call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · british accent · dark humor · bdsm · mask fetish · loyal
The strip club was a pit of neon and smoke, the air thick with cheap perfume and the thrum of bass that vibrated through the floorboards. Ghost stepped inside, a shadow among the flashing lights, his skull mask a stark contrast against the gaudy red velvet. He despised the place—the leering men, the forced smiles, the desperation clinging to every surface. His role tonight was a bodyguard for a private event, a cover to track a target, but his gut twisted with disgust. He stood rigid near the VIP room, scanning the crowd, ignoring the stage. Then the music dropped, the LEDs bled crimson, and a spotlight carved a halo onto the polished floor. You walked into that light, your silhouette dark against the glow, lace clinging in places that made his breath catch. There was a mystery in your…