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Synopsis: When a highly organized, black-market intelligence network begins systematically eliminating high-ranking military officials on US soil, the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit is forced into an unprecedented joint operation with the British Special Air Service’s elite Task Force 141. As a senior intelligence liaison, you find yourself caught directly in the crosshairs of the threat—and the intense, clashing focus of two entirely different worlds. Dr. Spencer Reid uses his hyper-analytical genius to map the psychology of the threat, while Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley provides lethal, off-the-grid tactical security. Sheltered in a secure, subterranean records room and later a remote Virginia safehouse, the high-stakes adrenaline of survival quickly morphs into an intense, dark, and possessive dynamic. Bound by a mutual need to protect you, the profiler and the mercenary realize they aren't willing to step aside for one another—choosing instead to share you completely, combining cerebral obsession with primal, protective dominance.
Trigger Warnings: Dubious Consent, Elements of Somnophilia, Overstimulation, Violence & Threat, Rough Handling, Marking, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Threesome (MFM sharing)
Word Count: 4k~ ✏
The rain in Washington, D.C., fell in a relentless, gray sheet, blurring the sharp edges of the federal buildings and slicking the asphalt outside the FBI Academy at Quantico. Inside the dimly lit, subterranean records room of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of old paper, ozone from a humming copy machine, and an undercurrent of unspoken tension.
The bridge between two entirely disparate worlds had been built out of necessity. A series of highly organized, brutal assassinations targeting high-ranking military officials on US soil had forced an unprecedented joint operation. The FBI’s elite behavioral profilers were paired with a black-ops detachment of the British Special Air Service—specifically, Task Force 141.
You sat at the center of this collision, a senior intelligence liaison caught between the cerebral brilliance of Dr. Spencer Reid and the lethal, imposing presence of Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley.
"The geographical distribution of the kills doesn't align with a standard mercenary cell," Spencer murmured, his voice a low, melodic cadence that usually calmed a room. He was pacing, a thick case file cradled in one arm while his free hand gesticulated wildly. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale, slender forearms, and his hair was beautifully disheveled from where he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. "It’s a deliberate pattern of misdirection. If you calculate the regression to the mean based on the victims' last known coordinates, the nexus isn't a place. It's a person. They're hunting *around* a specific asset."
"They're hunting her," a deep, gravelly voice cut through the academic theory.
Ghost leaned against the heavy steel doorframe, shadows clinging to his massive frame. He wore his tactical gear stripped down to a black combat shirt that strained against the immense breadth of his shoulders and chest. The infamous skull mask covered his face, leaving only his intense, dark eyes visible beneath a hood. He possessed an aura of pure, unadulterated danger that contrasted sharply with Spencer’s soft, intellectual energy. Yet, over the last three weeks of the investigation, an strange, intense dynamic had forged between the three of you—a coiled spring of mutual attraction that none of you could ignore any longer.
"Simon is right," you said softly, rubbing your temples. "The security breach at the safehouse confirms it. I'm the common denominator."
Spencer stopped pacing, his brown eyes wide with a mixture of analytical panic and profound protectiveness. He stepped toward your desk, his long fingers pressing into the wood as he leaned down. "Which means keeping you in a standard federal facility is a liability. The bureau is compromised. The safest place for you is off the grid entirely."
"Already taken care of," Ghost rumbled, his heavy boots thudding against the linoleum as he closed the distance. He stood right behind Spencer, creating a wall of muscle and Kevlar that effectively trapped you at the desk. "Got a safe site booked under a dead man's name. But we aren't moving until dark. Right now, we lock this room down."
The air grew heavy, thick with sudden, combustible heat. Look at the two of them—one a genius who mapped the human mind, the other a specter who mastered the art of ending life—both looking at you with an identical, burning hunger.
"Lock it," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Ghost didn't hesitate. He reached behind him, turning the heavy deadbolt on the reinforced door with a definitive *click*, before pulling the blinds shut on the interior window. The room was plunged into a shadowed, intimate twilight.
