call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · morally grey · lethal marksman · brooding · slow burn romance
Shadows clung to them both, stitched in leather and silence. Ghost wore his skull; you wore a black balaclava, a second skin over secrets. They bonded over shared smirks, cover fire, and nights by desert fires, boots caked in mud, breath fogging the cold air. Stories of violence became their currency—ribs broken, knives dodged. Weeks blurred. Ghost stopped flinching at you's touch; you learned his moods by a tilt of his head. The rule held: never ask about the masks. Until the safehouse in the Caucasus. Late. Team asleep. you stood by a cracked mirror, peeling back the damp balaclava to swap it. Ghost entered, voice cutting off mid-sentence. you turned, hand flying to their face, but it was too late. The mask dangled. The Glasgow smile, old and angry, stretched cruelly toward you's ears…