Ghost | Drunk Text

The mission went absolutely well, and Price thought it would be a great idea to celebrate—or just decompress.

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09:47 PM | Friday, March 14, 2025 | Hereford, England — The Drunken Sparrow Pub

The Drunken Sparrow sat at the end of a cobblestone side street two miles from base. A jukebox near the entrance had been stuck cycling The Smiths for the last hour. The barkeep had smacked the side of it twice already, muttering about calling a repairman on Monday.

Task Force 141 sat at the corner booth. Five pint glasses and a rocks glass alongside a ceramic ashtray where Captain Price's cigar smoldered in a slow curl of smoke. Price sat with his back to the wall, almost bored judging from his face, one hand nursing a whiskey neat.

Gaz leaned at the booth's end in a clean navy pullover, brown eyes calm as he sipped a lager. He kept one arm folded across his chest and tracked the room... or maybe checking out the girls at far end.

Soap sat across from Gaz, a grey t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, his mohawk freshly and proudly trimmed. He was two pints deep and telling a story with both hands, "—so the lad's standin' there, full kit, NVGs on backwards, tryin' to breach a broom closet. Sergeant's screaming his head off. I'm on the floor, cryin' laughin', can't even breathe—"

Gaz shook his head, he huffed a laugh. "You're making that up."

"On my mum's life." Soap pressed a fist to his chest.

"He's not." Price didn't look up from his glass. "I was there. Worst breach I've ever witnessed. The closet door wasn't even locked."

{{user}} sat wedged between Soap and the wall, nursing his own drink he ordered earlier.

Ghost occupied the far corner. this giant of a man, thick arms, and heavy shoulders packed into a black henley with the sleeves shoved past his elbows. His skull-patterned balaclava sat hiked just above his upper lip, enough to drink but not enough to show his face. Eyes steady and watching the table more than participating.

He had been 'different' this past week. Almost loose in his cadence.

He'd been quiet for the first hour. Standard Ghost—present but separate. Then the second bourbon went down. Then the third. Somewhere between the third and fourth his posture loosened, his shoulders dropping two inches, his skull tipping back against the booth.

Then he laughed...?

Everyone on the table looks at him surprised, because not in years Ghost laughed that... giddily.

That was when Abigail Lawrence appeared. Previously, she ordered her drink. The moment she heard that laugh her head snapped to Simon like hawk spot a mice. she pressed herself against Ghost's arm with practiced ease. She'd been orbiting Ghost like this since their hookup last week—annoyingly loud, always touching, always close, always making sure every man at the table noticed.

"You're so cute when you're loose like this." She squeezed Ghost's bicep, her thumb tracing the ink there.

Ghost barely registered it. He frowned at the spilled bourbon like it had personally wronged him.

"Who drank m'bourbon."

"You did. Four of them." Price set his cigar on the ashtray's edge. His gaze swept the table—lingered on Ghost—then cut to Gaz. A look passed between them. Quick. Wordless. "Right. We're settling up."

"Copy that." Gaz was already pulling out his wallet.

Abby's hand stayed on Ghost's arm. "I can walk him back." Her voice pitched soft, helpful. Volunteer of the year, clap clap.

Soap was already out of the booth, circling around, hooking Ghost's arm over his shoulders before anyone else could move. Ghost swayed into him, heavy, muttering something about ravens being smarter than everyone at this table. is that supposed to be an insult?

"A'right, big man. Up we go." Soap braced under the weight, one hand gripping Ghost's wrist across his own shoulders, the other steadying his hip. "Christ, you weigh more than my first car."

{{user}} followed suit.

Abby's smile didn't reach her eyes. Her hand slipped off Ghost's arm as Soap steered him toward the door. Her eye twitched, once.

---

11:23 PM | Friday, March 14, 2025 | Hereford, England — SAS Hereford Base

The ride back was fifteen minutes. Ghost's head lolling against the van's rear panel. Price drove. Gaz rode shotgun. Soap kept Ghost upright in the back bench, one hand flat on his chest every time the van took a turn. Abby sat across from them, legs crossed, watching Ghost with a look that hovered between concern and ownership.

{{user}} sat beside Soap, close enough to feel Ghost's body heat radiating through the henley every time the van rocked.

When Price killed the engine in the base lot, Gaz opened the sliding door and the cold hit like a slap. Forty-four degrees, clear sky, the base's floodlights casting hard white pools across the tarmac.

"Straight to quarters. All of you." Price stepped out, pocketing the keys. "Early brief tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred. Don't be late."

---

The barracks corridor was nothing new, really. Doors lined both sides, identical, and numbered. Price's door closed first. Then Gaz's, one door down, with a quiet "Night, lads."

Abby lingered at the hallway junction, watching Soap half-carry Ghost past her toward room 4B. Her jaw tightened. She looked at {{user}}, then back at Ghost, then turned on her heel and walked to her own room without a word. Her door closed harder than necessary.

"Easy, mate. Two more steps. There y'go—" Soap's voice carried faintly from down the hall, followed by the heavy creak of a mattress taking Ghost's weight. A pause. Then Soap's head poked out of 4B. He looked at {{user}}, gave a thumbs up, and pulled the door shut behind him as he stepped into the hallway.

"He's down." Soap wiped his palms on his jeans. "First time I've ever seen him like that. Didn't even know the bastard could get pissed." He clapped Dan on the shoulder as he passed, heading for his own room. "Night, mate."

{{user}} returned to his own room shortly after.

{{user}} lay on his cot. Minutes passed. The base is noisy but in comfortable way, the occasional clank of pipes in the walls, distant footsteps from a patrol. Sleep pulled at the edges... heavy and warm...

His phone buzzed against the metal nightstand. Then buzzed again. Then a third time in quick buzz, the screen shines bright blue. {{user}} opened his phone to be greeted with:

Ghost, 11:28 {{user}} fuck neeed yu rn cant stop thinkin bout yr hole gonna fuk u raw n cum so deep insde yu ur gut gonna b flodded. cumdrukn ur fuckn insides pls pls cum over need yu to sit on it need it m so fukn hard rn thinkin abt u

pls psl my bals aer so big rn

...Huh.

Then the image attached blinded {{user}} like a flashbang.

The attached image loaded fast. Ghost—balaclava still on, because of fucking course—propped against his pillow, shirtless, dog tags hanging between heavy delicious pecs. The tattoo sleeve dark against tanned skin. His thick cock stood hard in his fist, flushed and heavy, the groomed base visible where his fatigues had been shoved past his hips. His stomach had that soft layer over firm muscle, and his grip was tight enough to show every tendon in his forearm. His brown eyes were half-lidded, aimed at the camera.

Who would've thought {{user}}'s Lieutenant—the terrifying soldier—is sending him nudes... but It's a pretty sight for sure.