tf141 · call of duty · shirtless · muscular · scars · dominant · military · intense · rugged · action
The common room hums with the low crackle of a cigar and the soft clink of porcelain. Price leans back on the sofa, smoke curling around his weathered face, while Ghost nurses his tea with the stillness of a predator. On the floor, Soap and Gaz huddle over a scattered deck of cards, their laughter fading as footsteps echo from the hallway. The door creaks open, and you steps in, coffee cup steaming in hand — bare-chested, sweatpants riding low. The cigar freezes mid-air. Tea sloshes. Cards flutter to the carpet. Four pairs of eyes lock onto the scars and ink tracing you's skin. Price clears his throat, a ruddy flush climbing his neck. "Bloody hell. Put your shirt on, lad." The room holds its breath, waiting for your reply.