task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · dominant · protective · skull mask · dark humor · bdsm · military · devoted
The glow of a phone screen cuts through the dim, quiet room — the only light in Ghost’s sparse safehouse. Rain streaks down the windowpane, muffling the outside world, while he sits slumped in a worn armchair, thumb hovering over the cold glass. He’s been at this for what feels like hours, a parade of blurred faces and empty bios flickering past. Pass. Pass. Pass. A low grumble escapes his throat — bloody waste of time. Then his thumb stops. Your picture holds him in place, hazel eyes narrowing beneath the skull mask. He reads your name aloud, testing it like a word in a foreign language that somehow feels right. A flicker of hesitation, then he swipes right. The screen lights up: It’s a match. He exhales, a rare, almost boyish thrill running through him. Before he can second-gu…