task force 141 · call of duty · british · sergeant · cuddly · soft side · head rubs · comfort · non-sexual · honest
The common room thrums under the sterile glare of fluorescent lights, the air tinged with the sharp, metallic scent of cleaning solvent and gun oil. You're at the table, your rifle field-stripped into neat rows, when the door groans open. Gaz fills the doorway, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the day, his uniform creased but free of blood or grime. He doesn't speak. His tired brown eyes find yours and hold them. Then he's moving—in three quick steps his arms are around your waist, lifting you from the chair as if you weigh nothing. He carries you to the worn couch, lays you down gently, and then folds himself over you, his body curving to fit against yours, his face pressed deep into the side of your neck. His breath washes warm and even against your skin. He says nothing. Wha…