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arabellasleopardcoat · 28 days ago

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The Brave (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: A collection of first times with Daemon.

Warnings: Bastard! Reader. Daddy issues. Corruption kink. Innocence kink. Age difference, power imbalance. Poorly translated HV. Angst. Enemies to lovers (Sort of?) Happy ending. Usual warnings for Daemon (Sexual thoughts, mature language, violence)

Requested: Yes! My first after Halloween, life has been crazy.

THE FISHERMEN SAIL too early for your liking. You know it has little to do with their personal preference, and more to do with the tides. It doesn’t mean you are happy about it, though.

Your job is to ensure all your ships are in good condition and ready to transport whatever those men bring home. Your mother had made a small fortune by expanding her father’s fleet, and after her passing, it was your turn to handle it. You preferred to oversee things personally, knowing that only an owner’s touch could ensure the quality of service you prided yourself in.

No one loved these ships more than you. Small and old they were, but they tied you to your mother. You lacked her knowledge, and sometimes, they made you far less money than you hoped for, but you insisted on keeping them. Your siblings had not shown such an interest, choosing other pursuits.

Allyn, much more practical, had preferred to learn the trade of a shipwright. He now worked under Lord Corlys. It embarrassed you to say it, but it was him and not you who was the breadwinner of your family. Some months, if not most, it was far more lucrative than your business with the ships.

Addam worked occasionally as a shipwright too, but he didn’t have a steady source of income. He was far too young to be hired anywhere, lacking the experience most lords wanted from those building their ships. Sometimes, he also helped you.

Today wasn’t one of those days. Otherwise, you would have forced him to come here in your stead. With a grumble, you jumped from the ship to the dock. Everything was as it should, so you had to move to the next one.

The sunrise makes Hull look even more beautiful, the city slowly beginning to rise under Driftmark’s watchful eyes. The white marble and ivory of the castle provide a backdrop for the goldens and pinks that color the scene. It would make you smile, were it not for the fact that the peaceful morning is ruined by every damn bell in the city tolling.

Visitors. Noble ones. By the amount of noise, they are announcing the visit of someone very high ranking.

The splash of cold water against your ankle makes you grumble more. You hated getting your shoes wet. Or your ankles. You fix your hair scarf, worried that the sea breeze will make it come loose.

You shouldn’t have bothered. A harsh gust of wind takes it fully off and nearly sends you caroling into the water. The dock shakes underneath you, the ships and water agitated by the same thing. You scream, as do the rest of the sailors who are near.

As you look up, you see him. A man, with silver hair and a smug look on his face, riding atop a dragon. He is showing off, ducking low, the dragon’s tail dipping in the water before springing back up again. It is what is causing the breeze. You marvel for a second, wondering how such a gigantic beast can be so nimble.

You had never seen a dragon up close before. You are not allowed to go near Driftmark, where the Princess and the Lord and Lady keep theirs.

The few captains and sailors that were on the docks alongside you have fled. But not you. Alone, silver hair in full display, you stand frozen in the same spot you had been before seeing him pass.

The man smiles. He winks at you.

You lower your eyes and do not stop running until you are safe at home.

DAEMON SEES YOU again when he least expects it. He has looked for you in every pleasure house on this island and has not been able to find you. The brave little maiden with silver hair, who had screamed bloody murder but stood her ground on the docks when she saw him approach.

You must be of Valyrian descent. There is no other explanation for your lack of fear. You were young and comely, so he had guessed that you must be a whore. It was what happened to girls who looked like you. Men loved pretending they were either a Princess or the daughter of some lord. And so close to Driftmark? They probably asked you to pretend you were little Laena Velaryon.

Daemon would have so enjoyed to play such a game himself. His future bride was far too young to do little more than court under her parents’ watchful eyes. If he could sneak a bit of a taste in advance, you wouldn’t catch him complaining about it.

When he had agreed to accompany Corlys to oversee the progress being made on the news ships for his fleet, the last thing he expected to encounter was you.

Your laughter was the first thing that caught his attention, a sound so girlish it seemed improper among the men carrying saws and woods for the ships. His head had turned instinctively towards the sound, and it was then that he saw you.

The dress you had on was a plain gray, as it was the headscarf you wore. But Daemon would know that face anywhere. He had sought everywhere for it. You were holding a small basket, next to some shipwright. The man looked older than you, already bald. You were all smiles and animated gestures, seemingly taken by him.

The man tickled your side, and you laughed again. You handed him the basket and kissed him on the cheek.

Daemon seethed. He hated sharing. With whores, it was to be expected, yet it didn’t make it anymore palatable. It was why he enjoyed taking maidenheads so much. Yet, he could ignore it if the woman was pretty or well-trained enough, like he did with Mysaria. To watch a whore with her lover, though, it was intolerable.

Whores were professional liars. You paid them to pretend to be someone they were not. But watching you with a man you truly loved would forever break the fantasy. There was no way he could believe the sweetest lies on your tongue, not when he knew what you looked like when truly in love.

Is it in bad taste to approach you when his future father-in-law is distracted by his sailors? Probably. But he cannot stop himself. Because the only thing Daemon can think of, the only thing that would make him feel better, is to bring you as low as he. Ruin your little fantasy as you had ruined his.

He marches towards where the man and you are, and gently cups your chin in his hand. The sudden interruption startles you, and you try taking a step back, but his sweet hold has turned into Valyrian Steel. There is no escape for little whores.

“I looked for you in the brothel, but you were not there.”

“I… Excuse me?” Your voice is shrill, more angered than panicked. “Do I know you?”

And oh, the nerve on you. The nerve to question him, as if he were just a passing man on the street and not a Prince of House Targaryen. The same nerve that drove you to stand your ground against Caraxes.

Begrudgingly, Daemon has to name the strange feeling taking place in his stomach. Awe. Admiration. You had fire in your belly, and steel on your spine. You were a truer Valyrian than many of his own family members.

They were weak. Soft. You were not. But you were still a mere peasant, and he couldn’t allow you to disrespect him such.

“You should be more careful on how you address your betters.”

You shove him, hard. And Daemon feels his rage bubbling up, and raises a hand to do something he will most likely regret… But before he can strike you, the man you had been smiling at steps in.

“Unhand her.” He says, voice firm. His expression doesn’t waver, the same steel you have mirrored in his brown eyes. Up close, he is much younger than Daemon expected, tall and muscular from what seems like a life of hard work. He tugs you behind him.

“And who are you? The husband? The brothel owner?” Daemon sneers, getting in his face. Your hand comes up in between them, fragile and unadorned. Yet, you hit with strength, palm flat against his chest. Daemon laughs and grabs it between his. You attempt to pull back, but his grip is much firmer. “Ah, cupping a feeling, sweetheart?”

“Daemon.” And really, things were just turning interesting. Why does Corlys have to interrupt at the worst time possible? “Unhand her immediately.”

At his appearance, both you and the boy turn an awful gray shade that matches your dress and headscarf. Fear of their liege, perhaps?

But the boy’s jaw ticks, and your dark eyes lower in a manner that they hadn’t when facing him. Something else is at play here.

“I was just…” Daemon slowly retracts his hand, studying the surrounding faces carefully. You, sullen, the boy enraged. Corlys’ cold as ice. Neither of you speak, yet it is clear you are not strangers.

“I do not care. Unhand her. We do things different in Driftmark.”

And the tone Corlys uses is strange, for a man unbothered by the costs of power. What are two peasants to the favor of a Prince? Why does he know them? He had never struck Daemon as someone concerned by his subjects.

And then, a piece of your hair falls out of your headscarf. Silver against a dark background. And it is then he knows it. You are no dragonseed. Nor is the boy with the shaved head.

“YOU DO THINGS different here, for certain.” Prince Daemon says, appearing at your window while you knead bread. His presence is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. It is the first time you are home alone after the incident, not Addam nor Allyn willing to risk this stranger attempting anything worse than he already has. Three days had passed, and they had considered it enough. If the man had not approached you during that time, it meant he wouldn’t, right? Clearly no. He had just been bidding his time, waiting for both of your brothers to go. “Corlys's little secret.”

Your hands shake. You wished Allyn wasn’t so set on teaching Addam his craft, and hadn’t gone out today. Being home alone with a strange man around didn’t spell anything good for you.

A quick glance at the door reassures you that it is still barred. You take a not so subtle step back from the window.

The prince lip’s quirk upwards, not quite a smile, but betraying his amusement. Does he find your fear funny?

“I won’t hurt you, my lady. I didn’t mean to scare you, either.” His voice is gentle, as if dealing with a spooked animal. The title makes you scoff. No one has ever called you a lady, much less a Prince.

As a child, you used to watch Laena Velaryon and pretend you were her. Wondering what life would have been like if you didn’t have to hide, if your father acknowledged you. Wondering what it would feel, to be a Lady and never go to bed hungry, to be surrounded by beauty all day.

You are no lady. You are a bastard girl, and you have gone to bed nearly starving more times than you could count.

As if sensing your thoughts, Prince Daemon lifts one of his hands. He holds up a package, wrapped in bright white silk. Both he and his gift look deeply out of place here, near your window. In his fine clothes, in brighter colors than you can afford, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Any child of mine, even if natural-born, would never have to go hungry. Your father should be doing more for you, not hiding you three like a shameful secret.”

You do not take the parcel. You merely look at him and fight an overwhelming urge to cry.

“Here.” Prince Daemon pushes the parcel through the window. “Consider this my apology for my behavior. Rather uncouth, huh?”

You open it carefully. Two smaller parcels fall from it, both as carefully wrapped.

“You can wear the silk.” He tells you, gesturing to your hair. “And the rest…”

Curious, you peer into one of the parcels. It’s full of cured meat.it would have cost him a pretty penny, having it already preserved for you. It is a luxury Addam, Allyn and you never get to have. Not since your mother passed.

With rushed hands, you open the other parcel. A small sack of flour, lemons, and pages torn from a book. They are all expensive things, nothing like the flour you buy at the market to make bread or the bruised fruit you get when Addam craves something sweet. You squint at the pages, puzzled by their presence.

“Mix one cup of flour with… Is this..?” You ask him, astonished. A small smile begins to form on your face.

“The recipe for lemon cakes. For your baking.” He smiles back. He then gestures to your hands, still covered in flour. “I hear you enjoy it. Just… Save me a piece.”

“Thank you.” You beam at him. He gives you a bow, and leaves. You find yourself smiling like a fool the rest of the afternoon.

You cannot believe it. Prince Daemon has just given you the recipe for lemon cakes. As far apologies go, this is a great one.

