you have drawn those jowls of yours back and masticate the hand that feeds you? ‘I’ll do what it takes.’ The words echo in his mind as he watches Isaak dip his head toward you with starvation written across his body.
“I wanna throw you to the hounds”
How could Simon not feel the pricks of need as he’d watched you perform in that little outfit and then not only put yourself in harm's way and directly into the attentions of the enemy, but also act venomously when questioned by your superiors? So irreproachable in your arguments, as if you truly believed there was no better way. As if your safety in the situation was not.
It made his jaw click.
“Yeah I gotta hurt you, I gotta hear it from your mouth”
The way your scent consumed him as you had gone toe-to-toe with him, body nothing compared to his as he towered over your provoked little form. Face hitched downward in what he supposed you thought was a vicious snarl, but he could only see a street mutt scared and cornered, trying to show the big dogs in the pound you were in charge. Yet the way your snarls quickly suspended into compliant whimpers around Miss. Petrov had his mind reeling.
The lines between Mozu and Poppy were blurring, and he had a feeling, somewhere buried in the middle, was where you lay.
“Boy, I wanna taste you, I wanna skin you with my tongue.”
The way that Isaak looked at you set both Ghost and Simon on edge, the latter because he recognized that look on his men before him—the manic sort of glee that gave way to limerent obsessions; The former because he'd seen that own look in himself earlier that night.
“I'm gonna kill you.”
The thoughts came quickly, the way they always do. A flash of a movie like moments crossing behind his gaze and spiraling out of control. The way he wanted you, the way he looked at you. It was setting him off, and all he wanted was to reach into his hidden holster and put a bullet between the man’s searching examinations.
I'm gonna lay you in the ground”
Ghost was no stranger to the dark thoughts, the kind that creeped in through the slats of his mind, beating like a pulse underneath hardwood vaults. It calls out to him, no matter how hard he tries to bury it under layers of varnish.
‘Desire, I'm hungry….”
It was like you kindled the already growing licks of provocation, like you were pushing him to act, though coyning smiles and sweet slick movements. Ghost was shikarring. This was the beginning of something new, something foreign.
“I hope you feed me…”
You know, bird trapping has a few basic steps.
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
Different tactics, different methods.
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
In the end, it’s all about the lure, the location, and the trap.
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
Birds, they tend to be a skittish bunch, ready and waiting for the zip of flight, notoriously hard to catch if you weren’t trying to go for the kill.
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
Yet… There are some traps, invisible to the naked eye, the moment they fly into it, they’re entangled, wings strung up in imperceptible wires, wrapping around them until they’re unable to escape.
“I wanna feel you, I want it all.”
Hammock-like pockets consume them as they wait, secured in a cocoon of nylon until their handlers are able to gently coax them from the webbing.
“I wanna feel you, I want it all.”
Never had Ghost had an interest in fowling, never put much mind into observing the little things, yet as he watched you hinge your chin upward, the trace of something on your lips…
Suddenly, it’s his favorite sport.
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
“How do you want me, how do you want me?”
꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦
Hey y'all, sorry this is so late, I had doctors' appointments all day lol, anywho glimpses of Simon being possessive ooo
After preforming for the first time, Simon Riley is confronted with emotions he doesn't recognize, while you fall deeper into your role
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The flat that you two shared was dingy, an almost leaky thing, covered in the scent of must and damp wallpaper. There was a distinct dripping sound of water that didn’t come from the tap, and also random splotches of stains aligning the ceiling and walls. Cracks stretched across the windows; splinterings of the glass that allowed for streaks of wind to flutter in the room, giving it a bone-deep chill in the Russian winter. The only thing to combat that is a small space heater hooked up to an overloaded power strip in the center of the living room.
Well, if you could even call it that, there were no walls except for the dismal bathroom one. The back wall had the ‘bedroom’ tucked in the south-west corner, while the couch and broken television sat in the eastern one. The bathroom was along the north-west wall, complete with a wobbly toilet and spicket that ran out of hot water ten minutes into a shower. The kitchen consisted of a gas stove top that looked like it came from a 50's housewife ad, and the counters were lined with that fake marble plastic that peeled up in the corners.
The lieutenant didn’t seem to mind; he only shouldered his way into the small, thin door. He watches you toweringly as you enter after him, locking the deadbolt and two additional locks that had been installed. He hadn’t spoken much since the club, a muttered greeting when you’d met up with him a block down from the club after your shift. Climbing on top of his motorcycle as he zipped through the night streets and back to the ruse flat. The team was back at the safehouse, Ghost making a muttering noise as he clicked the buttons on the bulky computer; the screen flickered on to show the three men on the other side.
