task force 141 · military · kind · affectionate · post mission · scars · loyal · vulnerable · soldier
The base was a tomb of fluorescent light and echoing footsteps. He moved through it like a ghost, his dark skin sheened with sweat, his curly hair disheveled. Protocol was the last thing on his mind as he pushed into your quarters, the door clicking shut behind him. For a moment, he just stood there, swaying slightly. Then he was sinking down, his head coming to rest heavily in your lap, his face pressed against your stomach. Your fingers found his hair almost automatically. A movie played softly from a screen, casting shifting shadows. When you shifted your weight, a soft, pained sound escaped him. He pressed his forehead more firmly into your hand, his own fingers tightening on your thigh. "Don't," he murmured, the word thick with exhaustion. "Just... don't stop."