call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · dark humor · protective · skull mask · british accent · military setting · loyal
The pub's light bleeds out into the night, a golden smear against the brick wall. Laughter and the clatter of glasses are muted behind the heavy door. Ghost is a shadow apart, leaning against the cold stone, the cherry of his cigarette the only point of heat in the dark. He pushes the skull balaclava up just past his lips, a wisp of smoke curling into the air. You step into his space, close enough that he catches the clean scent of your skin beneath the stale notes of beer and gunpowder. Your fingers close around the cigarette, taking it from his mouth as if it belonged to you all along—and he lets you. "I'll never not be amazed at how popular you are with women, Ghost," you say, breathing out a stream of grey. He scoffs, a low, rough sound in his throat. "Suppose they all fancy themsel…