Addam and Allyn go to bed with full stomachs. You go to bed with yours full of butterflies. No one has ever ensured such for the three of you.

“IS IT CLOSE enough?” You bite your lower lip, watching Daemon chew a piece of cake. His brows furrow a bit, and he lets out a small, throaty moan.

“Close enough. A tad more lemony than the one at Driftmark, but I like it.” He smiles. You fight the urge to beam. He has been coming almost daily after bringing you the lemons, but it is the first time you allow him to taste your creation.

He says it is because he enjoys the walk. You are not entirely sold, but thinking it is to see you seems a bit conceited.

“I got excited.” You scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. The batter had smelt and tasted so heavenly, you had just kept adding more.

Daemon laughs. He uses his now free hand to tug you towards his side. You love when he does that. The gesture feels very protective. He never lets you walk too far from him, or on the side next to the ocean, so you never stumble or get soaked by an errant wave.

It’s peaceful here. He often says he cares not for the ocean, but the two of you always walk the same route. From your home, towards your ships, then back.

“Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere else?” You ask him, watching the waves lap at the shore. Then, feeling stupid for asking, you lower your eyes. As much as you feign blindness, you are not blind. He is probably ashamed to be seen with the likes of you. Even your father is. Why wouldn’t a Prince?

Your eyes feel warm, and your vision blurs. Gods, you hate crying. You try to focus on something else. Your scuffed shoes. His boots. The sand under your feet. The urge to run away, and scream, and die from the humiliation of even asking.

Daemon sighs. He sits down on the sand, patting the space on his side. His clothes, despite their simple design, are very fine.

“Your clothes…” You mumble, without sitting.

“Bah, I have three other cloaks like this one.” As if proving a point, he takes it off, laying it down for you to sit. You feel even sillier at his patience. “Come. Sit down, jorrāeliarzys.”

You obey him because there is little else to do. You have already messed up, you don’t wish to make any other mistake. His company has become precious to you, a welcome respite from your brothers. Living with two boys, you are never alone. But every so often, you wish for more engaging conversation.

“I am not ashamed of being seen in your company. I just… I thought you preferred it here.” Daemon explains, softly tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “Would you like for us to meet in the city, instead?”

You think of meeting him in the city’s market. Of the rumors that would sure follow, of the names you would be called. Of your father finding out. You know what it would look like to him. That you are making the same mistake as your mother did.

You are not dumb. Daemon is not here to simply plan an alliance. Alliances are always sealed in blood, and your half sister is barely old enough to be considered.

Your mother and you are different. She didn’t know your father was using her. You know Daemon is using you. And you intend to use him right back, milk him for all of his worth.

So why does it hurt like this, why does it feel like something inside you is breaking?

You take the parcels he gives you without any shame. That night, as the three of you are eating a generous serving of venison, Allyn scowls.

“I don’t like it. Can’t you see what he wants?”

Addam’s fork freezes midway to his mouth. He looks down at his plate, as if he is truly seeing the meat he is being served for the first time.

“I am not mother.” You say, icily. The venison tastes bitter on your tongue, but stubbornly, you keep eating. Allyn is just angry that it is not longer him who is putting the meals on the table. “I know what highborn men are like.”

What your father is like, too. How they use women as if they were little more than things, how they produce children and leave them to their fates.

“All the more reason not to allow him to take your maidenhead.”

“Do you listen to yourself?” You scoff, getting up. “Maidenheads, as if I were some great lady. I can handle it. Handle him.”

Allyn looks at you, eyes full of pity. You cannot bear it. Your eyes sting again. You hurry out of the table.

“Where are you going?” Addam reaches forward, as if to grab you.

“To my room. The two of you have ruined my appetite.” But it wasn’t the two of them, not really. Daemon is ashamed of you, the voice in your head whispers. Ashamed of you, just like your father was. He only wants to use you, and once he has had his fill, he will discard you. Just like your father did to your mother.

Alone, in your room, you tear the headscarf he had given you to shreds. You squeeze the rests on your palm, you make a ball, you throw it against the wall.

The next morning, you have sobbed your throat raw. You still go to meet him in the afternoon.

SOMETHING IS WRONG. Daemon can tell when he picks you up that day. Your eyes are swollen and bloodshot, and your complexion an awful gray. The headscarf he had given you is nowhere to be seen, and you are back to your severe gray one.

Like a bad case of heartburn, the lie he had told you comes back to him, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth.

Daemon is not ashamed of you, but doesn't want to be seen with you either. The consequences for you would be too great. He had learned his lesson with Mysaria. The double stain would have made you a pariah, both because of your birth and because of whom you were bedding.

Because it was all that people would think about when they found out. No one would believe Daemon had yet to touch you.

He was unsure if he ever would.

You were an extraordinary girl, yet still a bastard. There was nothing to be done about it. All you could be was friends and lovers, and nothing more.

Yet, your dark eyes were so kind, your face full of such happiness, Daemon dared not to sully you. Something in you screamed at his instincts to protect, something tugged at his heartstrings when he saw your face scrunched up towards the sun, and told him to gather you in his arms and never let anything touch you.

Daemon had been like you, once. When younger. He, too, felt a lack of acknowledgement by those around you, and an urge to prove himself. His father had passed when he was still young, and Viserys had received all laurels. It would have never bothered him because he loved his brother, but Viserys had left him behind. Married Aemma. Had children. Gained the love of his people, found new friends.

Never once Viserys had looked at Daemon. No matter how hard he tried to reach for him, his brother always evaded his hand. Daemon had been left there. He, too, had stood on the shadows and feigned indifference, burning up with secret resentment.

The idea of you growing up to be like him was both appealing and horrifying. There was a sweetness to you, a naïveté that he had lacked even in his younger years. He wanted to preserve it. Shield you from the world.

Bedding you would ruin you. Daemon enjoyed playing the role of mentor, teaching you new things, helping you gain experiences you would never get as a bastard girl. Yet, you had such a tempting figure, with a mouth made for sin, and a body that begged for worship. You were a little girl, but you had all the self-possession and looks of a grown woman.

You would taste exquisite on his tongue, crumbling from his caresses. Your cunt would feel like wet velvet around him, and you would sound your sweetest when he was spearing you open on his cock.

And how would you smile, joyous and fierce, his brave girl. Some maidens cried, but not you. You were made of sterner stuff, a heart that burned brighter and stronger than the Fourteen Flames. You had stood your ground, terrified but unbowed, in front of Caraxes himself.

Such a face you had, all Valyrian empress. A sovereign nose, the fleeting shadow of your eyelashes, and a slippery laugh that always gave you an air of mischief. A face not made for sadness. It is what prompts him to do what will become either the greatest mistake of his life, or his greatest triumph.

“I was thinking…” Daemon says, watching your expression closely. “We could go to a tavern tonight.”

“A tavern?” The surprising offering shakes you out of your sadness. Your face changes from a sad little frown into a curious one.

“Have you ever gone to one?” Daemon tugs the hair scarf from your hair, softly. The silver curls fall free, in a lovely mess. You scowl, trying to get it back, but he holds it just out of your reach. It’s a lovely thing, to watch you give little jumps on your tiptoes, curls bouncing with the motion. “Ah! None of that, now. Answer my question first.”

“No, I haven’t. Addam and Allyn go from time to time, but it sounds too rowdy for my liking.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“It’s rowdy, but in a good sense.” Daemon cannot help it. Your curls are a bit mussed, from wearing the ugly headscarf for too long. He fixes them, fluffing them up slightly at the roots in the way he has seen handmaidens do for Laena. He then tosses the damn thing into the sea, for good measure, ignoring your outraged cry. “Drinks, music, people, greasy food. You will love it.”

“I hate drinking.” You wrinkle your nose, cutely. He fights the urge to bite you. The face you make is too sweet, too tempting.

“Because you have only drunk swill. I’ll teach you to drink real wine.” He tugs you into his side, and begins walking back into the city.

The walk to the city is awkward. Not because the two of you have nothing to talk about, but rather, because of the stares. Your silver hair, despite your simple clothing, commands attention. So does Daemon’s presence, and the arm he has around your shoulders.

He had not been wrong. This would cost you. A cost too steep for someone he sought to keep safe.

Still, you face it all bravely, as you had that morning at the docks. The two of you manage to get a cozy table in one tavern that Daemon had visited before. He calls for wine to be served, an expensive barrel from the Arbor he is sure they had kept around for years before anyone had the coin to buy it.

It’s delicious. But when he serves you a goblet, you take a big sip and begin to splutter.

“Mittys hunes iksā.” Daemon tuts. His silly bunny. “You are not meant to drink it such. You ought to savor it.”

“Savor?” You arch an eyebrow. “Tastes like dragonfire.”

And perhaps it's the choice of words, or the glint of your silver hair under the low light emanating from the torches, but something about you reminds him of the way he had loved Rhaenyra and admired Laena, the other Valyrian beauties in his life. They are not here, he cannot reach them. But you are.

“Come here, hunes.” His own voice sounds strange to him, low and demanding. When he calls you bunny, he is not exaggerating. Does the fox feel as wrong as he feels when becoming over his prey? Does his gums ache like Daemon’s do, with the urge to bite, to tear apart, to wound? Does he mourn the little bunny whose innocence he is about to shatter? “There is something I wish to show you.”

You eye him warily, but get up from your chair and move until you are standing in front of him. It's not enough for Daemon. It never is. He always wants you closer, closer to hold, to protect, to own.

He tugs you between his parted legs.

“Do you trust me?”

There is a slight furrow of your brow. The barest hint of hesitation. Yet, your voice is firm when you answer him.

“Yes.”

His girl. His precious girl. If you had been his, he would have never hurt you like Corlys had. Never allowed to become easy prey for men like him. You shouldn’t trust him.

Daemon shouldn’t be doing this, either. It is a good thing he has never claimed to be a good man.

He takes a sip of his wine, and leans towards you, capturing your mouth in his. At first, you fight him, the suddenness startling you. It’s only when he gives your lower lip a sharp nip, that you melt into the kiss. When your mouth parts slightly, he passes you the wine.

You splutter, but Daemon holds you down, arms held by your side. He forces you to take and take some more, chasing the tart taste of the wine into the honeyed one of your mouth.

Your obedience and compliance only makes him wilder, drives him to grasp at your hips, pull you closer. Just when you begin to lean into Daemon, dutifully swallowing the wine, someone jerks you out of his grip.

“I did not think it to be true.” A woman’s voice, one he knows too well, says. Rhaenys. Her face is a mask of absolute rage. She gives you a shove that sends you stumbling before Daemon can even get out of his chair. “You have much nerve.”