You’re both sitting on the couch, the bottom of it is broken, the way it dips toward the center and creeks uneasily under Ghost’s weight makes you certain of that.
Johnny is the first to speak, letting out a low whistle as his eyes draw up and down you playfully. “Well now, Bonnie, if we knew you had a pair of pipes like tha’ huh?”
A chuckle comes from Gaz as he pops over the Scottish man’s shoulder, eyes wide and teasing. “Should be callin’ you Wren, yeah?
“You can call me that if you want to lose your tongue.” You mutter out, heat rising stubbornly to your cheeks as you try to battle the underlying glow.
John lets out a chuckle, “Alright, lads, leave ‘er alone. Can’t be teasin’ our very own Dusty Springfield.”
They all erupted in laughter as Ghost shifted next to you, his massive form haunching forward as he let out a dark noise. “So, she’s in. What now?”
A serious blow passes over the team. “Reconnaissance, you’re our eyes and ears out there, Mozu. Surveillance says Issak is close to one of the dancers there—Zelena—goes to her for private dances.”
“Zelena, got it.” You murmur, eyes looking at the screen and avoiding the weighted glances coming from the corner of your Lieutenant’s mask.
“Other than that, you both keep your ears pricked, eyes on each other's six, yeah? Report anythin’ and everythin’.” You both nod at your Captain’s orders. The last thing you see is the three soldiers smiling as the screen blacks out, plunging you into the quietness of the room. The only sounds are your breathing and the faint fighting and conversations of your neighbors.
You shift uncomfortably, out of everyone on the team, you are most unsure about your place amongst Ghost. He wasn’t an easy man to break, you knew that. You’d seen it the first day you’d shown up on base.
Arms crossed over his chest, a physical barrier between him and the outside world, the stretch of his shoulders and square of his body screamed power and authority. The slight tilting of his feet and position told you he didn’t want to be near you any more than he had to.
Which was fine.
You were no stranger to those types of superiors, the ones who would rather you be seen and not heard. Yet… that suspicion falters when you hear the blunt comments he’d slip to Price. The intoned dry dad jokes that would alight Soap’s comms. The biting sarcasm that soaked his conversations with Gaz.
It wasn’t a him thing, it was a you thing.
Again, this was fine; you were introduced to the 141 as a catalyst. The looming tone of dangered deployments clung to you as if you were a banshee wailing death’s warning. You were a question, a bundle of text across an OMPF. Nothing but paragraphs of NCOERs and disciplinary records.
As the year goes on… It's stagnant. With the slow ins and outs of missions and stations, nothing changes; there is never a comment toward you that isn’t an order or gripe.
“Bloody ‘ell, Mozu.”
“Keep your eyes on a swivel, Sergeant!”
“UAV overheads!”
Always shortly snapped, always gruff.
You had thought Gaz would be the one joining you; he was the most practical. His ability to change languages on a dime, his observant nature, and covert surveillance training… It was the obvious choice. Yet, when you had looked at Price during debrief, he’d simply barked a quick— "Lieutenant will handle ya’.”
And that was that.
Except it wasn’t because now you were sitting, locked in silence with him as he barely spared you a glance. At least with the others, they tried to pretend you were included, slowly trusted your abilities through your brute strength and mental fortitude. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust your skills; it was just that you were closed off, flighty, evasive. It made it hard for anyone to pin down, nevermind paranoid C-PTSD rattled soldiers who’d never had a lick of therapy in their life that wasn’t mandated.
Yet, what were you supposed to do? Carve yourself open for them and eviscerate yourself on truths? No, they all had their wounds. They all rotted on the inside with their own wickedness swathed as justice. You would do no exhibition, you made sure of that; promised yourself in the darkness of that safehouse you’d never unveil yourself like you did when…when…
A shift brings you out of your thoughts as the mountain beside you moves. Startling you from the inner musings of your brain matter when the splintered plywood creaks. He gets up with a pop of his joints, cracking his head to the side, and does a lap around the small area, checking the locks and exits.
In your own body, you feel tense, trapped. It was as if the barometric pressure shifted; the buzzing in your chest swarmed as his form moved silently over the decaying floorboards. The flood of bugs seems to sibilate through your body, your mouth opening in a searching hinge as they flood out in the form of words.
“You pick up chow?” Those are the first things out of your mouth as your eyes flicker to the yellowing fridge.
