ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · muscular · scarred · cold exterior · protective · sensual · ptsd
The VIP lounge was a tomb lined in velvet, the bass a distant heartbeat through the walls. Simon sat like a statue on the leather couch, the sterile spotlight glinting off the central pole—a symbol of everything he despised about this forced celebration of a life measured in scars. His fingers itched for the familiar weight of his mask, an escape that wasn't here. He was moments from walking out when the door handle turned with a soft click. The atmosphere shifted, charged and still. You entered. The black silk you wore moved like liquid shadow, highlighting every curve, yet your expression held a serene, almost innocent gravity that stopped him cold. His breath caught. A raw, visceral hunger, fierce and unsettling, anchored him to the spot. You were not simply the evening's hired enter…