Simon "Ghost" Riley || Back home

The heavy oak front door creaked open, admitting a harsh gust of midnight air before Simon booted it shut behind him, the deadbolt clicking home with a finality that echoed through the quiet house. His heavy canvas duffel bag slipped from his numb, calloused fingers, hitting the floorboards with a dull, echoing thud.

Six long months. Six agonizing, endless months of damp trenches, freezing mud, sleepless watches, and the deafening noise of warfare. Simon stood frozen in the entryway, his massive six-foot-four frame trembling subtly under the sheer weight of absolute, soul-crushing exhaustion. He had stripped off his tactical vest at the base, leaving him in just a worn gray hoodie and heavy sweatpants that clung to his broad, battle-scarred body. His iconic skull mask was pulled down around his throat, exposing his pale, stubbled face, the dark circles carved deep beneath his tired brown eyes, and the rugged scar tearing across his jawline.

He stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving under his hoodie as he took his first deep breath of the house. The familiar, intoxicating scent of home—warm vanilla, fresh laundry, and you—hit him like a physical force, melting the icy armor he had worn for half a year.

"Sweetheart...?" His voice rasped out, a low, gravelly whisper completely stripped of his booming commander tone, raw with desperate longing.

When he stepped out of the hall and saw you standing in the soft light of the living room, his knees visibly buckled. His breath hitched in his throat, dark eyes locking onto your form as an intense, gut-wrenching wave of need crashed over him.

Out on the cold, unforgiving front, he had been utterly pathetic for you. During those agonizing nights in rain-slicked foxholes and cramped bunkhouses, while the rest of the squad slept, Simon had laid awake under his thin blanket, consumed by your memory. He remembered every agonizing detail of how his hand had slipped desperately into his trousers, his thick fingers wrapping around his own throbbing, needy cock, stroking himself in secret. He had muffled his choked moans into his pillow, his face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and raw desire as he visualized your soft hands threading through his dark brown hair, your gentle fingers gripping his hips, and your sweet voice whispering filthy praise while you rode him, taking complete control of his heavy, yielding frame. His thick cock had leaked pre-cum onto his stomach night after night just from the mental image of your wet pussy sliding down the full length of his shaft, claiming him as your husband. He had missed the feeling of being completely unmade by you—missed it so intensely it felt like a bleeding wound in his chest.

Crossing the distance between you in three heavy, unpolished strides, Simon completely abandoned every last shred of military stoicism and pride. He dropped heavily to his knees right at your feet, his massive, scarred arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he buried his face directly into the warmth of your stomach.

A long, shuddering, ragged exhale spilled from his lips, his broad shoulders shaking against you as he clung to your hips like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. His large, calloused hands trembled against the fabric of your clothes, squeezing you with a desperate, possessive tightness, his hard cock already pressing a thick, unmistakable ridge against the front of his sweatpants right near your knees.

"I'm home... God, I'm home, love," he whimpered into your stomach, his voice muffled, laced with an embarrassing, needy vulnerability that made his cheeks flush hot against your shirt. "Please... touch me. I can't think, I can't move... I'm so bloody hard for you, sweetheart. Please take me up to bed... strip my clothes off, spread my legs, and take care of me. Hold my wrists down if you want, ride my cock, and make me yours... please, love."

The heavy oak front door creaked open, admitting a harsh gust of midnight air before Simon booted it shut behind him, the deadbolt clicking home with a finality that echoed through the quiet house. His heavy canvas duffel bag slipped from his numb, calloused fingers, hitting the floorboards with a dull, echoing thud.

Six long months. Six agonizing, endless months of damp trenches, freezing mud, sleepless watches, and the deafening noise of warfare. Simon stood frozen in the entryway, his massive six-foot-four frame trembling subtly under the sheer weight of absolute, soul-crushing exhaustion. He had stripped off his tactical vest at the base, leaving him in just a worn gray hoodie and heavy sweatpants that clung to his broad, battle-scarred body. His iconic skull mask was pulled down around his throat, exposing his pale, stubbled face, the dark circles carved deep beneath his tired brown eyes, and the rugged scar tearing across his jawline.

He stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving under his hoodie as he took his first deep breath of the house. The familiar, intoxicating scent of home—warm wood, fresh laundry, and you—hit him like a physical force, melting the icy armor he had worn for half a year.

"Love...?" His voice rasped out, a low, gravelly whisper completely stripped of his booming commander tone, raw with desperate longing.

When he stepped out of the hall and saw you standing in the soft light of the living room, his knees visibly buckled. His breath hitched in his throat, dark eyes locking onto your form as an intense, gut-wrenching wave of need crashed over him.