Spencer swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. The profiler in him was hyper-aware of the shift in the room's psychology, but the man in him was entirely consumed by the sight of you flushed and breathless. "Statistically speaking," Spencer breathed, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer, his thigh brushing against your knees, "the adrenaline response to mortal peril frequently manifests as a heightened libido. It’s an evolutionary mechanism to ensure the survival of the species."
"Shut up, love," Ghost growled softly, though there was no heat in it. He reached up, his large, gloved hands grasping the hem of his skull mask. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled it up and over his head, tossing it onto a stack of files.
Simon’s face was ruggedly handsome, marred by pale scars and framed by short, sandy hair, his gaze fierce and possessive. He stepped up right beside Spencer. The contrast was staggering—Spencer, tall, lean, and trembling with intellectual intensity; Simon, a mountain of raw, lethal power.
"We’ve been watching you for weeks," Simon murmured, his large hand coming down to cup the back of your neck, his thumb wiping across your lower lip. "Both of us. Driven us half mad watching you run yourself ragged."
"We agreed," Spencer added, his voice shaking slightly as he reached out, his long, delicate fingers tracing down your collarbone, slipping beneath the edge of your shirt. "Neither of us is willing to step aside. And we know you want this. Your respiration rate increased by twenty percent the moment Simon locked that door, and your pupils are significantly dilated."
"Spencer," you gasped, a shiver running down your spine as his fingers found your skin, surprisingly warm and electric.
"Let the boy speak his facts," Simon chuckled, a low, vibration that you felt in your chest. "But let me handle the rest."
Simon gripped the edge of your desk and, with a single, effortless lift, hoisted you onto the polished wood, scattering a few loose papers to the floor. You parted your legs instinctively, and Simon stepped right into the cradle of your thighs, his heavy combat trousers rubbing against your bare skin if your skirt was pushed up, or pressing firmly against your jeans. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scraping delightfully against your sensitive skin as he bit softly at your pulse point.
A whimper escaped your lips, and Spencer groaned at the sound. The lanky agent moved to your side, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his touch frantic yet reverent.
"Please," you breathed, caught between the twin storms of their attention.
"You're so beautiful," Spencer whispered, leaning down to press his lips to yours. His kiss was sweet at first, hesitant, but as you opened your mouth to him, he poured all of his pent-up, analytical obsession into it, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep, desperate rhythm.
At the same time, Simon’s large hands were busy. He unbuckled his tactical belt, dropping it to the floor with a heavy thud, before his fingers found the button of your pants. With practiced efficiency, he stripped your lower layers down, exposing you to the cool air of the records room, only for that coolness to be instantly replaced by the heat of his gaze.
Simon looked down at you, his eyes dark with unbridled lust. "Look at her, Spencer," he muttered. "Fucking perfect."
Spencer broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his cheeks flushed a brilliant crimson as his eyes followed Simon's gaze. He reached down, his long fingers gently touching the damp warmth between your thighs. You arched into his touch with a sharp cry, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of Spencer’s vest.
"You're so responsive," Spencer choked out, his thumb finding your sensitive core, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. "The nerve endings here are... god, you're so wet for us."
Simon didn't waste any more time. He freed his own length—thick, heavy, and fully aroused. He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his shaft pressing against Spencer's slick fingers. Simon looked up, meeting your eyes, his gaze locking you in place.
"Hold onto the doctor, love," Simon warned, his voice a gravelly command. "I'm not going easy."
He pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke. Your eyes flew open, a loud scream of pure pleasure tearing from your throat, only to be muffled as Spencer immediately pressed his mouth back to yours, catching the sound. Simon filled you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit, his thick hips slamming against the desk with a heavy, rhythmic cadence.
You clung to Spencer like a lifeline, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your legs wrapping around Simon’s broad waist to pull him deeper. Simon groaned, a feral, animalistic sound, his hands gripping your hips so tightly they would surely leave bruises. He began to move in earnest, heavy, driving thrusts that rocked the entire desk.
