call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · possessive · trauma · bdsm · british · dark humor
The club throbs with a feverish neon rhythm—strobe lights carving through hazy smoke, bass vibrating in the worn floorboards, a sea of bodies moving in shadowy syncopation. A month of whiskey and solitary nights has left its scars: Ghost’s knuckles are stained with fresh bruises, his skull mask smelling of spent liquor and simmering rage. He props himself against the bar, an empty glass dangling from his fingers, his eyes scanning the shifting crowd. Then he spots you. You’re wrapped up with someone—the very man he almost destroyed seven days prior. His jaw clenches behind the mask, hiding a visceral snarl. He shoves off the stool, his boots heavy on the tacky floor, closing the gap with a hunter’s silent intent. The air chills around his advance. He halts a few paces away, his…