Your face turns ashen. You look like you are about to cry, or worse, flee. Daemon jumps up, and gets between Rhaenys and you.

“You were always a whore!” She screams, her index finger digging into his chest. You let out a sob, quietly. Daemon’s heart feels like it is being wrenched from his chest. At this point, the screams have attracted all the tavern's attention. Daemon doesn’t doubt that by this time tomorrow, the whole island will know.

You will be shunned. Just as he had feared.

“I am talking to you!” Rhaenys insists. You cower behind him. It only makes Rhaenys angrier. “No, not you, you stupid girl. You, Daemon.”

Daemon feels utterly stunned. Never in a million years he would have thought Rhaenys was referring to him.

“Are you calling me a whore?”

He feels the slap before he even sees her move. His head gets forcefully turned to the side, and he hears you whimper. His cheek stings. Daemon has to blink back tears, Rhaenys has hit him that hard.

He wasn’t even aware that a woman could land such a blow.

“You dare! You toyed with my daughter and this girl as you saw fit.” And Daemon cannot even get a word in because she is too angry. He feels his cheeks reddening, and its unsure if he is feeling embarrassment at being scolded like a child, or rage at her words. “But worry not. I will make this right.”

Rhaenys has a manic gleam in her eyes. For a frightening second, Daemon thinks he sees in her the famous Targaryen madness.

Instead of setting you both on fire, she lunges, avoiding Daemon, and grabbing you hands in hers.

“I shall not allow you to make the same mistake your mother did.” Rhaenys says, and she is gone before Daemon can answer anything.

THIS IS YOUR greatest triumph. Why, then, does it taste like ashes on your tongue?

You are wearing the finest dress you have ever owned, gifted to you by Daemon. Princess Rhaenys has forced both him and your father into complacency, and even forced King Viserys to allow your betrothal. Still, you feel adrift. Even betrayed.

What Daemon had done to you had seemed purposeful. You had not realized when he had stolen the kiss from you, giving you your first taste of fine wine, but you understood it now. Had Princess Rhaenys not been there, or had she been any less merciful, a much different fate would have awaited you.

The stink of shame that followed you around, the whispers of dishonor and the looks of distaste, would have been even more intense. You would have been ruined, known as little more than a whore. And your family no longer had the money that had shielded your mother during her pregnancies.

You had not known it. But Daemon must have. He had a reputation for taking maidenheads as he saw fit, Addam had informed you. You were a fool for not knowing, and a fool for believing he wanted something else from you.

The royal decree is read by a Maester, in front of all the Lords of near castles, the smallfolk of Driftmark and the Velaryons. Even in the first beautiful dress you own, you feel small. Out of place. The looks your half siblings are shooting you do not help you feel better.

Once the bill is read, Lord Corlys steps forward.

“Daughter.” He says, grasping your hands in his. He is cold. He is cold, and it makes your skin crawl, even when it is all you wanted as a little girl. It’s the first time he acknowledges you, and he is not at all like the man you imagined, when dreaming as a child of what it would be like for him to look at you. Because even a glance would have been enough back then. “It’s a pleasure to finally have you join the family.”

Addam and Allyn are still in the crowd, unacknowledged. They are your family, not this man who is grasping your hands with a calculating gleam in his eyes. Wondering, as all highborn do, how he might use you. How you might serve to further his own ends.

Your brothers could not be recognized as you were. You had shyly asked Princess Rhaenys, and if she thought you dimwitted before, she had probably confirmed her suspicions. They were men, she had explained, and a threat to Laenor’s rights once your father passed. You, instead, were nothing but a girl who had sullied herself, whose honor had been compromised so thoroughly you had turned even less important in the great scheme of things.

She was helping you because you had been taken advantage of by Daemon, Princess Rhaenys had said, but also to spare her daughter from your fate. Wife to a husband that would most likely betray you and sire bastards.

Lord Corlys was just happy to have another pawn to marry off and forge alliances. Freeing his daughter from a disloyal husband was an added bonus.

Every time you heard them, your hands turned into fist, and you could barely fight the rage from clouding your expression. You had not done the thing everyone was accusing you of, and yet were being judged for it all the same. Daemon, too, did nothing to correct them. Not even when the most scandalous rumors surfaced, saying you would wed him with a child already in your belly.

You had not let him touch you like that. You were not as stupid as everyone thought. As a daughter to a single mother, you knew all about scorn and loneliness. You would never doom a child to your same fate.

The day doesn’t pick up from there. The feast to follow feels just as empty, and you turn down an insincere offer from your father to be housed here. You cannot wait to run back to your brothers.

It would be impolite to leave so soon, though. Lord Corlys has thrown this feast in your honor and is making the lords and members of his household present you with gifts. You admit it is a clever strategy, to avoid having to spend money in your trousseau. Hence, you need to stay a little bit longer.

You get handed new quills and parchments, alongside a new seal for your correspondence by Laena.

“I figured you wouldn’t have one of these.” Her smile is strained as she reaches for your hands. “Since you weren’t raised the proper way.” It says a lot about the company you are in that it is the most polite greeting you receive all afternoon.

When it all begins to become a bit much, and your eyes are stinging after a lady said you had no grace and no manners, you decide you need to run. But when you are stepping a foot outside the hall, Daemon appears by your side.

“Rather improper, isn’t it?” He asks, grabbing your hand in his. You try to jerk away, but he merely interlaces your fingers together. “A lady cannot quite run around unescorted as you used to.”

“Leave me alone, Daemon.” You say, still trying to free yourself. The last thing you want today is to deal with him.

“I do not think I will.” Daemon cups your cheek in his hand, hands gentle despite the calluses on them. It was one of the things you had first liked about him. His hands were artisan’s hands, like the ones of your brothers, despite being highborn. He had seemed so different from the rest of the men you knew, back then. “Not when my betrothed is nearly weeping in her own feast.”

“You heard all those people. I do not belong here.” You look up at him, fighting your tears. You feel like such a whiny child. What happened to you is something that only happens in fairytales, it's the stuff songs are written about. No bastard girl gets acknowledged by her father and marries a Prince.

“Who cares what those cunts think?” Daemon scoffs. “You are above them. You always were.”

You bloom under his praise. There is no other word for it. It warms you, from head to toe, and your stomach fills with butterflies. A small smile forms, even through the tears that threaten to fall.

“There she is.” Daemon brushes his thumb over your cheek. “That’s my girl.”

His girl. There is nothing you would like more.

“I never wanted to be a Lady.” You lower your eyes, embarrassed at the admission. You feel ungrateful for saying it, but it’s the truth. You had never imagined a home away from your siblings. The marriage will mean you will be taken away from them, and only see them if Daemon feels like it.

You do not own a dragon, after all. And you aren’t too sure Allyn and him will be the best good brothers.

He grabs you by the waist and gives a little tug.

“Be mine instead.” Daemon whispers, and when you nod, he kisses your forehead.

MARRYING YOU HAD never been in his plans. Yet, when he saw you walk down the aisle, dressed in Velaryon blue and looking awkward, Daemon was sure you were the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

You were not a lady or a princess, yet you and him were alike. Birds of the same feather. For the first time, Daemon could say there was someone who understood him.

Daemon had never been poor, nor had he been born a bastard, but he too, had lost his parents while young. He, too, was considered too wild by his brother. And he knew all about of trying to fulfill an impossible task while honoring the legacy of his ancestors.

Laena was a mere child by your side. Her innocence and Valyrian looks had appealed to him once, but after meeting you, Daemon knew no other woman could compare. There was an edge to you, beneath all the innocence and beauty. A fire that burned bright in your belly, and could not be quenched. An anger that both amazed him and scared him, and drew him in like a moth to a flame.

You would have been great if you had been born into his house. Great but terrible.

Or perhaps you wouldn’t have. Perhaps, if you had grown acknowledged by your father, you would have not been the lost little girl who dreamed of recognition and slept lulled by the sea. You wouldn’t have grown into the woman who got the recognition and understood she did not need it at all.

A shame that recognition had come at a price so steep. Recognition in exchange for rumors of dishonor, whispers of the shame of your existence and the shame you had brought on yourself. These cunts did not see you for what you were. Not some malicious creature, some silver tongued temptress. No. You were determined and fierce, brave and true. You honored your house’s words. Your ancestors would have been proud.

Yes, Daemon decided. He would marry you and take you away from here, from this horrible little island where people behaved like they were above you. The cunts should be honored that you were even looking their way.

The distance might even help those stubborn brothers of yours to forget all about the way Daemon had become part of their family. When the grudge was forgotten, he would bring you back, less the eldest skewered him alive.

Not because Daemon feared Allyn. Of course not. But because killing him would be such a nuisance, and you would cry, and… Ugh. He couldn’t stand to see you cry.

You were about to burst into tears right now. He could tell. Daemon grabbed your hands in his, uncaring he was breaking protocol, and pressed his forehead against yours.

“We can still marry on the beach, with only Caraxes as witness.” He whispers, gently. “Hells, I would prefer it. We can run still. The Septon has not spoken.”

You laugh, a bit watery.

“Addam and Allyn would drop dead, thinking we will not be wed.”

“Allyn looks like he would attempt murder.”

“Attempt?”

“I doubt he would succeed.”

“I would protect you.” You say, and it warms something inside Daemon he wasn’t even aware that he had. “If only because killing a Prince is a crime worthy of the ax, and I wish to have nephews.”

Daemon's mouth opens and closes.

“You little..!”

You laugh, but before he can lunge and throw you over his shoulder, the Septon clears his throat.

“If the two of you are done..?”

“Just get to the part where you handfast us.” Daemon says, giving him his best lecherous expression. “I have many things I wish to show my new bride.”

And there were. He had taken many of your firsts already, he wasn’t about to stop now.

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0310s · 6 months ago

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best friend, experienced fwb! leehan x virgin, inexperienced! reader

(continuation of preview one)

warnings: nsfw talk, no explicit scenes

wc: 1.5k

a/n: preview two is here! the smut will be reserved for the actual fic <3 let me know your thoughts so far!!

𓉞⋆｡˚☁︎｡⋆

You’re both seated across your plush floor carpet, your backs leaning against the side of your bed. “So…” you gulp nervously, looking anywhere except for Leehan, whose eyes you can feel are trained on you. You concentrate your attention straight ahead on your shelf—specifically, the fluffy alien plushie your best friend gifted you on your birthday. You've named the lil guy Leehan in your head, although you've sworn yourself to secrecy (and utter embarrassment if the real Leehan were to find out). Leehan (the plushie) has been there during your worst breakdowns and has served as a source of comfort whenever you're stressed. “Where do we start?” You’re rapidly losing the feigned confidence you mustered minutes before Leehan came in.

