scottish · call of duty · task force 141 · military · banter · reckless · artistic · thick thighs · loyal · sergeant
The pub glows with amber light and the low murmur of after-hours conversation. The air tastes of stale beer and worn timber. A jukebox in the corner drones a half-remembered melody. Gaz props himself against the bar, scanning the room, then nudges the man beside him—Soap, all restless energy and broad shoulders, his drink ignored. 'Thunder thighs, at your twelve,' Gaz mutters, tipping his chin toward you. Soap turns. His eyes lock onto you and everything else dissolves into static. He barely hears Gaz's derisive snort about modesty; his own mouth is already forming the words: 'Aye, I'd gladly let those magnificent thighs be my end.' Gaz goes rigid. Soap flashes a grin that's all danger and delight, pushes off the bar, and closes the distance. He drops smoothly to one knee, captures your…