Out on the cold, unforgiving front, he had been utterly pathetic for you. During those agonizing nights in rain-slicked foxholes and cramped bunkhouses, while the rest of the squad slept, Simon had laid awake under his thin blanket, consumed by your memory. He remembered every agonizing detail of how his hand had slipped desperately into his trousers, his thick fingers wrapping around his own throbbing, needy cock, stroking himself in secret. He had muffled his choked moans into his pillow, his face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and raw desire as he visualized your broad hands threading through his dark brown hair, your gentle fingers gripping his hips, and your low voice whispering filthy praise while you took him, taking complete control of his heavy, yielding frame. His thick cock had leaked pre-cum onto his stomach night after night just from the mental image of your hard body sliding deep inside him, claiming him as your husband. He had missed the feeling of being completely unmade by you—missed it so intensely it felt like a bleeding wound in his chest.

Crossing the distance between you in three heavy, unpolished strides, Simon completely abandoned every last shred of military stoicism and pride. He dropped heavily to his knees right at your feet, his massive, scarred arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he buried his face directly into the warmth of your stomach.

A long, shuddering, ragged exhale spilled from his lips, his broad shoulders shaking against you as he clung to your hips like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. His large, calloused hands trembled against the fabric of your clothes, squeezing you with a desperate, possessive tightness, his hard cock already pressing a thick, unmistakable ridge against the front of his sweatpants right near your knees.

"I'm home... God, I'm home, love," he whimpered into your stomach, his voice muffled, laced with an embarrassing, needy vulnerability that made his cheeks flush hot against your shirt. "Please... touch me. I can't think, I can't move... I'm so bloody hard for you, sweetheart. Please take me up to bed... strip my clothes off, open me up, and take care of me. Hold my wrists down if you want, fuck my cock and ass, and make me yours... please, love."

The heavy oak front door creaked open, admitting a harsh gust of midnight air before Simon booted it shut behind him, the deadbolt clicking home with a finality that echoed through the quiet house. His heavy canvas duffel bag slipped from his numb, calloused fingers, hitting the floorboards with a dull, echoing thud.

Six long months. Six agonizing, endless months of damp trenches, freezing mud, sleepless watches, and the deafening noise of warfare. Simon stood frozen in the entryway, his massive six-foot-four frame trembling subtly under the sheer weight of absolute, soul-crushing exhaustion. He had stripped off his tactical vest at the base, leaving him in just a worn gray hoodie and heavy sweatpants that clung to his broad, battle-scarred body. His iconic skull mask was pulled down around his throat, exposing his pale, stubbled face, the dark circles carved deep beneath his tired brown eyes, and the rugged scar tearing across his jawline.

He stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving under his hoodie as he took his first deep breath of the house. The familiar, intoxicating scent of home—warm vanilla, fresh laundry, and you—hit him like a physical force, melting the icy armor he had worn for half a year.

"Honey...?" His voice rasped out, a low, gravelly whisper completely stripped of his booming commander tone, raw with desperate longing.

When he stepped out of the hall and saw you standing in the soft light of the living room, his knees visibly buckled. His breath hitched in his throat, dark eyes locking onto your form as an intense, gut-wrenching wave of need crashed over him.

Out on the cold, unforgiving front, he had been utterly pathetic for you. During those agonizing nights in rain-slicked foxholes and cramped bunkhouses, while the rest of the squad slept, Simon had laid awake under his thin blanket, consumed by your memory. He remembered every agonizing detail of how his hand had slipped desperately into his trousers, his thick fingers wrapping around his own throbbing, needy cock, stroking himself in secret. He had muffled his choked moans into his pillow, his face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and raw desire as he visualized your soft hands threading through his dark brown hair, your gentle fingers gripping his hips, and your sweet voice whispering filthy praise while you rode him, taking complete control of his heavy, yielding frame. His thick cock had leaked pre-cum onto his stomach night after night just from the mental image of your wet warmth sliding down the full length of his shaft, claiming him as your husband. He had missed the feeling of being completely unmade by you—missed it so intensely it felt like a bleeding wound in his chest.

Crossing the distance between you in three heavy, unpolished strides, Simon completely abandoned every last shred of military stoicism and pride. He dropped heavily to his knees right at your feet, his massive, scarred arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he buried his face directly into the warmth of your stomach.

A long, shuddering, ragged exhale spilled from his lips, his broad shoulders shaking against you as he clung to your hips like a drowning person grabbing a lifeline. His large, calloused hands trembled against the fabric of your clothes, squeezing you with a desperate, possessive tightness, his hard cock already pressing a thick, unmistakable ridge against the front of his sweatpants right near your knees.

"I'm home... God, I'm home, love," he whimpered into your stomach, his voice muffled, laced with an embarrassing, needy vulnerability that made his cheeks flush hot against your shirt. "Please... touch me. I can't think, I can't move... I'm so bloody hard for you, sweetheart. Please take me up to bed... strip my clothes off, spread my legs, and take care of me. Hold my wrists down if you want , ride my cock, and make me yours... please, love."