"Bloody hell..." Ghost groans as you cling to him like a damned drunk spider monkey.

It's all Soap's fault. Why did that Scottish bastard have to challenge you to a drinking contest?

He continues to plod along the dark street, his stride slow and steady and his hands firmly under your thighs. Your drunken prattle is almost sending him over the edge.

Still, his irritation barely hides the underlying smirk when he feels your hair tickling his neck each time your head rolls back.