“Well, you could start by looking at me,” Leehan lets out a small laugh. “And maybe moving closer to me… don’t you think you’re a little too far away?” You then notice the awkward distance between the both of you, practically enough to squeeze in two more people, so you scoot over, leaving a bit of space between you. Definitely farther than usual—you’re both usually comfortably pressed up against each other on most days. Although that ease of physical contact was platonic in nature; you’re not so sure about now. You then find the courage to turn and face him.

Leehan’s eyes curve into relieved crescents. He’s got his chin propped up on his hand as he tilts his head to look at you. “Hi.” He smells comforting, his perfume woody and pleasant. A cuddle session with him would honestly fix you… wait, stop that, brain! These thoughts of yours need to stop; they’re veering towards very dangerous territory.

“Hi.” Your throat is dry and your voice comes out scratchy. You clear your throat in embarrassment, trying again. “Hi, Leehan.”

Leehan lets out a huff at your awkwardness, still faintly smiling. “How are you? You still up for this?”

Collecting your thoughts, you remain silent for a while. “Honestly? Nervous.” At Leehan’s encouraging nod, you open up. “Okay, well. I’m scared. I’ve never done this before. And I’m also just really self-conscious. I’m already overthinking now, who knows how much more of that I’ll be doing when we… you know…” Your face burns. “I also don’t find myself particularly attractive, you know? I’m just plain old me. Sure, maybe at the very most, I’m cute. But not enough for people to stop and think, wow, they’re really pretty, I have a crush on them. And I’ve never been on the receiving end of sexual or romantic attention. So I… sorry, Leehan, I don’t know where I’m going with this,” you trail off, but Leehan places a warm hand atop your own, which you’re gripping your thigh with.

“Listen,” Leehan begins, “I think everyone experiences a certain amount of self-consciousness when they have sex. After all, they’re allowing themselves to be vulnerable in front of someone else, which is a challenge even outside a sexual context. For me at least, it’s worth experiencing that self-consciousness first to be able to experience that intimacy and connection with your partner.” You nod pensively at what he’s saying. “And I think you’re really understating yourself. If you’ve only known how many guys and girls have asked me if you were single…”

You pause at that information. “Wait, seriously? You’ve never told me about this! I don’t know, maybe you were mistaken…”

“Come on, when have I ever lied to you about anything?” Leehan counters. “I didn’t say anything because I never assumed you were interested in anything romantic back then. You never seemed interested in anyone else, and you never told me anything. So I assume you didn’t really have any crushes…?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” you shrug. “I found people pretty or handsome, but just from an aesthetic standpoint? It never really got to the point that I wanted to act on it… so not a crush.” Still, a flash of insecurity strikes you. “Okay, I know this is about me, but… are you sure you want to do this? It doesn’t really matter if other people find me attractive…” If you don’t, you were about to say. You’re unable to finish your sentence because of how… misleading it sounds in your head. “I mean,” you correct yourself, “It would be weird and awkward if I was the only one getting anything out of this. I don’t think you’d be, um, turned on in any way.” You find your gaze fixating on the Leehan (the plushie) once again, unable to make eye contact with your (very real) best friend.

“Don’t worry, I will be. Turned on, that is,” you hear from beside you, and you can’t help but turn. Leehan’s ears are red, and he’s glancing at you almost sheepishly. “I hope you know that… you’re really pretty. Anyone with eyes can see that.” Oh. Um. Okay. Oh… Wow. Hearing that from Leehan himself, who is the embodiment of beauty, makes you positively flustered, but you don’t want to think about why exactly that’s so.

“I…” You don’t know what to say without sounding stupid. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Leehan echoes. “I mean, is that okay with you? That I think that way?” What way, you want to scream, but you’re terrified of overcomplicating things right now.

“Um. Yes, I guess… I mean, coming from someone as handsome as you, it’s nice to hear,” you admit. You hoped that was a normal enough response (as normal as it could get in your extremely abnormal situation, anyway). And then you risk another glimpse at Leehan—he’s blushing and trying to hide a shy smile, for the love of God. His dimples are so lovely. Do not overthink this, please, for your own sanity!!!

“So…” you attempt to change the subject, but end up making yourself feel even worse. “You’re right, about the self-consciousness thing. Maybe I need to try it out to know how exactly I feel about… intimate stuff… and see if it’s something I really want. But. I don’t know. Could you tell me if you’re not attracted to me or something when you see my body? Before we actually get into anything?” You sound utterly pathetic, and you duck your head down.

“(Y/n)... look at me,” Leehan urges. A gentle hand on your shoulder turns you towards him, and you’re scared to see what expression he’s making. “You’re already beautiful the way you are, with all your imperfections—not despite. I promise you, there’s nothing about you that would make me think you’re unattractive.” His eyes are kind and his touch a comforting weight. You desperately want to believe him.

“Okay,” you utter.

“Okay?” Leehan repeats, and you nod slowly. “We can stop at any time you’re uncomfortable. But we don’t even have to at all, if that’s what you want. Sex isn’t something everyone has to do, and there’s really more to relationships than sex. Do you need more time to think over this? We can just hang out now like we always do,” he says, but you have your answer already.

“Leehan, I want to do this. I’m going to be scared and nervous, but I know I’ll be safe with you. And I want to do this with you. There’s no one else I could trust myself more with.” At that, you lean over and wrap your arms around him. You can tell Leehan is momentarily startled, but he settles into the hug, encircling you with his own arms. His palms against your back are gentle and warm. You take a deep breath, melting into the comfort of his embrace.

After a minute or so, you withdraw from his arms. “So Leehan… what do we do now?”

“What do you want to do? It’s your call,” Leehan whispers.

“I’m honestly not sure? Could you, I don’t know, suggest something and I’ll let you know if it’s something I want?”

“How about… kissing?” Leehan suggests. “It’s simple but a nice way to start.“

“Oh. Well… Uh… I don’t know how to say this, but…” Your hands grow sweaty. “Uh…”

After a few moments of silence, Leehan’s eyes widen in realization. “You’ve never kissed anyone before?” You can feel your face heating up as you nod. “So technically, I’d be your first?” You nod again, albeit slower this time. Then you feel a sudden, unidentifiable, shift in the air as Leehan softly cradles your cheek with his palm. His eyes are dark with desire, and your breath is stolen from you at the awareness that you have the entirety of his attention focused on you. “Tell me you’re okay with me being your first.” He patiently waits for your answer, eyes locked on you.

You feel the weight of your need to be as close as possible to him. You can feel your heart beating out of your chest. You want to say yes. Yes to Leehan and everything he wants to give you. “I… Yes. Please, Leehan.”

And then he's kissing you.

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slowlyoats · 3 months ago

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The Lost Boys: What is their role within the group?

Marko

- The crazy

- I think out of all the boys Marko is closest with his vampire nature

- He puts the least amount of effort into trying to blend in

- And why should he?

- He’s an old, powerful being, who has seen a lot of life. He’s more authentic then any human on the board walk

- He gives the group that feeling of being unhinged, of being one step away from complete anarchy

- To the public he is a warning of how dangerous the boys are

- Everyone has heard about what this boy can and will do to his victims

- But I think to the group, they see him as a reminder of their true nature

- Vampires at heart exist outside of society, they are the strangers that everyone fears. They are chaos and beauty.

- So, whenever the boys get a tad too *horrified gasp* domestic. Marko is right there to remind them of what they are

- Chaotic, bloodthirsty, unpredictable vampires

Paul

- Life

- Paul reminds the boys that though they may be dead, there is still so much life to live

- He’s the one that is up way past sunrise singing a song he just can’t get out of his head in the most acoustic part of the cave

- He’s the one talking to the travelers on the Board walk about their adventures abroad, and what they’ve seen and done (I have a feeling that though he may be older, he hasn’t traveled outside the United States much)

- Paul is the one challenging some of the boys more outdated/old fashioned opinions

- I believe he is definitely the youngest out of all the boys, so his views are more modern

- Whenever there is a new ride on the Boardwalk he HAS TO ride it. Or a new snack or arcade game! basically whatever is NEW he must see and experience!

- He’s teaching himself how to play the guitar, and he’s not that good at it but he doesn’t stop practicing despite David’s complaints

- Paul reminds the boys that there is more to their existence then drinking blood and hunting

- He is the life of the group

Dwayne

- the handyman

- I think he would be the one responsible for fixing the bikes. He wouldn’t be responsible for like the general maintenance on all four bikes, but when Marko takes the Boardwalk stairs a tad too quick, and snaps a part of his bike, Dwayne fixes it

- Over the years he has gained a lot of experience on how to fix the bikes and stuff around the cave

- This is mainly due to living with the destructive duo that is Marko and Paul

- He generally really does like to fix things, it gives him a sense of purpose within the group

- He’s usually the muscle of the group (and he doesn’t have any complaints with this because it pats his ego) but he does like being able to tangibly provide something to his brothers

- Usually he will fix up the bikes without being asked, or trick one out as a surprise for one of his brothers

- He’s friends with the owner of a local mechanic shop, and trades work for parts on occasion

- thankfully the owner doesn’t ask many questions when he has to bring a bike in for fixing, and it’s got a few splatters of blood here and there

David

- The procurer

- David is the one constantly on the look out for the groups next meal

- Even if it looks like he is relaxing, smoking a cigarette while leaning against a board walk railing, taking in the lively scenery. He’s not. He scouting.

- They need to feed every few days at the very least, and it’s not every night they can find a bite to eat

- They don’t feed from shop owners, and they do it sparingly from the locals to not draw to much suspicion

- When David spots someone that he thinks would be a tasty meal, he spends a while observing them. And then determines which of his boys would be the best to draw the human in

- Do they look preppy and girly? Paul would be able to pull them with his rocker look and charm

- Are they stand off-ish and a little wild? Gremlin energy would be the way to go, and with Marko’s big eyes, who could resist?

- A shy beauty? Being ignored by her obnoxious friends? Oh yes, Dwayne will be able to get them stuttering and bashful with one look

- It’s almost too easy at times, but David doesn’t mind, because once off season hits the Boardwalk, hunting gets a lot, lot harder

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mock-arts · 1 year ago

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In honor of me not having any more bangs on the schedule for the year, here's part 1/2 of my 2023 cover collection! This portion 100% star wars. The next bit will be up tomorrow. I've started a cover collection tag for the compilations like this, but you can always look through all my bang art in my big bang tag. Though, not all of these were for big bangs. Eh, whatever.

