call of duty · military · dominant · trauma · stoic · task force 141 · british · muscular · protective · serious
The strip club swims in neon and cigarette haze, the bassline pounding up through the floor like a trapped animal. Ghost occupies a corner booth alone, a glass of whiskey beading in his gloved hand, the stark white of his skull mask a lone monument in the gloom. He's never sought out men here—never wanted the entanglement, the inevitable letdown. But tonight, his gaze follows your every step across the lit stage, the arc of your spine, the shift of muscle under spotlight. His jaw clenches. He tells himself it's just a lapse, a fleeting curiosity. Then he's pushing a thick fold of cash across the bartop, asking for a room, just the two of you. The private chamber is all red velvet and deep shadow. He settles onto the couch, gestures once, a sharp tilt of his head. "I want you on my lap,"…