#soft writes

Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.

No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.

But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.

You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.

So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’

Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.

And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.

“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.

You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”

He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.

They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.

“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”

He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.

“Sweetest little wife, aren’t you?”

I didn't do anything wrong.

She hacked another pigman that was coming her way.

Physical activity was good for keeping depressing thoughts at bay, Martyn had said. Yet here she was, one the most wealthy residents in this world, able to do her business in nether like no other and yet.

Her soulmate didn't want Pearl.

—

Martyn usually wasn't one for much feelings other than mischief and rage. That was, until he stood face to face with the one he had felt this pull to during every trial and saw…the same rage directed back at him. For doing what he thought had been a good thing.

—

“Have you found yours yet?”

Green hoodie, blond hair, blue eyes. Kind voice and steady hands. They pulled her up from the hole she had fallen in and gave her aid. In another life, he could have been for her. In this life though, she had yet to find hers.

“No.”

Light touches on her ankle, bandaging it. Apparently she had managed to injure herself on a fallen branch and hadn't even noticed it while escaping a creeper.

“Thanks.”

A wide, kind smile.

“No problem.”

—

“Sooo, what do you think about teaming up for a while?” “Team up? For what?” “Well, it'll be easier to find resources, that's for sure..”

Pearl mulled this over for a bit.

Martyn continued, a little nervous of what he was going to say next.

“Besides, I was kind of thinking that we, uh, could go and get geared up and collect lots of resources so that when we meet our soulmates we'll actually make a good impression on them.”

“Huh,” Pearl said.

“That's actually a very good idea.”

And you aren't too keen on the idea at first. You didn't sign up for a brooding and antisocial third, but you eventually accept that they're a packaged deal. You even start to feel bad for Simon, he's got this intense connection to Johnny, and you soon realize it's because he's the only one whose ever gave him the time of day.

It was never a competition for Johnny either, the man just seemed to like to be involved. He was never jealousy of the attention Johnny gave you.

Everything becomes threes after that. Dinner reservations, movie tickets, matching pajamas you buy for the holidays that sparks concerned conversation from all your friends and family when you send out Christmas cards with a menacing man next to you and Johnny that they've never met.

He sleeps on the couch most nights. At first, it was after a night out at the pub, and he was too drunk to drive home. Then, it turned into every weekend. Which evolved into a third toothbrush at your bathroom sink, three pairs of shoes at your door, and a designated mug he drank his tea out of every morning.

You woke up to him in your kitchen more times than you didn't. He just became this constant presence in both of your lives that the two of you even forgot what it felt like for him not to be there.

And the two of you realize it might have gotten too far when you're looking to move out and only look at houses that come with a second room for him. The man is appalled when you ask him if he wants to have his own room, he wants to sleep in the same bed with you and Johnny.

And he keeps you there long after he’s finished, legs pressed to your shoulders, cock keeping you nice and plugged with his seed, muttering something breathless and ragged about ‘making a baby stick.’

John MacTavish’s favorite position is cowgirl because he’s obsessed with you and it gives him the perfect view of everything you. How your face scrunches when you sink all the way to the bottom or the way your tits bounce with each new thrust.

How your weight feels on top of him, so you’re in control. And the way you look at him, eyes determined, when he starts to get overstimulated, and begs you to stop, but you just fuck him harder.

Kyle Garrick’s favorite position is doggy because he’s an ass man after all and your hips are the perfect handles. He can’t stare at the way your ass recoils off his hips for too long or listen to the loud smack or else he’ll finish too quickly.

And he doesn’t even have to tell you; you just know he likes it when you bury your face into your arms and arch your ass that much higher. You don’t ever run too, just take the way his balls slam against you, meeting him with each deep thrust.

Simon Riley’s favorite position is prone brone because he can’t look at your face without immediately needing to finish. He’d rather take you this way, with your body trapped under his, weight suffocating you, so you have no option, but to take it.

It’s wrong, he knows it is, you’re his sergeant, but he tells himself as long as he doesn’t act on those thoughts he’s fine. He can imagine you all he wants, on your knees, mouth stuffed, eyes watering, gasping for air when he finally lets up.

He tells himself that atleast.

Tells himself that right up until you’re laid out on his desk, needy cunt grinding against the length of his cock because he told himself— told you, that it wasn’t wrong, long as his dick didn’t slip in.

But nothing soon turns into gritted comments of ‘Jus’ the tip ‘ts not wrong if ‘ts jus’ the tip darling.’

He doesn’t really know how to be. His father and mother never had a loving relationship.

You accepted that, knew that you were the one that had to initiate physical touch or be the one to use terms of endearment most of the time. You knew how to love him without it.

But you couldn’t even pretend mornings weren’t your favorite. When he was just a little softer around the edges in the morning sun, half asleep and groggy.

He’s told you he doesn’t sleep much on assignments— doesn’t sleep well in general.

So, when he pulls you in by your waist, pressing his face into your neck with a soft noise of protest when you try to climb out of bed, you can’t even hold in your giggle.

Those are the few times his wall comes down, when he’s too half asleep to realize he’s calling you his baby and murmuring not to leave him just yet.

He’s got crows feet and forehead lines. His knees and ankles pop when he stands. And his visions gone to shit.

His doctor prescribed him glasses.

He hates them.

They fog up when he drinks tea in the morning and in cold weather. They gave him headaches, at first at least. He can’t even take a nap without them getting in the way.

And yet, there’s not a day he regrets wearing them. Not when he can finally see you clearly again, in all your flesh and glory. Finally see the curve of your nose or the corners of your lips turn when he kisses you without having to squint.

So, you take one for the team, let him fuck all his pent up cum inside of you because you don’t think you can hear another description of how sad his hand feels. Hope to get him to shut the hell up.