A slight scoff came from him, “Bloody Yank.” You hear him mutter as he looks up at you. The spruce forests call you deeply among the branches. “S’called, scran in the SAS.”
You get a contemplative look over your face for a moment, processing his tone and body language, trying to devise your response. “Yeah, an’ I’d call it that if you bastards won the war, yet here we are.” You say crossly, moving towards the kitchen and opening the empty fridge that seems to have the lingering scent of rot. “MRE’s tonight, I’ll pick up supplies in the morning.”
“Ration pack.” Came the answering correction as you jerk two packs of food from your ruck, throwing one over to your Lieutenant. You sit on the floor, back against one of the overly soft walls, as you assemble the chicken curry, the sound of Ghost doing the same thing keeping your attention slightly. Your eyes dart over to him, where he had been opening the contents without heating them. Realizing something, you move from against the wall and turn, staring at the faded Gzhel patterns, as your food heats. You hear the rustling of the packaging stop before a voice filters through the room. “What, you throwin’ a wobbler?”
Turning in absolute confusion, your face pinched up as you looked at your Lieutenant. “What?”
“Wobbler. Like a tyke, poutin’ at a wall.” You realize half–way through his words he meant a tantrum.
Your eyes glowered at him, “You need to eat, can’t do that through a mask.”
The silence veils the room as you turn your head back again, watching the steam escaping your heating element. You pick up the packaging from the water, wiping it on your sleeve before digging into the lack of flavor. That didn’t stop you; it could be covered in ash and rolled in sand, and you’d probably still eat it. Taste and textures become distant memories in the face of famine. Being out on ops for days…your hunger wasn’t a foreign concept to you.
And if there was one thing starvation drove you to do, it was consumption.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The room was alive with people tonight. The club was adorned with patrons at every table, smoking, chatting, and drinking. The casual pass of laughter and conversation eased over everyone. The girls were radiant tonight, enriched with sequined costumes and perfectly dolled-up make-up worn like uniforms. The glitter spreads across gaps of skin. Idyllic and provocative smiles embellish them, their own individual weapons.
That’s what they used them like, hidden under the bright shine of teeth glinting off stage lights was something…minacious. The underlying taste of danger licked across their enamel. Kissed lips poised for devastation.
Ghost watched in the shadows of the crimson-lit room. This was the first Saturday since Mozu had been hired at the club. Everyone was tense, chatter on the line silent. It’s been two days and other than glimpses of closed rehearsals and the flash of you in the background of the girls, Ghost had seen nothing of Nadzeya. Only the quiet passive monitoring of Mozu around the flat.
He still remembered the first night they’d spent there.
When Mozu had first turned your back towards him that night, he was sure it was his first glimpse of some kind of resentment toward his attitude. A storm of vexation slips through the usual buoyant waves that seemed to wash across the shores of your psyche. Yet, no, it was those same usual considerations that had followed him on base. The silent pass of indifferent kindness as if it were second nature to you. As if it were easy.
It made the emptiness inside him grow.
That same attitude had continued into the night, despite the Lieutenant's best efforts and abruptness. He didn’t make small talk, only muttered a quiet, “You’re ‘lright.” to signal that he had finished eating. He hadn’t taken his mask fully off, only pulled it up over his nose as he dug into the cold meat; his stare pinned to your back as you’d eaten your own meal.
You hadn’t even tried to peek a glance at him through the corner of your eyes, simply watched the wallpaper like the waning blue swirls were the most interesting thing in the world.
It grated him.
Why were you so… kind? No—not nice. Kind. There were no sugared words, no surface-level politeness, no acquiesces for small conversation. It was like it was all…ingrained into you. The genuineity behind the small action enkindled a warmth in him that he desperately tried to snuff.
You’d looked up at him with those wide eyes, that slowly growing familiar lour passed over your squeezed face. Still-glossed lips pressing together so hard they lighten with the pressure. It was as if you were trying to keep your own words muzzled as you tried your best to fight with him.
And fight you did.
“You should take the bed, I’ll take the couch.” You’d told him, pulling your ruck toward you as you readied yourself for a chilling shower.
He’d scoffed at you, “Since when did you start giving orders, aye?” Ghost almost growled out as he turned his body on the dingy couch, stretching out his legs on the boxy little thing—the bolts groaning against each other under his weight.
Little hands moved to your waist as you jutted a hip out, head tilted like he was an idiot.
Maybe he was.
“I’m smaller, and you’re going to break that couch, you don’t even fit on it!”
