#softaestluv

So, when he’s between your parted thighs, you’re shocked when he speaks to you so softly. Quietly begging in your ear, cock pressed to the hilt, for you to be good for him.

And everytime you let out a whine, fingers tightening at his shoulders because he’s massive and you feel like you’re splitting in two with every thrust; he shushes you. ‘You can take it. Yes—yes you can.’

He’s used to being away from you. It’s his job. So, he tells you not to worry when you kiss him goodbye on your tippy toes, four days is nothing compared to the months he’s been away.

He grossly underestimated how different it’d be when you were the one gone.

The first day he’s fine, does mundane tasks around the house to distract himself. Mows the lawn, fixes that part of the fence you’ve been asking him too for weeks.

The second, he goes to the pub with Johnny, drinks one too many beers to fill a sudden void, and stumbles home to a terribly empty and cold bed.

The third day feels heavy, like there’s a mass weighing on his chest and making it hard to focus on anything other than you. The phone call he makes isn’t any better.

“Miss you.”

He says it first, quiet and uncertain. The giggle that follows makes his heart tighten.

“Miss you too, Si.”

You whisper it, so soft, and so fucking sweet he wonders how he ever left you to begin with. Hearing your voice should settle him, but it only makes his chest heavier. You should be there with him, sat in his lap, and pressing those words into his skin.

Day four he’s staring at pictures of you in his wallet and brushing his thumb over your face like he’s on deployment. Like it’s been months since he’s seen you and not four bloody days.

He doesn’t sleep that night when all he tastes is guilt. When this is how you must feel when he’s gone. A bed too big for one person, one pair of shoes at the door when there should be two, indents in the couch that aren’t filled.

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?”

And having Simon around isn't the worst thing in the world.

You've got two pairs of hands around the house to help you with chores and Johnny isn't exactly great with home repairs, but Simon gets the job done.

He even takes your side in every argument you and Johnny have. What to order for takeout? What movie to watch? Simon's picking your side everytime. Which Johnny complains is completely unfair and that Simon is supposed to be his friend not yours.

It is a little frustrating that neither of them seem to know what personal space is. You're smushed between their massive bodies on your much too small couch most nights and you physically can't go anywhere without one of them insisting they have to come.

Atleast you've got two guard dogs anytime you have one too many drinks at the bar. Three drinks and you tripping over your feet is enough for them to haul you into Johnny's truck and call it a night.

And you probably shouldn’t have drank that much because you lean forward between the center console, looking at Simon with spinning vison and he's got this awful smirk on his lips because you're bold when you're drunk. Except the smile drops quick when you point at him and your next words are slurred.

"You know, Simon.” You push your finger into his chest, "I think you have a crush on my boyfriend."

You lean back into the backseat with a hiccuped giggle. You're too drunk to notice the look they give each other, too drunk to notice the sudden tension in the truck, or the way Simon doesn't answer.

⤷ my ghoap love triangle rambles  ╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ ˚

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.