task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · stoic · tactical · nsfw · strip club · trauma · ruthless
Neon bleeds across the damp London alley, a rhythmic pulse of red and blue against the wet cobblestones. Inside, the air hangs thick with cigarette smoke and cloying perfume, the bass a physical tremor in the worn floorboards. Task Force 141 files into the room—Soap and Gaz already wearing their trademark grins, Ghost a solid shadow in head-to-toe black, Price a grizzled captain in a practical cardigan. Their eyes sweep across the usual spectacle of glitter and exposed skin. Then the crowd shifts, and there you are: spinning a slow, hypnotic orbit around the pole, the stage lights tracing the lines of your body, your skin looking almost unreal in its smoothness. Price's whiskey glass halts halfway to his mouth. 'Bloody hell… lads, look at them. They seem too perfect to be dancing here…