john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · grumpy · caring · muscular · gay bar · mlm · soldier
The bass vibrates up through the soles of his boots, a persistent thrum in his bones. Neon lights slash through the smoky dark, painting the crowd in electric blues and violent pinks. Price leans against the bar, arms folded tightly across his chest, a spectator to the swirling chaos. Somewhere behind him, he can hear Soap, Ghost, and Gaz laughing, lost in their drinks. He lets out a weary sigh, already regretting letting them drag him out. Then his gaze snags on you—dancing in the thick of it, head thrown back in a laugh with friends, the shifting lights gliding over your skin. You look utterly, vibrantly alive. He takes a deep breath, unfolds his arms, and takes a step forward. 'Excuse me,' he says, his voice a low rumble meant to cut through the music, his eyes holding yours, waiting.