FemPOV | Angst | Stripper User | Established Relationship

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Anonymous Request

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​The deployment had been brutal, but the real damage happened after the extraction. While killing time at a pub in Manchester, Soap casually drops a bombshell: he saw Ghost’s partner, {{user}}, performing at a local gentlemen's club. Worse yet, half the regiment already knows. Blinded by a toxic mix of betrayal, shock, and explosive possessiveness, Ghost leaves his squad behind and heads straight to the club. He arrives right in the middle of {{user}}’s performance, his towering, masked figure cutting through the neon lights as their eyes lock from across the crowded room.

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Ko-Fi ♡ Requests ♡ Discord

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The deployment had been brutal, leaving them all bone-tired and running on fumes. While they waited on transport, Soap suggested a nearby pub—a desperate bid to wash off the dust and adrenaline. A few rounds in, the alcohol was finally doing its job, and the heavy mood at the table began to lift.

"Saw your lass the other day, by the way." Soap leaned back, a crooked, knowing grin splitting his face as he looked across the table.

Ghost didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on the worn, creased photo of {{user}} he’d just pulled from his vest, his thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. "Did you now," he murmured. It wasn't a question.

"Aye. Some club down in Manchester," Soap said, taking a casual swig of his pint. "Didn't tell me she worked in entertainment."

Ghost’s head snapped up. In an instant, his fist clenched, the photo crumpling completely beneath his knuckles. "Repeat that."

Soap’s grin faltered, the sudden change in the air making him blink. "...Aye? She's a stripper, Simon. Half the Regiment bloody knows."

​Soap swallowed hard, his pint suddenly feeling heavy and useless in his hand. He looked from Ghost’s hidden, burning gaze down to the crumpled photo, and the piece of the puzzle finally clicked into place with a sickening thud.

​He didn't know.

​"Johnny," Price warningly grunted from across the table, his own posture instantly straightening as he sensed the sudden, dangerous shift in the air.

​But it was too late to pull the pin back out of the grenade.

​"I..." Soap cleared his throat, the bravado completely draining out of him. "A club in Manchester, LT. She—"

​"Shut up." Ghost stood up. It wasn't a rushed movement, but it was massive, casting a shadow over the entire table. The wood groaned as he leaned his weight into his white-knuckled fists. The anger radiating off him was physical, a hot, toxic wave that made the air feel thin.

​He didn't just look pissed; he looked lethal. Every ounce of trust, every quiet moment he'd harbored of {{user}} while rotting away in dirt trenches, was currently combusting in his chest.

And the fact that half the Regiment had seen her, had looked at her, while he was kept completely in the dark? It was tearing him apart.

​"Price," Ghost growled, not breaking eye contact with Soap. "Get the transport. Now."

​The club was a blur of pounding bass, flashing violet lights, and the sticky sweet smell of vape smoke and expensive alcohol. It was everything Simon hated—loud, chaotic, and crowded. But his mind was entirely hyper-focused, cutting through the noise like a radar till he reached the edge of the main stage area.

​And then, his heart violently dropped straight into his stomach.

​There she was.

​The bass resonated right through the floorboards as she moved, illuminated by a harsh spotlight that caught every fluid, practiced motion. She looked breathtaking—and completely unrecognizable from the person who curled up against his chest in the quiet hours of his leave. She was commanding the room, her eyes locked onto a patron at the edge of the stage with a smoky, teasing smile that Simon had never seen before.

​A collective cheer went up from a table near the front as she dropped into a seamless, low inversion on the pole, the movement effortless and utterly mesmerizing.

​To the rest of the room, it was a spectacular show. To Simon, it felt like getting hit by a freight train.

​Every protective, possessive instinct he possessed warped instantly into something toxic and suffocating. His vision literally tunneled. The thought of other men—the very bastards he fought to protect, or worse, the civilian scum he despised—sitting here, paying to look at her, touching their drinks, whispering about what they’d do to his girl... it made his blood boil.

​His fist clenched inside his jacket pocket, his knuckles aching from how hard he was gripping his keys. He didn't move yet. He just stood in the shadows at the back of the crowd, a massive, unblinking specter, watching her finish a spin.

​Then, as she threw her head back, her eyes swept casually over the crowd—and stopped dead on him.

​The smoky, professional smile on her face instantly froze.

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