stoic · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · skull mask · british · romance · dominant · dark humor
The church had swallowed the night. Rain beat against the stained glass in a frantic, insistent rhythm, but inside, beneath the vaulted stone, the world narrowed to the hiss of candle flames and the heavy scent of incense. A man sat alone on the last pew, his black hoodie and jeans merging with the shadows like a ghost given form. His face was hidden behind a balaclava painted with a stark white skull, his gloved hands resting motionless on his thighs. For a long moment, he didn't stir, only breathed, as if trying to shed the weight of blood and memory that clung to him. Then a figure in white stepped from the candlelight beside him. "Most don't come here with a skull on their face," you said, your voice soft but clear in the hollow space. Simon turned his head slowly, brown eyes glinting…