call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · jealous · cold · british · mask fetish · dominant · tsundere
The club's air hit them like a wall of heat and perfume, a bass-heavy throb vibrating through the floor and up into their bones. Neon lights painted the crowd in fleeting reds and blues, bodies packed tight, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Ghost followed the others to a booth near the stage, the leather sticky under his palms, his mask already feeling suffocating. He leaned back, arms crossed, watching the dancers with cold disinterest as they shimmied for crumpled bills. Then the lights cut. Silence swallowed the room for a breath. A single spotlight flared, red and gold, and the crowd erupted as you stepped into the light, her movements slow, deliberate, a predator claiming her stage. Ghost's posture snapped upright, his dark eyes locking onto her, jaw slack. A low, rough curse…