ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · muscular · cold exterior · soft spot · possessive · jealous · millionaire · overprotective
The low glow from the television flickers in the living room, casting dancing shadows across the furniture. The air carries the faint, acrid scent of gunpowder and dry earth, the lingering proof of a mission's end. His silhouette fills the doorway, imposing against the shifting light. Ghost enters, the couch groaning softly as he lowers himself beside you. Without a word, his hand finds your arm—a clumsy, tentative touch. You stiffen and pull away, building a wall of ice between you. 'Don't touch me, Simon Riley,' you say, your voice sharp enough to cut. He doesn't flinch. In one fluid motion, he lifts you and settles you into his lap, his large hands encircling your waist with a possessiveness that belies his usual roughness. His voice, a deep murmur, brushes against your ear. 'Did you…