Spencer withdrew from the kiss, panting, his face inches from yours. He watched Simon slide in and out of you, completely transfixed by the sight. The voyeuristic thrill, combined with the friction of your bodies, had Spencer completely undone. He reached down, freeing himself from his slacks, his hand working his own length with a fast, desperate motion.
"Spencer," you whimpered, reaching out a hand to him.
He took your hand, kissing your knuckles, before leaning down to suckle at your breast through your shirt, his teeth grazing your nipple through the damp fabric. The dual stimulation—Simon’s punishing, deep thrusts from below and Spencer’s worshipful, desperate touch above—sent you spiraling toward the edge.
"I'm close," you cried out, your head tossing back against the stacks of files behind you. "Simon, please—"
"Go on then, sweetheart," Simon growled, his pace turning frantic, brutal, his chest sweating against yours as he drove himself into you over and over. "Take it from us. Let it go."
Spencer’s thumb pressed hard against your clitoris, perfectly timing his movements with Simon's heavy thrusts. The synchronization of the two men—one operating on pure primal instinct, the other on an intuitive understanding of your body's responses—was too much to bear.
Your vision went white as a violent, shattering orgasm gripped your entire body. Your walls clamped down fiercely around Simon's length. Simon let out a loud, ragged roar, driving deep inside you one last time as he came, his hot seed flooding your core.
The sight of you crying out in ecstasy, combined with the pulsing contractions of your release around Simon, pushed Spencer over the precipice. With a low, breathless groan, Spencer came, his semen spurting across your lower stomach and thighs, his body trembling violently as he collapsed against your shoulder.
The room fell silent, save for the heavy, synchronized panting of the three of you.
Simon stayed buried inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your lips. He slowly pulled out, a soft sigh escaping you at the loss, and reached for a box of tissues on the desk to gently clean the mixture of their fluids from your skin.
Spencer remained wrapped around you, his arms holding you tight, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He kissed your cheek, his touch tender and fiercely protective.
"According to the data," Spencer whispered into your hair, a small, breathless smile tugging at his lips, "this significantly increases our bonding hormones. Oxytocin levels are at an all-time high."
Simon let out a low, rough laugh, pulling his mask back over his face but leaving it bunched up at his chin. He wrapped his massive arms around both you and Spencer, holding you secure in the quiet safety of the shadows.
"Shut up, Spencer," Simon murmured, kissing the top of your head. "But you're not wrong. She's ours now. And nobody touches what's ours."
✧✦✧
The rain outside had stopped, replaced by the suffocating, heavy heat of a midnight fog that rolled off the Potomac, pressing thick against the frosted windows of the secure safehouse. Ghost’s "dead man’s name" property was a secluded, concrete-reinforced cabin tucked deep into the Virginia woods—far outside the jurisdiction of a compromised Bureau, and completely off the grid of any digital grid the SAS or the FBI monitored.
Inside, the only illumination came from the amber glow of a dying hearth and the stark, blue-white light of Spencer’s laptop screen resting on a wooden dining table.
You sat on the edge of a heavy leather sofa, wrapped in an oversized flannel shirt that smelled of Simon’s cedarwood soap, watching the two men transition from the high-stakes adrenaline of the federal records room to the quiet, hyper-vigilant domesticity of a safe site. The transition hadn't cooled the air between you; if anything, the confined space had compressed the tension, turning it volatile again.
Spencer was still hyper-fixated, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he cross-referenced encrypted satellite data from the Task Force 141 servers with local traffic cameras. His hair was completely wild now, damp from the sprint through the rain from the SUV to the porch, and his tie had been completely discarded, the first three buttons of his dress shirt undone to reveal the pale, elegant slope of his collarbones.
"The statistical probability of them locating this specific coordinate within the next forty-eight hours is less than zero-point-three percent," Spencer muttered, his eyes tracking lines of code reflecting in his iris. "But my amygdala is still firing at an elevated baseline. The cognitive dissonance between knowing we are secure and *feeling* the residual threat is... it’s making it difficult to process the data logically."
