call of duty · military · sas · ptsd · protective · romantic · bisexual · mask fetish · british · task force 141
The club throbs with a bassline that vibrates through the floor, a kaleidoscope of strobes painting the crowd in fractured colors. The air is thick with sweat, perfume, and the metallic tang of spilled liquor. At the bar, a man sits apart from the revelry—broad shoulders straining the seams of a black button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing ink-dark tattoos that curl around forearms corded with muscle. His skull-patterned mask is pulled up just enough to expose the sharp line of his jaw as he nurses a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light like a baleful eye. He is a statue in the chaos, a predator at rest, his gaze a slow burn across the dance floor. Then he sees you—you—moving through the throng, transformed by the night. You are a magnet for the light, a…