You were right, it would kill his back, the awkward angle of the arms made sure that his 6 '3 form could not settle correctly amongst the crusted mustard colored cushions.
Still, he’d dealt with worse.
So, he only gives you an amused look beneath his mask. It was funny, the exasperation clear as day in your voice. Seemingly frustrated by his lack of factual observations. “Well then, I guess neither of us is sleeping on the bed.” You state, placing your pack, as if you would take the floor.
“Why don’t you go sit your arse down on the bed, or do I have to pull rank, Sergeant?”
You go stark still at that, the kindling in your gaze setting him ablaze before you drop it with a simple, “Aye, Sir.” Yet, when you walked away, he could have sworn he’d heard the emendation, “Ass,” as you marched toward the shower.
It almost made the crick in his spine worth it.
“Incoming."
Ghost hears the chime of Gaz pull him from his thoughts, his observations moving from the constant sweep to a piercing, immobile scrutiny. Isaak looks the same as he does on the glossed pages, taller than the average man, a layer of lean muscle wrapping his flesh, the deep onyx of his hair slick against his head as he swaggers into the room, flanked by his guard and two other men.
“On the left is Vanya Egorov, local shylock, and the bloke on the right is Samuil Kozlov, he’s one of the Mashcov family enforcers."
Kozlov would need to be taken down first; Ghost could recognize the cold occupancy of a reaper from here. He was shorter than Roma Abelev—the main bodyguard for Isaak—but no less dangerous; his bulk was what made him a threat. The danger in the takedown is Abelev seeing, so he’d have to take him out quietly or simultaneously. Egorov is barely a blimp on his radar as he takes in the plush, seedy man with a thick beard and swollen nose; he’d go down quickly.
Isaak had the movement of a man who’d never feared a day in his life, a confident gait in his bespoke leather shoes. A man of comfort, of wealth and power. They make their way to the main table that sits across the center of the stage. The large half-moon booth takes up a good amount of space. Dark glossy surface, top lined with pre-prepared drinks and cigarette dishes. They settle down at the table, a waitress immediately flocking to them as they settle. They seem to chat for a moment before she flits away to the bar—no doubt bringing drinks back for Isaak’s companions.
The opening number had already occurred, he’d remembered seeing Mozu spinning behind the girls, as if camouflage amongst the glamour.
Show a little more…show a little less…add a little smoke…welcome to Burlesque.
It wasn’t you who had sung them, but you did make an appearance in the first song. Not much, only the small shimmy forward and cheeky wave to the crowd when introduced by a:
You can dream of Coco…do it at your risk…the triplets grant you mercy but not your every wish…Zelena keeps you guessing, so cool and statuesque…behave yourself, says Poppy, welcome to Burlesque.
It was a simple little thing, nothing too big. Something in Ghost was satisfied that Mozu—or Poppy as you were referred to here—wasn’t in the main set. There was… this…agent in him that vetted about the exposure, that level of intimacy…it made his jaw grind.
Something there in the dark…is playing with your mind…it's not the end of days…it's just the bump and grind
One of the girls—Irina, Ioana, or Inessa, whichever of those three—pops up onto stage, an audacious grandiose as she talks to the crowd. “Alright, now everyone, when she says to behave, she really means it! Welcome to the stage, Poppy!”
A peel of cheers consumes them as everything dims, the movement of a chaise lounge wheeled on the stage, as jazz swells in the room, filling the silence.
Unable to stop the hitch of his breath, the spotlight illuminates the stage, a wispy, “Where have I been all my life…” Filtering through the expanding growl of trumpets.
“Ghost—what is happening in there?”
Suddenly, he can’t move; he feels rooted to his spot, unable to shake off the image that you made.
You’re lying no… lounging, an artist’s perfect odalisque in the front of the stage. The curtain drawn behind you is a velvet backlit. The glint of gemstones on your powder pink corset sends rainbows scattering across the stage, illuminating the soft, warm glow of your skin in the lustered lighting.
Voice, your voice… It was a rich and sticky-sweet decadence; a bite of toffee pudding that consumed Simon’s childhood in rare moments of peace. The reminiscence was ripped violently to the forefront of his mind, a phantom taste of dates and sticky-sweet buttery caramel splashed across his mouth, causing it to fill with moisture.
“The dress is Chanel, the shoes YSL…the bag is Dior, Agent Provocateur.”
You turn your head, and your eyes meet his, the shimmering pinks and silvers contrasting with deep blacks and whites lining your eyes, giving them a pure expression. Lips pouted in a pink, coquettish push. “My address today, L.A. by the way above Sunset Strip, the Hills all the way.”
