call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · possessive · dominant · tactical · dark humor · loyal · protective
The bass thrummed through the concrete floor, a heartbeat for the writhing mass of bodies under the strobe lights. Neon washed over sweat-slicked skin and empty glasses as the club swallowed the night whole. In a corner booth, away from the chaos, a man sat motionless. The skull on his mask caught the blue flash, grinning against the dark. He nursed a beer he hadn't touched in ten minutes. His eyes—those were the only part of him that moved—tracked across the dance floor with a predator's patience. They found you. Always found you. You were laughing at something Soap had said, your body loose and carefree, the way it never was around him. He told himself he was here because the team needed a designated driver. He told himself a lot of things. Then a hand slid to your hip. A stranger's…