Links and summaries below the cut!

Cover collection 2023

So There's this Guy by @catbuirs-alt & @elsaanna007 (art) (with more art by @anstarwar)

The war is over!

Jesse, Kix, Echo and Fives live together in an apartment on Coruscant.

Echo finds himself in a new romance with a beautiful woman named Hehna. After finding himself lacking in experience, Fives offers to help him out with advice and practice.

Unfortunately for Fives, this awakens some feelings he thought were buried deep and he doesn’t know what to do about them. He decides to put them aside and be happy that Echo has found someone.

Fives’ advice does help Echo become more confident with his new girlfriend, but something is holding him back. His thoughts keep returning to his best friend and he’s not the only one who notices. Will Fives keep his role as the best friend, or will Echo realize that his attraction to Hehna pales in comparison to his feelings for Fives?

Keep by @tallnegotiations (art)

Vader is a technical genius, it is a well-known fact. So, following his defeat at the hands of his old Master on Mustafar and the rise of the Empire, Vader executes his greatest act of genius to prove his dominance: he creates an artificial intelligence modeled after Obi-Wan Kenobi.

After the rise of the Empire, nothing remains of Commander Cody except for CC-2224, just another rank-and-file stormtrooper among many. He goes where he is told to go, shoots where he is told to shoot, and doesn't question it because good soldiers follow orders.

A droid told to be human meets a human told to be a droid. They meet somewhere in the middle.

(Tooka) Cat-Scratch Fever by @pebblish (art)

Luke is lonely, and instead of joining space bumble decides to cure the problem with a tooka cat. When he visits a shelter, he stumbles upon the most unadoptable feline there- a scarred, jet black, mangy creature that tears apart the homes of any who dare to adopt him.

Darth Vader has been turned into a tooka cat by his former Master, Darth Sidious. And now, he's been adopted by some blonde brat who has no idea who he's dealing with.

The pair of them are in for some startling revelations, and each will have to learn that what you want isn't always what you need.

I Wear My Sunglasses at Night by Trillium Orchid (art)

Force Osik can make things difficult and decidedly strange. Sith versions of Cody, Fox, Thorn, Thire, and Stone get switched with the bodies of their alternate selves that are from a near-cannon timeline…

They decide to Help Things- and manage to kill the Chancellor. Meanwhile, the vod’e that they switch with is trying to get back home and hop a few universes before getting switched back… after the Sith versions kill the Chancellor.

Ripple in the Universe by @darthtarvera (art)

Jango Fett has done many things in service to Mandalore. Tricking a couple of Jedi so he can use them to get to the heart of a conspiracy seems simple enough to add to the list. Get the Jedi, get to Mandalore, and find the traitors. One more step to take on his path to fix the mistakes from the last time he did this.

Ripples on the water can have longer-lasting effects than you might think. Jango Fett and Obi-Wan Kenobi meet years before they were supposed to.

This changes things.

An Hourglass in Hand by @ecarian (art) (with more art by @blog-o-randomness)

“I thought daemons didn’t eat,” Rex noted once, during a celebration feast, as he and Cody watched Boga devour her meal with some fascination. Varactyl she may be, but she was a tiny one. There wasn't much interior space for the truly momentous amount of meat she was ripping into. Boga daintily rubbed her beak against a folded serviette that looked kind of like a bird, and said, prim, “I can do anything a human can do.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan said mildly, from where he’d been tapping at a datapad. “Shall I save you a portion of these reports then?”

No Trophies, Only Prisoners by @diviluscorner (art)

Jango’s life took a wrong turn somewhere around Geonosis and spat him out years later to haunt one of his clones.

Or perhaps Jango doesn't realize the Force has other plans for him.

Every Shadow by @kenobster (art)

The days on Kadavo were long, but the nights moved quickly. Hundreds of pairs of wide, sleepless eyes haunted the space of the holding cells. Droves of terror clogged the heavy, sweaty air, and every sound, however faint, was like a physical ripple across the crowd. Every sound. The jingling of keys, the clicking of locks, the thudding of boots, and that’s how the nights on Kadavo started—with a gradual increase in the degree of quiet.

OR—during the mass casualty event following Kadavo and Zygerria, Obi-Wan and Anakin seek ways to cope with trauma.

#jangobi #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #echofives #codywan #darth vader #captain rex #jango fett #commander cody #arc trooper fives #cover collection #arc trooper echo #commander fox

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adore-laur · 1 year ago

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GET MINE, GET YOURS

— your ex-boyfriend is a mechanic, and you still jump his bones on occasion ❤️‍🔥

——

2004

Heavy raindrops cascade off the roof of the mechanic shop, its metal shingles mottled with splotches of orange rust. The sight forms tight knots in your stomach as dreary storm clouds loom over the town. You stall outside for another minute, soaked pebbles crunching under the soles of your shoes as you pace near your car.

After exhaling a quelling breath and rolling your shoulders back, you slowly walk toward the half-closed garage. Harry is running the shop all by himself this afternoon, working gruesome nine-to-fives just about every day of the week. You don't know how he does it, so you try to visit and keep him company once in a while.

Today, however, is different. The brakes on your car have been squeaking incessantly, and you know jack squat about anything car-related, so you had no choice but to ask your ex-boyfriend for help.

Yes, your ex-boyfriend.

You would honestly rather listen to him drone on about all the intricate parts of an automobile than some wise guy who makes you feel stupid when you confusedly nod along and attempt to ask clarifying questions. Harry is much nicer about it. He simplifies terms for you while your mind drifts away to things much more interesting than the anatomy of axels and tires. For example, Harry's pink lips or the beautiful veins protruding from the backs of his hands.

You've gone to him with car problems before, but you mostly visit to hang out with him. It's never awkward since the breakup was mutual, and you are still on good terms. Plus, you find contentment in the routine of bringing him fast food and talking his ear off while he does the strenuous work.

And so what if you still fuck him on the down-low?

There's nothing wrong with having no strings attached, especially since he gives you heavenly sexual experiences each and every time. It's not like it's a weekly thing, either. It's just that whenever you cross paths with him, it always ends up with his body hovering over yours and his cross necklace dangling above your bare chest.

Unfortunately, you're not in the mood for that right now. The stress caused by your shitty car and having to probably pay a hefty amount of cash just to be able to safely drive anywhere has quickly turned your day sour.

As you duck your head to enter the garage, the smell of rubber and oil instantly permeates your senses. The plug-in air freshener on the wall is doing the absolute bare minimum. Soft bass creeps into your eardrums, and a groovy R&B track plays from Harry's boombox sitting beside his reliable red toolbox. You grin and roll your eyes when you recognize the eminent growl of Christina Aguilera coming through the speakers. You're greeted with a song you'd never expect him to listen to whenever you visit.

Turning your head to the left, you spot Harry working under a beat-up vintage Cadillac. He's lying down on a roller with his knees bent, metal clinking from whatever he's fixing. The black skinny jeans he's wearing are faded, and he's not wearing any shoes for some risky reason; only white socks cover his feet.

"Hi, baby." Harry's voice rumbles, jolting you. You've told him to stop calling you that, but it falls on deaf ears every time.

"How'd you know it was me?" you ask, running your fingertips across a stray wrench.

He laughs huskily. "I can see your dirty ass sneakers from under here."

Before you can defend your mud-stained shoes, his hands grip the bottom edge of the car as he rolls himself out from underneath, revealing his face decorated with smears of grease and his long hair tied into a bun. It's been two weeks since you saw him last, give or take, and you swear he gets more physically buff each time. His biceps are practically bulging as he wipes beading sweat from his forehead, the sheened muscles filling out his grubby uniform deliciously.

You break away from your lustful trance and nod your head toward his boombox. "Stripped on cassette, huh? You keep on surprising me."

"Is there a problem?" He slings a soiled rag over his shoulder.

"No, not at all," you reply lightheartedly. "It just isn't really a manly record to fix cars to."

He teasingly sticks his tongue out and saunters over to you, bending down a bit before wrapping one arm around your waist and lifting you in a firm embrace. His mouth breathes warm air against your neck, and you can smell the spearmint gum he's been chewing.

"Came to visit me?" he murmurs as he gently sets you down, keeping a firm grip on your hip and hooking his middle finger through your belt loop.

You pout and tell him, "My car is broken."

He mimics your expression. "Yeah? What happened?"

"I was driving home from the grocery store, and the brakes started squeaking out of nowhere."

Harry stops smacking his gum and furrows his eyebrows. "And you drove all the way here without calling me?"

You grimace. "Please don't be mad."

"You're not supposed to keep driving when your brakes are acting up," he says seriously. "You know better."

"I didn't want to make you leave work," you reply, fidgeting with your hands.

He softly tuts while flinging the rag somewhere behind him. "I would've come and gotten you if you had asked."

You just shrug helplessly and look around the garage, admiring Harry's workspace, which completely encapsulates his personality, even though he shares the space with a coworker most days. Various cassettes are stacked haphazardly on a shelf, ranging from girl groups to classic rock to spa music for meditation purposes. He has an opened bag of organic potato chips on his workbench, the brand he always buys from the gas station just down the road. There's also a shallow pottery bowl in the corner where he puts his rings so they don't touch oil.

He's a moody motherfucker, but you know all of his soft spots.

"I'm guessing I'll be spending the entirety of my last paycheck on the repair," you mutter while wandering around, picking up random tools.

Harry leans back against the car he's working on and crosses his arms. "It'll probably cost around two hundred dollars to replace the brake pad," he says.

"What the hell?" you say incredulously. "You need to talk to your boss about lowering the prices around here."

"I am the boss."

"Oh, that's right."

He laughs through his nose. "Negotiate with me about it, then. Convince me to lower the price."

You stop in your tracks and stare at him, unimpressed with the upper hand he tries to have over you. "Nope. I'm not doing that."

"Why not?" he asks. "C'mon, I'm bored out of my mind."

You groan and stride over to stand in front of him. He's so hard to resist. "Fine. Will you please give me a discount?"

Harry drags out a monotonous hum before plainly saying, "No."

Standing on your tiptoes, you touch your nose to his and whisper, "Pretty please?"

He narrows his eyes, his eyelashes fluttering against yours. "You're getting warmer."

"I'll help you fix my car," you plead, willing to do anything to save a little money. "I'm really good at following instructions."

"You are, sweetheart, but absolutely not."

You frown and bury your face in his neck. He's sweaty, yet there's a hint of some pine-scented cologne coming through that drives you insane. "If I let you fuck me," you suggest boldly, leaving a slow kiss near his pulse point, "will you give me a discount?"

