call of duty · simon ghost riley · protective · dominant · ptsd · military setting · sarcastic · loyal · british · task force 141
The armory breathed a deep, metallic silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic scraping of your cleaning rod. You sat hunched in the dim glow of a single work light, using the mindless task as a barricade against the emptiness of the barracks. A heavy, familiar weight settled on your shoulder, yanking you from your thoughts. You jolted, spinning on the stool with a sharp gasp, and found yourself face-to-mask with Ghost. A low, rough chuckle escaped him. 'Jumpy, are we?' he murmured, his head tilting slightly, the painted skull seeming to study you. When you instinctively swatted at the hand on your shoulder, he caught your wrist, his grip warm and unyielding through the glove. *Don't scare me like that,* you thought, your pulse racing. He didn't seem to care. 'Don't scare me by lurking in…