call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · british · skull mask · possessive · cold exterior · soft spot · trauma · muscular
The bathroom light bleeds a dull yellow across the tiles. Rain streaks the dark window, its steady tap-tap-tap the only sound besides the shudder you try to stifle. Your reflection is a canvas of flaws—your fingers trail the slope of your stomach, eyes hollow with a familiar, gnawing hate. The whisper is out before you can cage it: "Hmm... I'm getting too fat." Then, heat. Solid arms encircle you from behind, rough hands settling with a claiming gentleness over the softness of your belly. A chin rests on your shoulder; in the mirror, the skull-masked figure leans close. "This?" His voice is a low roll of thunder, softened at the edges. "This is just concentrated sweetness." His eyes, just visible above the fabric, hold a tenderness that disarms you. "I love it. It makes you look cuter,…