Harry moves his head to look at you straight on, smiling smugly and using his teeth to stretch his gum across the tip of his tongue. "That's more like it."

"But don't you have a car to fix right now?" you ask, feigning innocence to get under his skin.

"Baby," he murmurs, "you can't come here and expect me to actually get work done. You're too distracting."

You pinch his thigh through his jeans. "Stop calling me that."

"No," he says softly. "You're still my baby."

"Not anymore."

"Then no discount for you."

You scoff and step away from him. "Stop being a jerk, Harry."

"Letting me fuck you just for a discount, hmm? Is that it?" He raises his eyebrows.

"You know I'd let you fuck me anyway," you admit under your breath.

The muscles in his jaw twitch. "God, you give me whiplash."

You get up in his face and say, "Yeah, well, you give me a headache."

His hand quickly reaches out to push the back of your head toward him, messily smearing his lips against yours. "I hate when you're like this," he mumbles into your mouth. "My baby's so stubborn when she doesn't get her way, isn't she?"

You bite his bottom lip and tug on it before releasing it. "Don't want to be your baby."

His hand gravitates toward the curve of your ass, squeezing just once. "Then tell me what you want."

"I want to be your brat."

Harry's head tilts as he visibly swallows. "Get on the couch," he orders lowly. "Face down, ass up."

You grin, pleased to the max, and stroll over to the black leather couch in the back while Harry shuts the garage door for privacy. The screech of the lock makes you wince, and the sound of the pelting rain becomes muffled. The continuous drops on the roof match the speed of your racing heart.

Placing your forearms on the cold, cracked leather, you bend your knees to get into position and tilt your head so your cheek rests on the cushion. Harry swiftly removes his hairband, his curls messily falling past his shoulders. Next, he unbuttons his shirt, revealing his swallow tattoos and chest hair, both slick with sweat. His cross pendant rests perfectly against his skin as he comes up beside you and leisurely trails his fingers down your spine until they reach the waistband of your low-rise bell bottoms.

Goosebumps erupt across your arms when his other hand goes to unbutton his skinny jeans. You can see his bulge strain against the tight material, and it makes you squirm impatiently.

"Sit still," Harry says, pulling down his jeans. His black boxers and thigh tattoo are now directly in front of you.

You pitifully moan when he crouches and grabs your wrists to place them behind your back. "Not fair," you grumble.

"Oh, really? It's not fair that I'm about to fuck you."

"You know what I mean."

Harry tugs down your pants and underwear in one go, the material bunching at the back of your knees. He then takes his boxers off, placing one knee on the cushion and lining himself up as he grips the top of the couch to stay balanced.

"Still on birth control?" he asks, planting a quick kiss on your shoulder blade. The cold metal of his necklace against your skin sends an avalanche of chills down the length of your spine.

You nod, and Harry immediately thrusts into you. You gasp as the burning sensation spreads like wildfire all the way to your thighs, your hands clenching into tight fists as he continuously rocks deep strokes in and out. You whimper with each one, and Harry's hand holds your hair back in a makeshift ponytail to watch every pleasurable change of expression on your face.

"You good?" He pants while slowing down his thrusts, keeping them long and purposeful.

"I want to touch you."

His hips pound into your backside. "Yeah? Where do you want to touch me?"

"Anywhere, just please let me."

"I didn't know brats begged like whores," he says, tugging your hair.

You wiggle your fingers behind your back, trying to touch his stomach, but it's to no avail. Harry stops thrusting, his hair hanging over his face as he looks down at you. "Want it that bad?" he says in awe.

You muster up fake tears and nod pathetically to get your way. "Please, daddy."

It always works like a charm. Harry grunts and instantly pulls out, hastily sitting on the couch with his legs spread and grabbing your waist to make you straddle him.

You kick off your pants and underwear the rest of the way, along with your shoes, then sink down on his cock, slowly grinding on him with your hands in his hair. You want to touch him everywhere, so you rub your palms down his chest and then hold both of his hands as you arch your back and tilt your head up toward the ceiling rafters. The new position tightens your orgasm more quickly, and the way Harry is desperately moaning with his hands clutching your thighs causes heat to prickle all over your body.

"Such a pretty brat for me, right?" Harry praises you, kissing along your jaw and down your neck. "Getting your way like you always do."

"Mm-hmm," you hum, every grind making your stomach rub against his, all sweat and smooth skin. "Only for you."

He nips love bites along your collarbone. "It fuckin' better be. I don't want you doing this with anyone else."

"And what if I do?" you ask, the slickness of your arousal sticking to the inside of your thighs.

Harry opens his mouth with a scoffed moan when you circle your hips. "Th-think I'd die from jealousy."

The fact that you got him to stutter makes you grind faster until his jaw is clenched and he's clawing scratches on your back. "What's there to be jealous about?"

"That they get to stuff this tight pussy, and I don't." His eyes roll back as he starts to stimulate your clit with his thumb.

Not only is he a moody motherfucker, but he's a filthy one too.

"You're doing it right now, though," you say, and Harry nods briskly. "Consider yourself lucky."

"But I want to be the only one."

"I know." You suddenly choke out a moan when your orgasm approaches. "I'm gonna come, Harry. Oh, God..."

"Me too," he says, his chest heaving. "Give me a good one, baby."

You hold onto his shoulders and tense your thighs while you release, Harry stilling as well as his hips jerk to meet yours. You feel him fill you up, and after he runs himself dry, you fall against his body from exhaustion, whining into his neck as the pleasure consumes you. His arms wrap around your waist, bringing you in for a lazy hug while his cock slowly softens inside you.

The rain pours outside, and the ambiance calms you down while your body relaxes. It reminds you of a time when things were easier, a time without complicated feelings or unresolved issues.

Harry abruptly begins giggling, his chest raising with each breathy laugh. You join in, but you don't necessarily understand what's so funny. You lift your head to see deep dimples carved into his cheeks and the devastatingly gorgeous crinkles near his eyes.

Once his laughter dies down, he says, "We just orgasmed at the same time to "Beautiful" by Xtina."

"No way," you reply, breaking into more giggles.

Harry starts cackling as the dramatic piano ballad plays from the boombox, possibly the worst song to listen to while having sex. It's so ridiculous that tears form in your eyes and your sides start hurting from laughing so hard.

"We also just fucked with our socks on," Harry adds, resting his covered feet on the couch and wiggling his toes.

"Sexy."

"Super sexy. And quite comfortable."

You smile and glance at his lips, feeling an intense urge to kiss them, but you know you shouldn't. As soft as they look, it would only make things more complicated. Well, besides the fact that you still have sex with him. You're okay with the equal exchange of satisfaction, even though the emotional boundaries seem to blur more and more each time.

"You can kiss me," Harry whispers.

You swallow and shake your head, playing with the ends of his curls. "That's not what we do anymore. I get mine, and you get yours, remember? That's it."

"You let me kiss you earlier," he points out.

"That was a different kind of kiss."

He just makes a disappointed face and lifts your hips so he can pull out. He then stands still, holding you with one arm, and you wrap your legs around his waist as he walks over to the boombox.

"What should we listen to next?" he asks in your ear, delicately pressing a button to remove the black and white cassette.

You tilt your head sideways and read the names on the stack of cassettes. "Hmm... how about Time and Form: Celestial Meditation? Sounds like the perfect soundtrack for aftercare."

Harry snorts. "Shut up."

You laugh and dig your heels into his lower back, wanting to be even closer to his bare skin. The full-fledged urge to kiss him returns again, this time with a bizarre wave of sadness.

You can't. He's your ex.

It would cross the line that was never really there in the first place, but it's a faint one, and it still matters. To you, to him, and to the stakes of what you are to each other. Yet you spend days and nights lying in bed, wondering if he'll call you on the old wall phone at the shop and ask you to come over just because. Or when he tells you he missed you when you do show up, hugging you tight and thanking you for lunch. Or when he's glum and sulky to everyone else but you, his face immediately lights up when you step into the room.

It all means something, but you'll never allow it to become more than that. Just fleeting moments make up for the emptiness you felt when you stopped being romantically involved with him. It quells the ache, but only in real-time. Afterward, you go home to the apartment you live in by yourself, wishing he could follow you there and stay with you like he used to.

You didn't cry when you broke up with him because you knew there would still be some sort of relationship present, even though it wouldn't involve dating. That's when you both agreed to keep having sex without the strings attached; however, the buried feelings you have always seem to burst into uncontrollable flames when he touches you. You'll never admit it, though, because a purely physical relationship with him is better than not having one at all.

It'd be a shame to lose the fire where the smoke is.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles #adore-laur #get mine get yours

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explaintome · 1 month ago

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Dear Mouthwashing fandom, explain to me, why next to the incredible fan art, I find a fuck ton of shipping content, especially between characters where this is highly problematic? SPOILERS FOR MOUTHWASHING AHEAD CN for talk about sexual abuse, death, suicide & violence

DISCLAIMER: I do not shame the general practice of shipping at all. I am a shipper myself and I think it makes up for a lot of interesting dynamics and narratives outside the canon. Shipping is an important pillar of fandom communities and I am unable to forbid you to do it. HOWEVER, in the case of Mouthwashing I want to talk about what, in my opinion, feels tone-deaf to the themes and the canon of the game. But let me start with a short summary of the game before I get into it.

Mouthwashing is basically a visual novel that takes place on the Tulpar, the last manned cargo ship of the company Pony Express. The crew, consisting of Caption Curly, Co-Captain Jimmy, Nurse Anya, Mechanic Swansea and his intern Daisuke, is confronted with a crash against an asteroid and the consequences following it. The story is told out of order to reveal the truth bit by bit. What caused the crash, what happened and how the crew deals with the time afterward being stuck on the ship. Revealing sexual abuse, tragic backstories, the horrible side effects of late state capitalism and the neglect of people in command towards the people they are responsible for.

To boil it down we have two men who, out of societal misogyny, hurt the only woman on their crew by assaulting her or not acting as they should have in their position of responsibility. All of this would not have happened if Jimmy didn't rape Anya and impregnate her, and if Curly had disciplined Jimmy in a capacity possible on the ship and in Jimmy's position as co-pilot. To be honest, with the amount of automatization the ship has, I don't think they need Jimmy if it is not a case of emergency, but I digress. Jimmy is the perpetrator of the story, but Curly is an accomplice in putting his aim of finding a solution and compromise over punishing his subordinate as he should have.

