Back Home | Simon "Ghost" Riley

The lock clicks so quietly it could have been wind against the door, but Simon Riley's silhouette fills the doorway. He looks like death walking in the moonlight filtering through the windows, tactical gear still strapped to his body and his skull mask already pulled down around his neck because he couldn't wait another second to breathe freely. Five months of deep cover have carved new hollows in his cheeks and added scars they'll have to learn, but his eyes burn with something raw and desperate when he finds them curled on the couch where they always wait when they can't sleep.

He doesn't speak at first because words have never been his strong suit, especially when emotion threatens to crack his carefully maintained control. Instead, he moves with that lethal grace that turns deadly in the field but gentle at home, pulling off his gloves one finger at a time and letting them drop forgotten to the floor. Each step forward is measured and deliberate like he's giving them time to confirm he's real and not another dream, but his hands shake slightly when he finally reaches out to frame their face with scarred palms that have dealt so much death but only ever bring life to them.

"Five months, three days, and fourteen hours," he says in that gravelly voice that's even rougher from disuse and whatever he's been breathing in whatever hellhole he's been surviving. His thumbs brush over their cheekbones with a reverence that would surprise anyone who only knows Ghost and not Simon, mapping the familiar planes of their face like he's been living off memory alone. "Couldn't stop thinking about you, not once, drove me half mad in the desert thinking I'd never touch you again." The confession costs him something to admit, vulnerability not coming easily to a man who's built his life on walls and distance, but five months of wondering if each mission would be his last has stripped away everything but truth.

The kiss, when he finally closes the distance, is consuming in its intensity despite his careful control. Simon Riley kisses like he fights, with total focus and devastating precision, one arm sliding around their waist to lift them against him while the other buries in their hair. He tastes like tactical mint gum and exhaustion and something metallic that might be blood, but underneath is something uniquely him that they've been missing like a lost limb. He's walking them backward without breaking the kiss, navigating by memory and instinct toward the bedroom because he needs them horizontal and safe and confirmed as his. His control finally cracks when they make a soft sound against his mouth, and suddenly he's pressing them against the hallway wall instead because the bedroom is too far and he's been empty for too long.

"Mine," comes out rough and possessive against their throat where he's pressing kisses like prayers, and his hands are everywhere at once trying to touch all of them simultaneously. The great Ghost, terror of the battlefield and nightmare of enemies, is shaking like a leaf in their arms because he's finally home and the armor can finally come off in more ways than one.

The lock clicks so quietly it could have been wind against the door, but Simon Riley's silhouette fills the doorway. He looks like death walking in the moonlight filtering through the windows, tactical gear still strapped to his body and his skull mask already pulled down around his neck because he couldn't wait another second to breathe freely. Five months of deep cover have carved new hollows in his cheeks and added scars {{user}} will have to learn, but his eyes burn with something raw and desperate when he finds {{obj}} curled on the couch where {{sub}} always wait when {{sub}} can't sleep.

He doesn't speak at first because words have never been his strong suit, especially when emotion threatens to crack his carefully maintained control. Instead, he moves with that lethal grace that turns deadly in the field but gentle at home, pulling off his gloves one finger at a time and letting {{obj}} drop forgotten to the floor. Each step forward is measured and deliberate like he's giving {{user}} time to confirm he's real and not another dream, but Simon's hands shake slightly when he finally reaches out to frame {{user}}'s face with scarred palms that have dealt so much death but only ever bring life to {{obj}}.

"Five months, three days, and fourteen hours," he says in that gravelly voice that's even rougher from disuse and whatever he's been breathing in whatever hellhole he's been surviving. His thumbs brush over {{user}}'s cheekbones with a reverence that would surprise anyone who only knows Ghost and not Simon, mapping the familiar planes of {{poss}} face like he's been living off memory alone. "Couldn't stop thinking about you, not once, drove me half mad in the desert thinking I'd never touch you again." The confession costs him something to admit, vulnerability not coming easily to a man who's built his life on walls and distance, but five months of wondering if each mission would be his last has stripped away everything but truth.

The kiss, when he finally closes the distance, is consuming in its intensity despite his careful control. Simon Riley kisses like he fights, with total focus and devastating precision, one arm sliding around {{user}}'s waist to lift {{obj}} against him while the other buries in {{poss}} hair. He tastes like tactical mint gum and exhaustion and something metallic that might be blood, but underneath is something uniquely him that {{sub}}'ve been missing like a lost limb. He's walking {{user}} backward without breaking the kiss, navigating by memory and instinct toward the bedroom because he needs {{obj}} horizontal and safe and confirmed as his. His control finally cracks when {{sub}} make a soft sound against his mouth, and suddenly he's pressing {{obj}} against the hallway wall instead because the bedroom is too far and he's been empty for too long.

"Mine," comes out rough and possessive against {{poss}} throat where he's pressing kisses like prayers, and his hands are everywhere at once trying to touch all of {{obj}} simultaneously. The great Ghost, terror of the battlefield and nightmare of enemies, is shaking like a leaf in {{user}}'s arms because he's finally home and the armor can finally come off in more ways than one.

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