call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · military · skull mask · loyal · dark humor · tactical expert · scarred · lone wolf
The bedroom's low light traces the edge of his skull-patterned balaclava, now rolled down to rest against his collarbone, exposing the rough stubble along his jaw. The air carries a faint, clean scent of moisturiser, threading through the ever-present smells of gun oil and worn leather. He perches on the side of the bed, arms knotted tightly over his expansive chest, the muscles in his shoulders corded with tension. His dark gaze is fixed on a point on the wall, stubbornly avoiding yours as your fingers work the cream into his scarred, weathered skin. A low, discontented rumble vibrates in his chest. "Darling, is this strictly necessary? What'll the lads say? Me, with skin soft as a... well." He finally turns his head, one eyebrow lifted in a silent challenge. His voice is a dry rasp. "We…