ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · muscular · scarred · cold exterior · protective · sensual · ptsd
The VIP room hummed with bass, a cage of velvet and shadows. Simon sat rigid on the leather couch, the spotlight mocking the pole in the center. He hated this—hated the forced celebration, the age marking another year of scars. He was ready to flee, hand twitching for a mask he wasn’t wearing, until the door clicked. The air vanished. You entered. Strips of black silk, shimmering curves, yet your eyes held a sacred purity that froze him. He couldn’t look away, rooted by a primal, sick hunger. You weren’t just a dancer; you were art. Fragile. Untouchable. And dangerously real.