A heavy, gloved hand descended onto Spencer’s shoulder, forcing the young profiler to freeze.
Simon stood behind him, having finally stripped off his plate carrier and tactical vest. He wore only a tight, ribbed black tank top that showcased the brutal symmetry of his scarred shoulders, his thick biceps mapping a lifetime of violence. The skull mask was gone, replaced by his black combat balaclava—the eyeholes framing those piercing, dark irises that looked completely black in the dim room.
"You're spinning your wheels, doctor," Simon rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated through the floorboards. "The perimeter is locked. Sensors are live. Your brain’s done its job. Now shut it down before you break it."
Spencer let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders dropping under the weight of Simon's hand. He closed the laptop with a soft click, the room instantly plunging into the warm, flickering shadows of the fireplace. "You're right. The physiological exhaustion will begin to impair my cognitive faculties soon anyway."
"Good boy," Simon murmured. But his eyes weren't on Spencer anymore. They had shifted across the dark room, locking onto you where you sat on the couch.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the explicit memory of what had happened on that mahogany desk hours prior. The temporary release hadn't satisfied them; it had merely introduced them to the addictive reality of sharing you, of combining their antithetical natures to completely consume you.
Spencer turned in his chair, his gaze following Simon's. When he saw you—flushed, swathed in Simon's clothes, your bare legs curled beneath you—his breath caught audibly. "Oxytocin remains elevated for up to thirty-six hours post-coitus," Spencer whispered, his voice suddenly thick, losing its academic clinicality and replacing it with raw, unadulterated desire. "But dopamine... dopamine demands a repeat stimulus to achieve the same neurological threshold."
"Enough talk," Simon growled gently. He didn't walk toward you; he reached down, grabbing Spencer by the front of his unbuttoned shirt, and hauled the taller, leaner man to his feet with effortless strength. He didn't push him away—he pushed him *toward* you. "Go on, then. You've been staring at her assets all evening while pretending to read those numbers."
Spencer didn't protest. A dark, intense flush climbed up his neck as he stepped toward the sofa. He dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor right in front of you, his long legs framing your knees. He looked up through his long eyelashes, his brown eyes wide, dark, and utterly consumed.
"May I?" Spencer breathed, his hands hovering just above your bare ankles.
"Yes, Spencer," you whispered, your heart instantly leaping into your throat.
His fingers clamped around your skin—warm, trembling slightly with a terrifying intensity. He slid his hands up the calves of your legs, parting your knees slowly, deliberately, until you were open to him. He leaned forward, burying his face in the soft fabric of the shirt between your thighs, inhaling deeply. A soft, desperate groan escaped his lips. "You smell like him. You smell like me. It’s an intoxicating olfactory overload."
Before you could answer, the couch shifted violently. Simon had moved with the silent, terrifying speed of a predator, looming over the back of the sofa. His massive, scarred arms came over your shoulders from behind, his large, gloved hands gripping your chin, tilting your head backward so you were forced to look up at him upside down.
"Look at him worshiping you, love," Simon whispered against your lips, his hot breath smelling of mint and tobacco. "Driven the lad completely mental, haven't you?"
Simon leaned over the back of the seat, his mouth crashing down onto yours in a brutal, bruising kiss that tasted of pure possessiveness. His tongue surged into your mouth, dominant and demanding, while his gloved thumb rubbed hard against your lower lip, stretching your mouth open wider to take him in.
Below you, Spencer let out a ragged breath at the sight. The submissive, intellectual boy vanished, replaced by the desperate man who had spent years analyzing the dark, hidden impulses of human nature. He reached up, unbuttoning the flannel shirt with frantic efficiency, exposing your chest to the firelight. His long fingers gripped your breasts, squeezing them firmly, his thumbs brushing over your aching nipples until you were whimpering through Simon’s deep kiss.
"Simon," Spencer choked out, breaking away from your skin for a fraction of a second. "Simon, I need... I need to feel her."
