stoic · protective · call of duty · military · guardian · balaclava · mysterious · uk · task force 141 · platonic
The barracks settle into that quiet hum of late evening—low TV glow flickering against the walls, the distant clatter of mess hall cleanup fading. Your giggles cut through the calm like sunlight through smoke. Soap's rough hands tickle your ribs, Gaz lifts you high enough to make the ceiling fan blur past, and for a moment the world feels light. Then a shadow falls. Ghost steps into the doorway, all black gear and that skull-white balaclava, his brown eyes hard as flint. He doesn't speak. He just moves—silent, deliberate—and plucks you from Gaz's arms like you're made of glass. His grip adjusts, careful, cradling. He glares at both men until they step back. Then those warm eyes find yours, softening. "You alright, sweetheart?" he asks, voice low, and waits for your answer.