And now to my actual point: I am a big fan of the game, the narration style and the utter tragedy of 5 people losing their lives in the isolation of space, with their company not giving a shit about them. Otherwise, they might have been rescued much earlier or at all. Or had enough cryo pots in the first place. Or a nurse with experience. Or any amount of better equipment and not the most cheap shit that somehow made it through a resemblance of regulations. There are probably no regulations.

Being a fan I, of course, looked into the hashtags on several social media sites, and between the incredible art and analysis of the game, I quickly found shipping content, and I have no idea why. I have literally no idea how that narrative speaks to you in a way of shipping characters romantically/sexually. Especially three shippings really rub me the wrong way.

ANYA/JIMMY

Are you fucking kidding me? Literally, what is wrong with you shipping a victim with their abuser? There was not one interaction between them, that suggest that there was consent or affection, that Jimmy has any sympathy for Anya. He knows what is going on, he knows that Anya is pregnant and takes no responsibility. Even worse, his idea of FIXING this was to kill everyone, at least himself, to avoid responsibility! Same goes for AUs where she kept the baby and is somehow okay and happy? I get the urge to fix it, but that is not a good fix. There is no good fix if you are pregnant due to rape.

ANYA/CURLY

A lot of argument I hear for that is that "at least Curly is her friend and was nice to her" and if that is your whole foundation of argument, I want to ask what your standards for a relationship are. Please know that you deserve more than the bare minimum. Another question in that context: Is Curly really Anya's friend? His friend was abused and instead of protecting her, he tried to reason and help her abuser! That is not the behavior of a friend! There is no "but Jimmy is his friend too!". If your friend is an abuser and that does not make you stop being their friend....why?

JIMMY/CURLY

It feels like it is a law on the internet, that two men who look at least averagely handsome will be shipped, especially if they have the tiniest of connection to each other. I am not even sure if I would call them friends in the first place. It appears that Jimmy, whatever his bad life before that job was (thanks to the developers for not giving us a backstory), he is still absolutely unsatisfied with that he has. He is jealous of Curly and his position, seeing how quickly he takes on the Captain title after the crash and only realizes far too late how hard the position actually is. Curly on the other hand feels a bit like a people pleaser to me. He probably had pity for Jimmy, took him under his wing to help him? Fix him? Whatever it is, it made him ignore Jimmy's bad side to a fatal degree. I respect the toxic yaoi but are you sure?

TLDR; I am worried about how the practice of shipping developed, from a way to extend the canon, explore queerness in cis/straight dominated media, into a compulsion of where some people can't look at any form of media or constellation of characters without immediately smashing them together like dolls. If you do this, maybe step back for a minute and ask yourself if it is appropriate. On that note, same goes in case you defend Jimmy. Why?

#mouthwashing #commentary #shipping #fandom culture #captain curly #anya mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #explaintome

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genericpuff · 7 months ago

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(You can delete this ask if it makes you uncomfortable) Do you think I should give up on my dream of being a webcomic artist? It's been what I'd been wanting to for years yet from what I'm hearing, it's hard to get money and an audience and that the mainstream webcomic hosting platforms don't treat their creators well. It doesn't help that while my art is decent, I don't really know how to create webcomics beyond like really short 4-5 panel comics even though I'd been drawing for many years. There's also the issue of my ADHD making it difficult to commit to stuff but then again at least that can be hopefully fixed once I get medicated. So, now the career of a webcomic artist sounds like a pipe dream at best. Is it worth pursuing, even if I don't make much money with it?

"Do you think I should give up on my dream of being a webcomic artist?"

And this isn't just for you, anon, this is for everyone who follows my nonsense here.

Yes, it's hard to build an audience.

It's even harder to make money.

You should still make webcomics if you really want to do it.

The only practical piece of advice I can give you from the perspective of someone who's been doing this for years is to manage your expectations. Because that's the biggest mistake a lot of webcomic artists make (and I too, made this mistake) they go into it setting the bar that it HAS to result in them making a living off it, getting famous off it, etc. when that's unfortunately only the reality for the 1% who get lucky or have an advantage that the other 99% don't have. And then, of course, failing to meet those ridiculously high expectations makes the fall hurt that much harder if you fail, especially with odds like that stacked against you. That's not to say you shouldn't set a bar for yourself, but you have to set it in a place that's reasonable. Especially if you're an artist with ADHD (same, mood), we have a REAL bad habit of setting the bar unreasonably high for ourselves when we're still learning and getting our feet wet (it's why we're always taking on new hobbies after getting inspired by musicians or crafters and then getting immediately discouraged when we're not suddenly able to do the thing with that same amount of skill).

Set the bar in a reasonable place with reasonable expectations, and then when you MEET that bar, you'll have even more motivation and confidence to aim higher. What won't give you confidence is setting the bar alongside the pros who have been at this for years, because not only will it take way too long to hit that for you to see results, you might give up before you even come close because of how far away the bar is.

A career as a webcomic artist is about as guaranteed as making a career out of Youtube. But being a webcomic artist, period? You can do it. Anyone can do it. I'm still doing it in spite of everything. Like, I cannot even fully express to you just how much of what I do here is the culmination of a long list of failures. My art, my writing, the stuff I do here is built on the corpses of my failures. But those failures were still important, they had to happen to make me into the person and artist I am today. That person is STILL making mistakes, and that artist is STILL not rich LOL Failure is scary, but fear of failure is the true killer of joy and growth.

Do not tie the merit of being a webcomic artist to how much money you can (or can't) make out of it. Just like with starting a Youtube channel, you shouldn't go into it expecting money and fame right out the gate, but there are equal amounts of joy and experience you can gain by doing it. There's a reason people say you have to do it out of love and passion first because ultimately that's all you'll have to keep carrying you through if and when you fail to meet your goals. You don't have to be sure if you'll still want to do it a year from now or five years from now, none of that matters. If you want to do it now, then do it.

Make your 4-5 panel comics if that's what you enjoy doing. Make whatever tickles your fancy. Acknowledge your fears and doubts, thank them for their opinion, and do it anyways. "What if it ends up being a waste of time?" The time will pass anyways. Worst case, at least you'll be able to say you did it. That's better than never trying and regretting it in the end.

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything

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drgnflyteabox · 3 months ago

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postcards from the coast [2]

previous || part two -> linens || part three -> tbd

series masterlist

pairing: kyle 'gaz' garrick / single mom!reader summary: kyle looks for you, then finds you tags/warnings: grief, less angst but still there, depression, non-creepy stalking, judgmental people, anxiety, previous injuries, insomnia, don't accept rides from strange men ladies and theydies, unless it's gaz then feel free<3 w.c: 1.2k

"Can I get a red-eye?"

Sleep has been difficult lately. Evasive. He sometimes goes through insomniac phases, where no amount of jogging or calisthenics practice or mental exercise helps. It's pure, restless energy.

Before, he might've taken himself to a bar, found a pretty girl to fuck and ease the buzzing under his skin. Now it's too painful - too much of a reminder of post-mission decompressing with the team. Sat in a circle booth, slapping each other on the back as they left, the smell of cigar-smoke and perfume.

Not that he'd be able to here, anyway. The town is too small, too isolated. There's hardly a main street, just a strip with bare necessities vaguely at the center of rolling hill country pock-marked with bleached white cottages and surrounded by cold ocean on all sides.

Peaceful, sometimes. Unbearable, mostly.

"Sure, any milk or sugar?"

"No, that's alright, thank you." He's been here every day, mixing a caffeine fix with his ongoing search for you. Curiosity and boredom, he tells himself. The product of so many sudden life changes - the end of their last mission, Johnny's passing. He just needs something else to focus on, something soft and wide-eyed.

At least the coffee is good.

The next time he sees you, it's in passing. Driving out of town to the post office to pick up a gift from his sister.

You're holding a toddler by both arms, their feet on yours, walking them up the steps toward the local library. Another long skirt, wimpling softly in the breeze. There's a smile on your face as you watch the child walk with you.

It almost feels like a missed opportunity - like he should turn back. But the post office closes in a couple hours and it takes nearly that long to get there, so Kyle elects to be patient.

You're there every evening. From five o'clock until closing at eight, you sit at the same window and alternate reading a massive tome and babbling back at your baby, who's sitting on a wooden high-chair.

The librarian makes rounds just to say hello to the two of you, pinching cheeks and ooing and aweing.

"And how old is she again?" She whispers mindfully. Her nametag says Nettie and she's a kindly-looking old woman, bent a little from years of work but sturdy as a mast in a storm.

"Turning two soon," you whisper back. Neither of you have any idea he's there yet, browsing the books as a cover to peek through the shelf at you. "She's a taurus."

"Just about to hit the terrible twos!" Nettie laughs.

"Yep," you laugh with her, but there's something there. A sheepishness. Embarrassment? Your expression is almost a grimace, from what he doesn't know. He wants to, though. Looks through the peephole and lets his chest fill with something other than grief for just a moment.

"And the father? Not a fan of reading?" She probably means well, but your face goes from vaguely uncomfortable to something like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh, um," you're floundering, but Nettie is too busy stroking a wrinkled hand over your girls head. "He's not in the picture."

Not in the picture? If Kyle had felt any kind of guilt for eavesdropping, it's overshadowed by that information. Best stake-out of his career to-date.

You shrink a little when Nettie yanks her hand back, frowning. He can tell judgement and prejudice when he sees it - experience and a keen eye. Must be hard being a single mom.

Resigned - that's the look. Pained and embarrassed and resigned.

"Right. Well," Nettie's sensible leather shoes clack against the floor. You don't watch her go, your hand is reaching into your bag for a tiny knit hat.

Fuck, you're leaving.

As you gather your things - book, coat, bags, baby - he tucks himself into the shelf, positioned still as a sniper, to-

"Ouch!" Your voice cuts through the quiet of the library. Kyle flounders, caught off guard for once. He'd only gently bumped into you to make it look like an accident, like something out of a rom-com. Girls liked that, usually.

But instead of looking up at him with surprise, you close your eyes and shy away from him, shoulders coming up defensively - you can't reach your arm, not with a baby on your hip, but it's obvious you're in pain.

"Are you okay?" You look to him, wincing still. You're asking him if he's okay? Heat creeps into his cheeks, warming him with regret.

"I'm good, I'm good," he says quickly. "Sorry about that, love, didn't see you there."

"That's okay," you readjust, arm limp at your side. Your heavy bags hang off of it, but there's nothing you can do with the baby on your hip.

"Let me get those," there's no time for you to reject his offer; he's too quick. The bags are heavy - no doubt there are more books and a baby go-bag. This close, you smell powdery soft like linen sheets and laundry dried outside.

"It's the least I can do," he's trying to be casual about it, lest he scare you off. Holds the door open, notices while you step out that your daughter looks just like you.