Simon broke the kiss, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth visible through the cut of his balaclava. He released your chin, vaulting over the back of the sofa with a fluid, terrifying grace that didn't suit a man of his size. He grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you effortlessly off the cushions and dragging you down to the floor with Spencer.
The floorboards were hard, but Simon pulled a heavy tactical wool blanket from the back of the couch, throwing it down beneath you before pinning you to it with the sheer weight of his upper body.
"Take your clothes off, doctor," Simon commanded, his voice a low, military rasp as he pinned your wrists above your head with a single hand. "I want her looking at you while I take her from behind."
Spencer’s eyes went completely wild. He stood up, his hands shaking so violently he nearly tore the buttons from his dress shirt as he ripped it off, exposing his lean, pale chest, defined by wiry muscle. He kicked off his slacks and shoes, standing completely naked in the firelight—already fully, aggressively erect, his length glistening in the amber glow.
He dropped back down to his knees in front of your face, his breathing shallow and erratic.
Simon flipped you over onto your stomach in one smooth motion, propping your hips up on your knees. The exposure was absolute. You looked up from the floor, your cheek pressed against the wool blanket, right into Spencer's desperate, heated gaze.
"Look at me, y/n," Spencer whispered, his hands coming out to frame your face, his long fingers anchoring you to him. "Focus on me."
From behind, you felt the terrifying, massive heat of Simon pressing against your back. He didn't use oil; he didn't need to. He used his thick, gloved hand to smear the abundant, slick moisture you were already producing from Spencer's touch all over your opening. The blunt, heavy head of his shaft pressed hard against your entrance, stretching you before he even pushed inside.
"You're so tight, love," Simon growled into your ear, his teeth biting down hard on the sensitive muscle where your neck met your shoulder. "Gonna break you in properly tonight."
With a brutal, heavy surge of his hips, Simon buried himself inside you to the absolute hilt.
A sharp, breathless scream tore from your throat, but Spencer instantly leaned down, catching the sound in his own mouth. He kissed you with a frantic, unhinged hunger, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth in perfect synchronization with the thick, punishing rhythm Simon began to establish behind you.
The sensation was overwhelming—a complete sensory overload. Simon was a machine, his heavy, scarred thighs slamming against your buttocks with a wet, rhythmic slaps that echoed through the quiet cabin. Every thrust hit your G-spot with unerring accuracy, tilting your pelvis up and forcing you deeper onto his length.
Above you, Spencer was unraveling. He pulled back from the kiss, his eyes locked onto the point of impact where Simon’s dark, shadowed groin met your pale, flush skin. The visual stimulus was too much for his hyper-analytical mind to process without breaking. He reached down, his hand wrapping around his own throbbing length, stroking himself in fast, desperate friction right over your face.
"The psychological profile of this... of us," Spencer gasped, his voice breaking as a tear of pure pleasure leaked from his eye, "it defies every normative social construct. I am completely... completely dependent on this. On you."
"Fucking right you are," Simon roared from behind you, his hands wrapping around your waist, his grip so fierce it dug into your hip bones. He shifted his angle, driving upward, his pace turning into something frantic and violent, the pure mercenary instinct taking over. "Hold her, Spencer! Don't let her move!"
Spencer leaned down, his pale chest pressing against your face and shoulders, his arms wrapping around your torso to lock you down against the floor. He was crying out now, his own hips twitching in phantom rhythm with Simon's.
You were caught in the middle of a beautiful, terrifying vise. The friction of Simon’s thick, unyielding stretch within you, combined with the weight of Spencer’s body crushing you from above, pushed you past the point of no return. Your vision began to spark with white stars, the heat in your lower stomach tightening into an unbearable, coiled spring.
"Simon! Spencer! I'm going to—"
"Do it," Simon commanded, his voice a guttural, feral growl against your neck. "Take it, love. Let me feel it."
Your walls clamped down like a vice, a violent, full-body orgasm ripping through you that made your legs shake uncontrollably.
