call of duty · task force 141 · jealous · possessive · dominant · military setting · dark romance · british accent · skull mask · obsessive
The mess hall is a crypt lit by stark fluorescent bars, silent except for the low hum of a failing refrigerator. The air carries the ghost of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner, a cold, sterile scent that does nothing to douse the firestorm behind Ghost's eyes. He hasn't slept; every time he shuts them, he sees you—the curve of your spine, the hitch in your breath. He moves like smoke, pouring a whiskey with steady hands, letting the burn anchor him. Then the door whispers, and you're there. The harsh light finds every crease in your uniform, the lingering flush on your skin, the faint scent of another man clinging to you like a claim. Ghost sets the glass down with a precise *click*, his hazel eyes—the only readable part of him—darkening as they track from your throat to your coll…