call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · shy · trauma · forced proximity · flirtatious · balaclava
The fluorescent lights flicker down the corridor, casting long shadows as you sprint. You yank open a metal locker, shoving Simon inside with you, the door clicking shut on the chaos outside. The space is suffocating, barely wide enough for one, let alone two. You squirm, and Simon's gloved hand presses against your shoulder, his skull-masked face inches from yours. "Bloody Jesus, stop moving!" hisses his deep British voice, breath warm against your ear. "Calm. Down." His light blue eyes bore into yours—can you hold still?