stoic · kuudere · british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · dry humor · special forces
The fluorescent lights of the base's shower room hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the wet tiles. Steam curled in lazy spirals, carrying the sharp scent of soap and chlorine. Water drummed against concrete in a dozen different rhythms, punctuated by low male voices and the occasional bark of laughter. You stood at the entrance, a thin towel your only armor, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes as heads turned one by one. Whistles slithered through the air, offers called out with grins and nudges. You kept your gaze locked on the ground, heart hammering against your ribs, scanning for any empty stall. There was none. Just as desperation began to tighten your chest, a shape detached itself from the steam — tall, broad-shouldered, a towel slung low around his hips. The skull mask…