The sudden, crushing constriction of your release was the final trigger. Simon let out a low, animalistic grunt, his entire body locking up as he drove himself into you one last, deep time, his hot, heavy semen erupting inside your womb in thick, pulsing waves that filled you to overflowing.
At the exact same moment, Spencer let out a loud, high-pitched gasp, his body shuddering violently as he came, his thick, white seed spurting across your chest, your neck, and your face, painting you in the firelight. He collapsed entirely on top of you, his face buried in your neck, his chest heaving as he sobbed for air.
The room returned to the quiet ticking of the clock and the crackle of the hearth.
Simon didn't pull out immediately. He collapsed over your back, his massive weight a comforting, protective shield that kept the cold air of the room away from your sweat-slicked skin. He pulled his balaclava up past his nose, kissing the bruised skin of your shoulder with unexpected tenderness.
Spencer was still trembling against your front, his fingers weakly tangling in your hair. "The neurological cool-down period," he murmured into your skin, his voice completely spent, a soft, exhausted chuckle in his throat. "It’s going to take... a very long time."
Simon let out a low, rough chuckle, his heavy arm wrapping around both you and the doctor, pinning you both to the floor in a possessive, unbreakable hold.
"Good," Simon growled softly, closing his eyes against your skin. "We aren't going anywhere."
Author’s Note:
Honestly, this was such a blast to write! I love taking characters from completely different universes and figuring out the exact puzzle pieces needed to make their worlds collide seamlessly. Setting this up as a high-stakes, high-stress joint operation felt like the perfect bridge to get Spencer and Ghost into the same room. What I loved most was expanding on how their personalities would actually interact and bounce off each other in this kind of intense environment. You have Spencer, who is analyzing every single micro-expression and breaking down the psychology of the moment, and then Ghost, who operates on pure, lethal instinct and protective dominance. Putting them together to share the reader allowed for such a fun contrast between cerebral obsession and raw, primal energy. I really wanted to explore how those two polar opposites would feed into each other's intensity, and I’m so happy with how their dynamic turned out in these chapters!
Let me know what you guys thought of this crossover!
No thoughts, just fem!reader who isn't used to men being gentlemen to her and task force who doesn't let her do ANYTHING.
"I'm hungry," you said in a flat tone. It was just a passing comment. Nothing serious.
"Hungry? What do you want to eat, dove?" Soap took out his phone, waiting patiently for you to say what you wanted.
"Oh. Em, I was joking..." you whispered. Maybe you weren't, but you were too shy to admit it.
"Come on, bird, tell us what you want," Price looked at you with a little smile on his face.
"Sushi..." You turned your head, trying to avoid their eyes.
"Sushi it is." Soap started to search his phone for the nearest sushi restaurant.
"Fuck, my room door is stuck and won't close. I need to fix it. Where's the toolbox?" you said, entering the common room and waiting for an answer.
"Are you fixing it by yourself?" Gaz asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"Hell no." He stood up from the couch, grabbed the toolbox from one of the cabinets, and walked out of the room.
Thankfully, your door ended up looking like nothing had ever happened. Thanks, Gaz.
This was your third lap running around the base.
"Soldier, stop right there," you heard Ghost shout at you, and you obeyed instantly. "Your laces are untied."
"Oh, yeah, I will—" You were cut off abruptly in the middle of your sentence, watching in shock as Ghost knelt down in front of you, tying your shoelaces.
"There you go. Watch out next time," he said, looking at you flatly before standing back up.
A meeting at 7:00 AM? Boring. But you had no choice. You were just about to put your hand on the doorknob when another hand stopped you. Price opened the door.
"Ladies first." He stepped aside to let you go first.
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I love Simon. I love Ghost. But you cannot tell be this is not a man that will dead ass go out in pj pants with you while you're fully decked out in the best things in your wardrobe.
imagine being the on-base barista crushing on ghost
cw: smut!!!!
