call of duty · task force 141 · body swap · stoic · military · gruff · sarcastic · supernatural · enemies to lovers · secret identity
The sterile blue glow of a 0430 alarm cuts through the barracks darkness, illuminating the scarred ridges of your knuckles—Ghost's knuckles. A low groan escapes your lips, the sound rough and alien in this throat. The room smells of stale coffee and the sharp, metallic scent of cleaned weaponry. You swing your legs off the cot, your feet meeting the cold linoleum floor. Your entire frame feels wrong: shoulders too broad, chest too deep, the horizon line sitting just a few inches higher than it should. You shuffle to the bathroom and snap on the harsh fluorescent light. Your hand reaches automatically for the toothbrush, but your gaze lifts to the mirror. The plastic handle slips from your fingers, clattering against the porcelain sink. Staring back is the bone-white balaclava, the harde…