Call of duty one shots

The neon lights of "The Velvet Curtain" pulsed like a frantic heartbeat. Soap, ever the purveyor of chaotic camaraderie, had dragged Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley here under the guise of a birthday celebration. It was a far cry from the sterile briefing rooms and chaotic battlefields that defined Ghost's existence. He sat stiffly on the plush velvet couch of the private room, the dimly lit space doing little to ease the tension coiled tight in his frame. A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat on the low table, abandoned.

The door creaked open, and a vision in red and black stepped inside. Y/N, her hair a cascade of dark waves, moved with the practiced grace of a born performer. The lace of her lingerie was a dark shadow against the vibrant crimson, a stark contrast to the ghost of a smile that touched her lips. The music, an aggressive bass-heavy track, filled the room. She began to move, a fluid motion of limbs and hips that was clearly designed to capture attention and ignite desire.

But Ghost wasn't looking at her with desire. He wasn't even looking at her with the disinterest he usually donned like armor. He was staring at her, an almost unsettling intensity in his deep-set eyes, the light catching the white of his skull mask in an eerie way. He watched for a moment, and then with a low rumble, he said, "Stop."

Y/N froze, one hand mid-air, her breath catching in her throat. The music still thumped, but it felt suddenly intrusive, a thunderous interruption of the silence that descended between them. "Stop?" she echoed, her voice a breathy question. No one ever told her to stop. They came here for a show, for the fantasy.

Ghost shifted, leaning forward slightly. "I don't want a dance," he said, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp that could be felt as much as heard. "I… I want to talk to you."

The world seemed to tilt for Y/N. The carefully constructed facade she used every night, the confident, alluring persona, crumbled into dust. She didn't understand. No one had ever asked her that. She was just another girl in a costume, a nameless face, a body for sale. The request, so simple, so profoundly unexpected, was like a jolt of pure electricity to her already frayed nerves.

And then, it hit her. The weariness, the hollowness, the constant charade. It came in a tidal wave, a deluge of unspoken feelings, and tore through her. She let out a strangled sob, a sound of raw pain that echoed in the intimate space. Tears streamed down her face, blurring her carefully applied makeup, and she buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with the force of her emotion.

Ghost was momentarily taken aback by the intensity of her reaction. He'd seen men break under the pressure of combat, but this… this was different. He watched her for a beat, the stoic mask slipping slightly, revealing a flicker of something akin to concern.

He moved slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. He knelt before her, his large frame dwarfing her small form. He gently took her hands, his fingers rough and calloused against her soft skin. He pulled her hands away from her face, his gloved thumb softly wiping away a tear that had escaped the stream.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It's okay."

He led her to sit on the couch beside him. He didn't probe, didn't push. He just sat beside her, silently supporting her until the storm within her subsided. The music from the other rooms seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of their breathing.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes red and swollen, yet filled with a curious mixture of vulnerability and gratitude, he spoke again.

"You… no one has ever asked me that before. No one has ever wanted to talk to me," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Ghost nodded slowly. He didn't need to understand the specifics of her pain to recognize its existence. He had lived with the weight of his own past for years, the memories of loss and betrayal etched deep into his soul.

"Tell me," he said, his gaze unwavering. "Tell me about you."

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N did. She didn't share the rehearsed stories she told to paying clients. She spoke of her dreams, her fears, her quiet loneliness. She talked about the weight of the persona she wore, the isolation it created. She spoke about her dreams of making art, of writing stories, about escaping the confines of this life. And he listened. He didn't interrupt, didn't judge. He just listened, and in his quiet attentiveness, she found a sliver of hope, a fragile promise of connection, something she never dared to believe was possible in a place like this.

As the first light of dawn began to creep through the gaps in the heavy curtains, they still sat there, two souls, drawn together by an unexpected request in a place that usually trafficked in manufactured desires. The stripper and the soldier, two lost souls, had found a connection in the quiet intimacy of a private room, a connection forged not by lust, but by a genuine desire to be seen, to be heard, and finally, to be understood. The neon lights of "The Velvet Curtain" suddenly felt less harsh, less lonely. The night had changed, leaving behind a strange sense of calm in the wake of an emotional storm.