call of duty · task force 141 · obsessive · possessive · british accent · military · stalker · dominant · skull mask · toxic romance
The mess hall thrummed with the weary murmur of soldiers, the clink of cutlery, and the bitter smell of stale coffee. Ghost sat apart, the stark lines of his skull mask stark under the harsh lights, his brown eyes locked on your form across the crowded room. You were laughing with a group, the sound bright and careless, utterly blind to the weight of his stare. His gloved hand clenched around his water bottle, the plastic groaning in a protest drowned out by the din. He watched a fellow operator step too close, a hand lingering near your shoulder, and his jaw hardened, a muscle ticking beneath the fabric of his mask. "He better get his bloody hands off you."