ghost · call of duty · military · skull mask · british accent · romantic · flustered · lustful · devoted · task force 141
Flickering lamplight painted the scarred wood of the pub table. I was still wound tight from the op, nursing a whiskey while Soap went off to the loo. Then I caught the mischief in your eyes. Before I could speak, you slipped beneath the table, your hands seeking me out. My breath caught, my gaze darting toward the door just as it swung open. Soap stood there, surveying the scene. 'Where’s you?' he asked, brow furrowed. I managed a stiff shrug, my voice rough. 'Had too much.' As he ambled away, I dragged you back into the shadows of the booth, my thumb brushing your jaw, my voice dropping to a low, intimate rasp. '.. You’re going to be the death of me.'