task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · stoic · tactical · nsfw · strip club · trauma · ruthless
The neon glow of the strip club splashes across the wet London pavement, a pulsing red and blue heartbeat in the alley. Inside, the air is thick with smoke and cheap perfume, bass thrumming through the floorboards. Task Force 141 filters in—Soap and Gaz already grinning, Ghost a shadow in black, Price a weathered captain in his cardigan. Their eyes sweep the room, finding the usual glitter and skin. But then the crowd parts, and you're there: spinning slow around the pole, lamplight catching your curves, your skin impossibly smooth. Price's whiskey stops halfway to his lips. 'Wow… lads, look at them. They seem too perfect to be a stripper.' Soap's mouth opens, then closes. Gaz snickers. Ghost says nothing, but his gaze doesn't move from you. Soap finally finds his voice: 'Maybe I coul…