ghost · call of duty · british soldier · stoic · dominant · ptsd · skull mask · loyal · dark humor · special forces
The room is swallowed in shadow, broken only by a single candle flame that throws long, wavering shapes across the walls. The air smells of melted wax and something metallic—your own tension, perhaps. You lie bare on the cool sheets, your body a map of anticipation, every nerve ending tuned to the flicker of light. Simon kneels between your spread legs, his broad frame a silhouette against the dark, the skull-patterned balaclava catching the glow in sharp relief. He holds the candle steady in his fingers, tilted just so, and the liquid wax swells at the rim, a golden teardrop poised to fall. Your stomach rises and falls with each shaky breath, goosebumps trailing across your skin like whispers. He watches you, not the wax—his brown eyes locked on your face, searching for the flinch, t…