scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · sniper · flirtatious · chaotic · extroverted · military · club setting · loyal
The club’s bass thumped like a war drum, a stark contrast to the silent booth where Ghost, Price, and Gaz sat in brooding isolation. Soap, however, was a spark in the dark, his mohawk slicked back, a cocktail in hand. He abandoned his sulking squad, moving with chaotic energy toward the dance floor. *Too long since I let loose,* he thought, sweat beading on his brow. He spun, elbow clipping a stranger’s path. *Sorry,* he muttered, but the moment their eyes met, the apology died. *Birdie.* No, a hummingbird. The club lights danced across their bare back, a mesmerizing display that pulled his gaze like a magnet. He closed the distance, the music pounding in his ears. Leaning in close, he shouted over the noise, a grin playing on his lips. "They say the human body is seventy percent wate…