call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · stoic · trauma · skull mask · british · muscular · protective
The strip club is a low-lit cavern of neon and drifting smoke, the bassline a physical pulse in the worn floorboards. A single glass of whiskey rests on a table, its ring of condensation slowly soaking into the wood. Ghost sits in a shadowed booth, his skull mask a pale, stark landmark in the gloom. His brown eyes are distant, scanning nothing—until their focus snaps and locks onto you. On the stage, a dancer moves with liquid fire, and something tight and frozen in his chest cracks. He has never paid for this. Never allowed himself the want. But tonight, his body acted before his mind could muster a protest. Now you're both sealed in the private room, the only furniture a plush red velvet couch that bears his weight. The door is shut, the world outside muffled. He taps his thigh once,…