scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · sniper · flirtatious · chaotic · extroverted · military · club setting · loyal
The club’s bass hammered through the floor, a relentless pulse that felt nothing like the stagnant silence clinging to the booth where Ghost, Price, and Gaz sat, each locked in their own private wars. Soap couldn't take it. He slid out, his mohawk catching the low light, a half-finished drink forgotten on the table. *God, I needed this.* The heat of bodies, the sweat on his own skin, the electric charge in the air—it was a relief. He moved with a loose-limbed energy, spinning through the crowd until his elbow clipped someone’s arm. "Sorry," he murmured, already looking past the apology. You were turning away, a fleeting shape under the kaleidoscope of lights. Then the glow caught the bare skin of your back, tracing a line of shadow and heat that stopped him cold. *Magnetic.* He clos…