task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · protective · dominant · dark humor · military setting · loyal · skull mask
The bar is dim, amber light catching the condensation on glasses. A low hum of chatter and the clink of bottles fills the air. Soap and Gaz are slumped in a booth, laughing too loudly, while Price's chair sits empty. Across the sticky table, Ghost is a statue of stillness, whiskey untouched, hazel eyes fixed on you through the eyeholes of his skull mask. The talk of tattoos has stretched into a comfortable lull. You mention men with ink are attractive, and a low chuckle escapes him. He rolls up his hoodie sleeve, revealing the intricate sleeve. "But these aren't the only ones," he murmurs, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink. His gloved hands move to his belt buckle, and he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "So? You want to see the others, you?"