Something most people didn’t know about Ghost was that he had a sweet tooth. Tea, black with three sugars. Dessert was always consumed with a ravenous need. It was an annoyance. A clink in his armor he’d admit—there was just an essence to a candied coating or saccharine layer that he clung to like a street-mutt with a bone.
Simon was one of the same; his memories of his mother slipping him and Tommy spoonfuls of honey or bits of granulated sugar cubes. Treats were hidden from their father for when they’d done well. Still after all these years, there's something so soothing about the crunch of coarse crystals under his teeth.
It was one of the few things the two agreed on, a sort of bridge between his two psyches.
“My rings are by Webster…it makes their heads twirl…”
Submission, another brick in the road paved between them. Not the type commanded on the field, but one given in reverence. Trust built upon carnal desires and needs.
You’re sitting up now, legs crossed, looking practically dainty to him as those shimmering impractical heels clung to your feet. “They all say, "Darling, what did you do for those pearls?" A shocked gasp cuts out of you as you look around, hand covering your smile. “What? I am a good girl…”
Bloody.
Fuckin.’
Hell.
Crepuscular Rays is the phenomenon of when the sun cuts through clouds, radiating from a single point and bathing the dark rolls of fog in gold and pink splendours. Manchester rarely had sunny days, but there were moments, moments of brief streaks and beams of light separated by shadows across the sky.
Moments in his life where he’d felt the warmth of God rays across endless overcast.
Nothing ever like this.
It was as if there was now a midnight sun punching through his void of tenebrosity. Breaking through the nimbus with ease, weathering a storm you hadn’t even known was raging. His chest was pounding, Simon and Ghost blending for a moment, a complete synchronicity that he’d never felt within himself before.
The curtain pulls as you make your way up the stairs, the little feathered skirt barely coming down to cover the curve where the meat of your ass hits the back of your thighs. It drives him insane, the way he can glimpse at the bejeweled lingerie underneath. Energy crackled beneath his skin as you crawled up the polished black stage steps. The movements… cheeky spreading of your legs, twists and turns of your ass, on your hands, tilted downward, looking pleadingly at them.
“B.H. I adore, Rode-O L'amore…Breakfast Polo Lounge, then poolside for sure!” Poppy… Poppy is at the top of the stage, a dancing pole in the center as you look back impertinently, spinning and clinging to the damn thing like you were a pro. “The Château for cocktails, the Courtyard at nine…Dan Tana's for dinner, the Helen's divine!”
Your hips rock as you step around the pole, using it as a stand to roll your pelvis back in a sensual pop. “You know I have found, the word's gone around…” You lift yourself up, using your leg to lock around the metal, as it rotates, spinning you. “They all say my feet never do touch the ground!” They sway back and forth before Poppy lands, that same amorous chaste glance of shock. “What? I am a good girl!”
The music breaks as you make your way back down the stairs, gloves that cover her hands slipping off as her legs kick out across one another in a model-like saunter. The feathered skirt slips off your hips as you step down the last step, leaving you in the encrusted leotard.
None of this is what gives him pause. No.
None of this is what truly sets the match.
It’s when that little walk of yours playfully marches past him, leaving behind a swath of honey and pomegranate musk, shooting him a wink as you pass. It was when you stepped up on one of the chairs to Mashcov’s table…legs sensually stretching and contouring with your teasing pirouette…allowing the man’s dark eyes to rove your form, leaning down with one last mawkish, “I am a good girl…” As you roll those thighs of yours down into a Dionysian squat… and let out five cloying, exaggerated moans. “Ah, ooh, ah, yeah, uh!”
That’s the flashpoint.
꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦
Haha, all done with this one, enjoy Simon and Ghost, confused as hell about what he's feeling
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Tensions rise between you and your new Lieutenant when you volunteer for a mission like no other...to go undercover at a burlesque club and infiltrate your enemy
Within a year, your file became a splotch of black lines and blurred images. You were no longer yourself; hell, you didn’t even know if you were American anymore. Your birthday passes, no one knows, you don’t tell them, and it's redacted from your file. All of your belongings—the little things you did own—had been shipped in a small pathetic cardboard box and placed inside your quarters. Everyone you used to talk to, the Sparrowhawks, battlebuddies, and old bootmates slowly blurred into white noise.
You’ve been stationed on the small base in a confidential location in the U.K., a place you had no citizenship to. There is no escape, and you slowly slink into the monotony that comes with being property of the U.S government… the U.K. government? NATO? Hell, you didn’t know; all you knew was you followed the orders of your commanding officer and went to bed with dreams painted in screams.