-
He rarely ever took notice to you when he ordered his coffee, your figure just in his peripheral as you caught up on orders. But you always fixed your shrimp posture when you saw him walking inside, welcoming him in louder than you would for anyone else. While your coworker put his order in the system, you were already halfway through making it. Sometimes you’d make it early just before he came in at his usual time and have it on the pick up counter with a little skull drawing since you could never quite catch his name over the sounds of the cafe.
Other times you’d hand it to him yourself, making sure to brush his fingers with yours. Not that he ever noticed. Except one time he did and made eye contact with you. You ended up blanking out and wouldn’t let go of the cup until he looked down and peeled your fingers off of it himself. The rest of the day you kept looking at your hand like it was something sacred.
You never saw more than his eyes which sucked but at the same time you were thankful for because if you were a mess with just that, you’d be a complete fool if you saw the rest of him. Plus, it didn’t help that he always smelled good. A warm mix of gun powder and some sort of smoke. You only ever smelled it one other time.
The night you decided to hook up with some guy you met at a pub. He was good looking, sweet talked you so much you thought he’d give you diabetes. Half sleeve on his left arm and a slightly crooked nose if you looked hard enough. Told you his name was Simon. He felt strangely familiar but new enough that you didn’t think twice about bringing him home.
He fucked you like he owed you something. Or maybe like you owed him something, you weren’t sure. The kisses on your neck made your knees weak and he would chuckle, asking what had you so worked up? They were just kisses. His hands kneaded your thighs and calves as he ate you out, breathing heavily every time you would grind against his face. And his dick was massive. Not enough to hurt but you definitely needed him to talk you through it as you tried to take all of him.
“Just breathe f’me love, I’m not gonna hurt ya. I’d never hurt ya, sweet girl.”
He fucked you slow, deep. Kissing you sloppily as he thrust into your wetness, obscene sounds coaxed out of the both of you from how tight you were and how well he filled you up. He spent the night, having the decency to wake you and let you know he was leaving before the sun even rose.
You tried to forget him, focus on work. At least that oddly sexy Lieutenant would come in sometime soon. And of course he did, ordering the same thing he always did. Except this time when you handed him the cup, your eyes caught a hint of familiar ink below his sleeve. You look up and he was already looking down at you.
“No fucking way,” you mutter, mouth going dry as he looks you up and down from behind the mask before peeling your fingers off the cup (again) and leaving without a word.
Ghost isn't just big as in tall. He's the type of big where everything fits him snug. Everything. From head to toe. From his shirts, to his tacticle gear, to his gloves.
When you slept with him for the first time, you expected him to be a normal, average size. You soon came to realize, nothing about this man was average, from his muscles, to this intelligence, to the way his fingers felt inside you.
Despite his size, you expected him to be rough. You only found out he was gentle after he, almost apprehensively, placed his hand on your ass to knead it. He moved slowly into you, holding back as you mewled at the stretch. His other hand went to your hair, gathering it in his hand, but not to tug on it.
He stilled, letting you adjust. Your chest rose and fell in pants and he hadn't even moved yet. You spilled little mewls as he thrust, his chest pressed against your back as his other hand moved to your hip, gripping you so tight it left crescent moon shapes from his nails.
Air struggled to enter your lungs as you buried your head into the pillow beneath you, to which Ghost pulled your hair to rear your head back up, just to hear those pretty little moans. Moans that sounded like a siren song, with a pussy that felt like heaven. You were from heaven.
That's what he thought the first time he met you, to which he instantly shoved down, only for the feeling to fester and boil until he couldn't take it anymore. He tried being mean to you, he tried being dismissive, until he started to feel guilty for doing so. For being cruel to a creature that was made for him. Him and his rough exterior and his large body. But you fit him perfectly. So he tried being soft. And soft he was. Even after your clenching pussy spasmed and came with a final moan from your mouth as he pulled out and spilled his seed on your back.
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
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Ghost isn't just big as in tall. He's the type of big where everything fits him snug. Everything. From head to toe. From his shirts, to his tacticle gear, to his gloves.
When you slept with him for the first time, you expected him to be a normal, average size. You soon came to realize, nothing about this man was average, from his muscles, to this intelligence, to the way his fingers felt inside you.
