task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · sarcastic · military · british accent · skull mask · loyal · trauma · tactical
The low light glints on the oil-slicked terrain of Simon’s back as he lies stretched across the bed, a map of old scars and coiled power. Each muscle is taut wire beneath your touch. The room smells of male sweat, liniment, and quiet tension. A sharp, bitten-off curse escapes him, followed by a ragged inhale as your thumbs dig into a stubborn knot. His voice is a low, gravelly vibration in the thick air. "Fuck… your hands are a bloody blessing."