Slowly, the tendrils of those who you had been, who you had become, faded. A new persona was born, molded to fit the needs of your new team. Yielding parts of yourself to them as you sank to the background, pulling each inward on yourself, coveting them close to your chest. You were never really… a part of them, no. Yes, you were in the team, you went on missions with them, ate at the same table in the mess hall, barked at the same set of recruits, but…
There was something… off about the dynamic.
It was not a lack of proving yourself.
During the year, many silent ‘atta-boys’ slipped from your Captain in passing moments; Yet there was no patting on your shoulder like he would with MacTavish.
Soap would chat your ear off about anything on his mind if you were there, yes, but he would not seek you out like he did to the Lieutenant.
Gaz had barely broken the heavy moments of silence between the two of you, and didn’t try to budge at the barrier of friendship too heavily. There were no witty comebacks, no shared annoyed glances like he did the Captain.
Don’t even get you started on Ghost.
There was barely any difference from day one; no amount of missions or dry comments shared on comms seemed to crack the stoic cynicism that seemed to shroud the man. Soap muttered a comment about not taking it personally.
“Ol’ boy is just like that, a right crabbit, dinna fash yersel.”
It wasn’t as if you hadn’t gone on missions together; in fact, the 141 had been deployed four separate times since your extraction last year. You had recently come back from a week-long stint in a small oil rig off the coast of Azerbaijan, where a small group of Armenian terrorists had taken over—demanding control over Nagorno-Karabakh. For five days, the Armenian and Azerbaijan governments tried to negotiate with them, only for them to execute a man for each night passed; The US knew that if this got out on the news, war could break out over an already tentative peace treaty.
They came up from the water, a submarine docking a few klicks back, popping out of the Lock Out Trunks, moving silently underneath the waves—rebreathers strapped to their mouths as they pulled out of the chilled tides of the Caspian Sea. Crawling up the cement pillars, they ascended the rig. Taking down enemies, dropping them into the wine-dark seas below. Leaving behind only drops of salt water and choked screams.
You can still remember the chimes of your teammates in your ears as you slit through the windpipe of a man. The strangled wet gurgle of his blood bubbling around the miserable last expulsion of breath as your ears perk with static.
“Why is justice best served cold?”
You almost startled for a moment when you heard your lieutenant's gruff voice filter through the comms. A collective groan resounded through the group. The laughter you choked down at the cheeky, “Because if you served it warm, it would be justwater.” Made your chest almost… lighten despite the gore-stained black material of your gloves.
The rest of the mission went off without a hitch, other than the occasional swear from Johnny or quip from Gaz, the lines stayed quiet.
You were always quiet.
It was a tendency you had learned. A safety back home. An even bigger comfort when you had been—
Blinking rapidly, you’re pulled from your mind as your vision focuses on Johnny; he’s staring at you, bright blue eyes boring into your own. His head is tilted to the side, the buzzed sides of his mohawk slightly overgrown from the time in the field. No time to shave when you were sleeping on the marshy lowlands of the Kura Aras.
With tight lips, you nod once as Gaz settles down beside you. You’re all in the boardroom, awaiting the arrival of Cap and the Lieutenant. Another briefing, another mission, you’re sure.
Captain walks in, muttering a quick snapped, at ease, before anyone can move to get up. Ghost follows behind him like a reaper follows death, boring pools of spruce pinning you with a stare as soon as he steps in.
A shiver runs down the base of your spine, though it’s not fear you feel, no. Not terror that makes your pulse speed just a beat faster. The intensity of his compilation always sets you on edge. The edge of what was to be decided. The drag of his monomaniacal stare sends a thrill through your skin.
Yet you drop his eyes— almost reluctantly—as files are spilled onto the table. Lifting them, you open pictures of a man, it looks to be a candid shot, smiling, controlled, poised. His teeth were sharp, and his eyes were a dark, almost maroon, as they glanced at the crowd off-camera. Brown salt-and-pepper slick-back hair coming down to the collar of his bespoke suit. Perfectly tailored to him, accentuating the large mass of his body.
“This is Mikhail Mashcov, current Secretary of the Security Council of the Russian Federation.” Meaning he’s the top and closest advisor to the president. “He’s the suspected Vory v Zakone of one of the largest Bratva families in western Russia.” The four of you look through the photos and surveillance files, tossing them to one another as Price keeps talking, debriefing everything you’d need to know before mobilization. “He’s linked to perpetrating the 1987 house bombings that provided justification for the invasion of Nalchik.”