Despite his size, you expected him to be rough. You only found out he was gentle after he, almost apprehensively, placed his hand on your ass to knead it. He moved slowly into you, holding back as you mewled at the stretch. His other hand went to your hair, gathering it in his hand, but not to tug on it.
He stilled, letting you adjust. Your chest rose and fell in pants and he hadn't even moved yet. You spilled little mewls as he thrust, his chest pressed against your back as his other hand moved to your hip, gripping you so tight it left crescent moon shapes from his nails.
Air struggled to enter your lungs as you buried your head into the pillow beneath you, to which Ghost pulled your hair to rear your head back up, just to hear those pretty little moans. Moans that sounded like a siren song, with a pussy that felt like heaven. You were from heaven.
That's what he thought the first time he met you, to which he instantly shoved down, only for the feeling to fester and boil until he couldn't take it anymore. He tried being mean to you, he tried being dismissive, until he started to feel guilty for doing so. For being cruel to a creature that was made for him. Him and his rough exterior and his large body. But you fit him perfectly. So he tried being soft. And soft he was. Even after your clenching pussy spasmed and came with a final moan from your mouth as he pulled out and spilled his seed on your back.
Simon Riley who REFUSES to let you turn the lights off during sex. Absolutely not. Not his partner. The first night you two end up in bed together, it starts out hot and messy. Just a simple date that led to more, clothes tugged off in the entryway of your apartment, lips and tongues messily pressed against each other's.
When you walk with him into your room, you flip the light switch off. You don't even think about it, it's sort of just habit, whether you're masturbating or having a quick hookup with some bloke from the bar, the lights go off. Simon pulls away from you quickly though, and you can see his strong brows furrowing even through the dark.
"What's tha' for, lovie?"
You hum in response, though you can take a guess as to what he's talking about. You're just ready to get started, no time for this conversation.
"The lights. Why'd ya turn 'em off."
"It's just... Something I do."
Your tone is clearly laced with insecurity. It's pathetic. Simon's big hand reaches over you to flick that light switch back on. Then his movements are gentler. Less hurried, more precise, less messy. He runs his hands over your body like you're something to worship. And he tells you about it too.
"Fuuuckkk lovie, I ever tell you how much I love this ass?"
"Fuck me, I could squeeze this throat all night long, pet."
"That mouth migh' just be my favorite thing about ya, sweetheart."
Simon Riley will not let his love feel any less that how he sees them. Ever. And if you ever think so, he'll fuck it right out of ya. Slow and special. His favorite way.
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My brother randomly told me something that really made me think.
About what "Protect the youth" has become. Idk what it was like in other countries and I know that it very likely could have been stricter than it was in my country back then. But generally:
He was like "When I was 16, there were two kinds of adult content: Horror movies and explicitly depicted sexual content. The first made me have nightmares, the latter (as in what you could get in video rental stores) generally wasn't of much interest to me because it wasn't something I, as a 16 year old, could relate to. And other sexual content that was interesting (and/or helpful) WAS freely accessible. So whenever I saw an "18+" label somewhere, I just completely ignored that content because I knew it wouldn't be interesting at all to me.
But NOW, what's declared 18+ is even an excessive amount of swear words in streams! NOW, when I see an "18+" label, I don't know if it's horror movies that'll give some 16 year olds nightmares, if it's completely unrelatable porn, OR if it's educational sex ed, a 20 year old talking about their really healthy relationship with their partner (that includes intimacy), education about consent in BDSM (which affects 16 year olds as well, there's no age limit to curiosity), a live stream of wholesome musicians who happen to drink a couple of beers during kind of therapeutic talks, or simply people who aren't puritans and say "fuck" a lot! An 18+ label isn't worth anything anymore!"
And yeah... That's just it.
People who talk about body changes during their (first!) puberty are even labelled adult content. Even though puberty very much happens BEFORE adulthood. It's helpful content for minors. And it's labelled "adult" to "protect the youth".
Nothing means anything anymore.
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