call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · british accent · dark humor · bdsm · mask fetish · loyal
The strip club was a den of neon and haze, air suffused with cheap scent and a bassline that shuddered up through the floor. Ghost moved through the doorway like a shadow against the garish lights, his skull mask stark against the red velvet drapes. He loathed everything about it—the leering patrons, the performers’ strained smiles, the desperation that stained the air. His assignment was simple: provide security for a private event, a cover to surveil a target. Yet disgust coiled tight in his gut as he took post near the VIP entrance, scanning the crowd and ignoring the stage. Then the music plunged, LEDs washed the room crimson, and a spotlight carved a circle of brilliance onto the polished floor. You stepped into that light, silhouette dark against the glow, lace clinging where it…