Images of decimated homes flicker across the table as they pass over your eyes in disinterest. You’d been on the ground after airstrikes, watched IEDs upturn Humvees and suicide bombers disintegrate before your eyes… Some homes crumbled like Illium showed little importance to you. “We also think he’s responsible for signing off on the assassination of Anatoli Timur, a former FSB whistleblower.”
‘We don’t have torture here; it’s prohibited by law. And in fact, we have never had torture in Russia. No, there is no torture…’
The quote echoes through your mind as you see the photos of a man chewed up and spit out by the world. His body is twisted like his flesh was made of clay. Ligatures pulled around his own neck in a gruesome image that made your stomach roil slightly. His knees were bent, hinged in a reverent position, hands clasped together in orans posture, wrists bent and broken in devotion. You flick the photo away, ears loud as you take a breath, listening to the gruff, grizzly tone of your captain. “In the first month of Mashcov’s leadership, there was a series of large-scale terrorist attacks across Russia. These attacks were blamed on Nalchikian terrorists, but sleeper informants say otherwise.” He grouses, his stare passing over the room, “He also paved the way for Aleksi Sidorov’s success in the presidential elections.”
Johnny passes you a bundle of files, which looks to be a family tree and a diagram of familial connections. You grab it, flickering over it as Soap pipes up in the back of your thoughts. “And? What changed?”
“What changed was the CIA picked up chatter of another wide-scale inside attack, this time to buy missiles from the GRU and launch a centralized bombing at the border of Russia and Lithuania to cause outrage and invade.” You all sit with that, you reading the document in your hands.
“They’re going after the Suwałki Gap?” You look up at him, meeting the arctic shadowed waters. You get a nod of agreement.
“Right, they cease that—”
“The Baltic states would be completely cut off; it’s the only land route between the Baltic states and the rest of the European Union and NATO.” Gaz summarizes, the map of the area sitting in the center of the table, highlighting the points of interest. “What do we do?”
Price sits at the head of the table. “Find a way in, infiltrate them quietly, find the plans, and get out. Any disruptment could cause an Article 5 deployment.”
The weight sits between all the sergeants for a moment, the two officers watching as they scuffle through the files, trying to find any point of access into the fortified family.
“What if we take the house?”
“It’s a year vetting process to be on their house staff; we don’t have that time.”
“Chaffuers?”
“Same process.”
“Gaurds?”
“All picked from high-ranking Bratva members.”
Each idea is turned down, every single idea brought up immediately squashed by the reality of the situation. The Mashcov house was a fortress, built to withstand Trojan horses. There was no quick way in, no glaringly obvious solution…
Wait a minute.
You flash over to the file, reaching for the page in Soap’s hands despite his playful squawk of protest as you pull the photo of the younger man to the surveillance notes. “What about Isaak?”
Gaz looks over your shoulder curiously, “The son? He’s about as protected as the father.”
“Except that he’s still a party boy.” You mutter, your fingers tapping the observation sheet. “Every week, Saturday night, he goes to the same place. Блаженство Бурлеск.” All blank looks, “Bliss Burlesque?”
“He’s goin’ to a sex club?” Your lieutenant mutters, and you roll your eyes.
Johnny just looks surprised. “You speak Russian?”
When no one else speaks, you sigh, "Burlesque is sensual dancing, like a strip tease with a story.” It’s the most you’ve spoken in a briefing before, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. “My point is, if we put someone in there, it’ll be easier to go after him. Get an in with the son, less experienced, less knowledgeable, he won’t see it coming.”
Captain Price nods. “So we put Gaz in as a bartender, try to see if we can coax out some information.”
You bite your lip a moment, debating, before you let out a grunted out a few restrained words. “Or I could go in as a dancer.”
“What?”
“Bonnie!”
“Fuckin’ hell.”
All three of your teammates voice their opposition as your eyes bore into your Captain’s. “Look, it makes the most sense, the girls already know him, they’ll talk to me before they talk to a man. This is what I do.”
He holds your eyes. “Everyone out.” Despite the desire to protest, everyone moves, leaving you rooted to the ground in his watch. Ghost is the last to leave, the skull mask impassively looking between the two of you, before his massive form follows the two sergeants out of the room. “You sure you can do this?”
Your eyes harden. “Sir, Sparrowhawks are made to invade and gather information. This wouldn’t be my first time undercover.”
“Aye, and the last time?”
