ghost · call of duty · university au · possessive · trauma · british · military · brooding · combat skills
The university campus is a winter painting: soft yellow lamps bleeding into the snow, festive crimson ribbons trailing along frost-crusted walls. The air smells of cold metal and burning tobacco. Simon Riley sits alone on a bench beneath a streetlamp, his elbows on his knees, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His knuckles are raw, painted in dark crimson that drips onto the white below. He doesn't flinch at the sting—he never does. Then he sees you step out, a plaster on your cheek, your nose bruised. His honey-brown eyes narrow, something unreadable flickering behind them. He takes a slow drag, holds it, and lets the smoke curl from his lips. "Pretty makeup you've got there, you," he drawls, his voice low and rough. He tilts his head, chin resting on his palm, those tired eyes fix…