Your back stiffens, brows set, and mouth lifting into a defensive snarl, teeth poised to bite. “Respectfully, Captain, my past is none of your concern. My missions have always been completed, no matter the complications.”
John pays no mind to your sneering, used to it from the pack of stray mutts he’d whipped into shape every single day around him. You both knew, deep down, that he was right. This was different, full immersion once again. Only the vague knowledge of the fact that you would slowly drown yourself in the waves of whoever you were to become. “The past of my team is my concern.” His voice is no-nonsense, holding you with a stern leer before continuing. “I’m not sayin’ you ain’t qualified. I’m sayin’ that Port Rois was not that lo—”
Location—Port Rois, Mission–rtseterio tiinfnrlato, Name-what was your name?—bhígr loyed—no… that's not right—
“I said I could handle it.”
Your chair kicks out as you stand, your captain only raising his bushy eyebrows at you, scowl hidden underneath the brush of his mustache. “Life doesn’t forgive the transgressions of your past; it's only a relentless scourge of what is to come. Shit doesn’t get any easier. If I have to walk through a crucible to erase what I’ve done? Then that’s what I’ll do, Sir.” You’re poised, venom slinking in your voice. “This is the only shot we have, the only in.”
With a sigh, he nods once. “You'd better know what you’re doing, Mozu.”
“I always do, Sir,” You mutter darkly, passing through the door, paying no mind to the lingering men as you return to the barracks.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Ghost watches carefully as Mozu makes your way from the debriefing room—a storm thundering over your usually misty shroud. Deep black tac gear tight on your body as you march your way through the base, growling at a recruit as you pass.
He trails your form, taking in the intense colors of your hair that's always professionally slicked down and back; You tucked it neatly under your cover. As you move, body tense and ready to pounce, Ghost can’t help the way he watches your gait. Even now in broad daylight, it was as if you were out of focus, a blurred, obscured vision of a woman buried underneath the potent layers of a soldier.
At first, when you were beginning on the team, Ghost appreciated the quality. There were no attempts at small talk, no prying into his life, why he wore his mask. You simply slunk into the background of their ops, a soothing breath on the comms as you huffed half-heartedly at the group's antics. Never adding, never contributing, just observing.
That changed when he realized just how much you were seeing.
It was as if you picked off on hidden cues, knew they needed things before they did. Price’s finger would twitch in a searching grip, and a pen would soon be pressed to his palm. Johnny would move too vigorously, knocking a bottle of gun conditioning oil over, yet none spilled. A delicate hand comes out to grab it just before it tilts over. Gaz would move to find his book only to spot it on the table beside him, you nonchalantly sipping your coffee as you read through your emails on your phone.
This would be fine; Ghost understood reading facial expressions and anticipating routines.
Yet, it didn’t stop with them.
No, in the morning, when the cool morning had yet to break from the warmth of sunrise, Ghost would usually heat up the cold kettle; now he finds it already whistling. In the field, when they’re ravaging through MRE’s the dessert would somehow find its way to him. He never knew how you did it, never understood how you saw him eat the dessert first, but you did.
It set him on edge.
You’re able to read his body language, it seems, always able to shoo the recruits away before he loses his temper, knew when he was too weary to go on watch, that burn of your gaze as he tries to argue with you when you announced to the group you’d take first watch. It was…off-putting, you were fog personified. Lacked too much mass to create a roaring storm, simply veiled yourself behind indifference.
When John steps out of the room, Ghost swings his head toward him. “You told ‘er no then?”
There was some… satisfaction with knowing you wouldn't be the main focus of the mission. Why, Ghost couldn’t place it.
It’s immediately squandered when the Captain shakes his head. “Nah, we leave for Volgograd at 0700 tomorrow.”
The group looks at one another, uneaseily, Ghost feeling a bubble of heat in his chest as his eyes narrow. “You think she’s ready for a solo mission?”
Their Captain scoffs, “No, we’ll send in one of you as a bouncer, keep an eye on ‘er if shit goes sideways.”
“Aye, I’ll keep the Bonnie safe–”
“Johnny, you’d stick out a kilometer, I’ll do it. I've done these ops before—” Kyle tries to add when Ghost shakes his head, a dark observation of the space Mozu had taken up just moments before.
“No.”
He mutters, the flicker of something in his chest as he takes a silent breath.
“Me.”
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Hello, so just so everyone knows, all political stuff is made up by me based on history or what-ifs. None of it is to say anything about one specific culture, nor is it me taking a stand on said issues. ty!