"Thank you, you didn't have to," you look down. How'd you hurt your arm? He knows he didn't hurt you - not like that, at least. Not enough to warrant such a reaction.

"Of course I did, didn't mean to get'cha so hard," his head swivels. There are only two cars in the parking lot. "Can I get these in your car?"

"Oh, I walked, that's okay," you reach to take the bags back, but he pulls away.

"I can't let you walk home, please- let me be a gentleman and give you a ride," he knows it's a long shot. Neither of you have exchanged names, neither of you are locals. He's tried to make himself look as approachable as possible; head tilted down, brown eyes imploring, palms out even with your bags in one hand, but it's a gamble.

There's natural suspicion and hesitation, your eyes looking side-to-side, but you nod with a hesitant smile after a moment. It's hard to keep the grin down, but he manages it up until you're tucked in his passenger seat and he's putting your bags in the back of his car.

"My name is Kyle, by the way," he puts his keys in the ignition, turns them. Pretends not to notice how you sink into the seat, eyes drooping, holding your daughter on your lap. It's not safe, but it's a country road and he promised to drive slow on the way.

You tell him your name. It's pretty, fitting. He wonders again about you - who left you like this? Alone, hurt, tired, trusting a stranger to drive you home. If he were your man, he'd never let you be put in a position like that.

The cottage you're renting is tiny, a glorified shack, rented as a cottage for tourists.

"There you are," he murmurs, trying not to startle you. "Need help getting in?"

"Hm?" You've been staring out the window. "Sorry! No, I'm alright, thank you again for the ride. Josie and I appreciate it."

Josie. It fits her, fits you. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

There's not a chance he lets you get the bags out yourself, and once you're appropriately sent off to your door, he sits and waits for a moment. Makes sure you get inside. Feels something loosen in his chest.

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #task force 141 #141 x reader #drgnfly writes #cod gaz #gaz call of duty #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz garrick #gaz cod #honestly not super proud of this one but #i've been feeling stuck lately so feels good to get it out #postcards from the coast

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star-anise · 1 year ago

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now, hold still—

I'd kill for some resources on body image in the context of disability, chronic pain, and having grown up with a complicated and intense medical history. I think I've exhausted my local library's offerings. Yes, I'm seeing a counsellor who focuses on this, and he's probably got recs, but I'm pacing my cage and lashing my tail in between sessions.

"Body image" has a particular connotation most of the time, because it comes out of the field that deals with eating disorders. Which is great and I'm glad for the people it works for, but its basic principles and assumptions are for completely different problems than the one I have.

I can't track down who said it first, but in my reading I keep coming across this narrative of, "I saw my body as something to be disciplined and controlled, an object only seen by external eyes. Now I've learned to take joy in what my body can do and experience, and to see it as a site of pleasure."

...Sounds fake, but okay.

My body is a site of pain. It cannot do or bear the experience of many things. I have to exercise a huge amount of discipline and control just to get out of bed every day. I can't imagine my body being a visible object that other people might find pleasing; it's incredibly hard to look up from my continual tooth-and-nail fight getting my body to let me live to imagine what someone who doesn't live with all this shit might see.

When I was a child, I learned to hold myself very still. For a hairdresser, or photographer, or a dentist, or someone who wanted to measure my height, or an injection, or a doctor who wanted a demonstration of how one of my joints looked, or an X-ray, or an IV inserted, or a CAT scan, or to have a cast taken off, or a PET scan, or to have a wound treated, or an MRI, or to have a pin pulled out.

And you know, I got proud of that. I felt like a brave warrior in a fantasy novel. I learned to take deep breaths, and take myself in my mind away from the anxiety and unpleasantness, until I could shut down my reaction to it. So that I didn't flinch or scream or cry. Because there was something wrong with my body, and doctors knew how to fix it.

When I was getting assessed for fibromyalgia, this new doctor told me he was going palpate areas in my back, arms, and knees. I get a lot of massage; I knew what was coming. I slowed my breathing, concentrating on the long outbreath. I took myself away from my reactions and thought continually, obsessively, about letting my body droop, weightless, like the moment when your aching limbs meet a solid surface and fresh cool sheets.

"Hm, I dunno," he said. "A lot of this checks out, but your trigger point exam was totally negative. Most people, when I touch those points, they have a big reaction. Some people even scream and jump off the table."

"Well, no," I think I said. "If I'd done that, it would have hurt way more, for like, hours." And I was polite about it, because you have to be polite to doctors; doctors know how to make you feel better. But what I felt at the time, and still feel today, is a kind of outrage I labelled was unreasonable the moment it was born: You wanted to hurt me, and it's my fault for not letting you?

How do you learn how to ask for things, when you've taught yourself to lie still and cry quietly because the nurse who said they'd be right back is helping someone who suddenly needs the help more? How do you express yourself, when you've spent your whole life gritting your teeth?

The problems I have about my body are not about being attractive or thin. They are, however, about being small. Learning to cry less, scream less, and ask for less. About feeling like my body is a burden to anyone who comes to know it, and like that's a burden I can't ask other people to take on unless I'm staggering under the weight of it.

Right now, what I've got is this:

Remember, you weren’t the one who made you ashamed, but you are the one who can make you proud. Just practice, practice until you get proud, and once you are proud, keep practicing so you won’t forget. You get proud by practicing.

#staranise original #chronic pain lyfe #gore tw

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rileyslibrary · 2 years ago

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Meal, Under-the-Stars

Summary: Simon’s inability to show affection irritates you. Until Valentine’s Day arrives.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,360

Notes:

angst/fluff

*sighs* it’s almost Valentine’s so *gestures aggressively at the fic*

i made sure it’s the least amount of cringe, pinky promise

Want more?

———————————————————————

You collapse in your bus seat, travelling home after another long day at the office. The chair feels too stiff, and the ride is too bumpy. That’s what you get for missing your bus and taking a different route. Damn it. Your neck is tense from the hours of hunching over the computer, and a pulsing pain has settled behind your eyes, threatening to rip your skull apart. As if your physical agony wasn’t enough, the bus’s noises aren’t helping. Without your headphones, you’re left to suffer in silence and listen to the people around you.

The two women in front of you talk nonstop about their upcoming Valentine’s Day plans. The first, with a smug look, reveals how her boyfriend has planned a romantic getaway to Europe. You can almost hear the silent “aren’t I lucky?” that hovers at the end of her sentence. Her friend humbly brags back about her partner taking her to a jewellery store where she can pick out whatever she wants. You suppress a groan and roll your eyes instead.

You turn to your left. Your attention is drawn to a man whose face is concealed by a towering bouquet of flowers. The sight of him and the enormous gift next to him makes you wonder. Could it be chocolates? The package seems too bulky for that. Lingerie maybe? It looks too heavy for delicate lace. Perhaps it contains the embodiment of his love for his significant other, ripped from his soul and transformed into a tangible form, you ponder sarcastically.

The image of Capitalism, dressed in a three-piece tailored suit and hat, sitting on a throne made of kitschy teddy bears, comes to mind. He sips a glass of wine made from rose petals and sneers at the spectacle before him: people spending their hard-earned money on unnecessary gifts and experiences, all in the name of love. When did a simple and sincere “I love you” become insufficient? When did it become necessary to spend a fortune on extravagant trips, sparkling diamonds, and wrapped boxes filled with empty promises? Did your grandparents go to such lengths to express their affection, or is this just the plague of your generation?

And why does this all bother you so much? Could it be that Simon’s inability to express his affection for you is causing your bitterness? You recall Aesop’s fable about the fox and the grapes. Like the fox, you cannot grasp what you want, so you try to convince yourself that what others have is, like the grapes, sour. Admit it: you’re envious of those who are happily celebrating Valentine’s Day, surrounded by love and affection, while you’re on your way home to a strained relationship, where love is shown through practical acts like fixing the thermostat or reminding you to take an umbrella on a potentially rainy day.

You knew he was reserved and guarded the moment you met him. “A mystery wrapped in a balaclava”, you used to jokingly call him. It took months of building rapport and earning his trust before he finally revealed his face to you. But, despite this, you find yourself wanting more. Wasn’t this enough? Get a grip, sweetheart; Valentine’s Day is for the rest of the world, not you two.

As the bus pulls to a stop, you rise from your seat and step off, feeling heavy and reluctant as you make your way home. The weight of your expectations slows your pace as if you are afraid to face reality—that the love you seek may not be the love he is capable of giving...

You reach the front steps, the cool metal of the key turning in your hand as you unlock the door. You push it open, the emptiness inside greeting you like an old friend. Something on the floor catches your attention; military bags and tactical gear are neatly arranged near the entrance. You look across the kitchen table to see a map with checkmarks on it. Has he been summoned for a mission and forgotten to tell you? No, it cannot be; this is far worse than you expected.

As you make your way down the hall, the noise coming from the bedroom fills the silence. The door is slightly ajar, and you push it open to find him standing before you, freshly showered and wrapped in a crisp white towel from the waist down. Droplets of water cling to his damp hair, with strands hanging over his forehead. His towering stature is imposing, his muscles resembling those of a Greek statue carved by a master artist. Like faded memories of battles fought, scars are dotted across his body, each telling a tale of modern warfare.

He smirks as you enter the room, but you can’t help the flare of anger that rises within you.

“You’re late,” he says, continuing to dry himself.

How dare he.

“Traffic,” you respond, trying to steady your voice. “Where are you going?”

“We are going,” he corrects you nonchalantly.

Huh?!

“W-we?” you stammer. “Simon, where are we going?”

“Out,” he says with a smirk.

You frown at him. You’re exhausted—tired of work, tired of the long trip back home, tired of his mysterious demeanour. You need answers—complete, coherent, straightforward answers—and you need them fast. Now.

“Care to explain further, Simon?” you ask, trying to compose yourself.

“We're going camping,” he says as he starts putting on his gear.

Your heartbeat quickens. Suddenly the grapes are not sour anymore. They seem sweet again.

“So, camping, huh?” you ask with a cheeky grin. “Why?”

“Don’t make me say it,” he says sternly. “I’ve seen enough atrocities to know what today is.”

“You never struck me as the romantic sort, Mr Riley,” you reply.

“Oh, but I am romantic, my love,” he corrects you. “Just not the cliché type.”

But, of course! That’s why you fell for him in the first place. He’s not your typical guy. He may not serenade you, but he’ll fix things with his own hands. And he won’t kneel on one leg to recite poetry, but he’ll ensure you’re warm, safe, and fed.

Fed. Food. Did he think about food?

“I’ll prepare something quick to take with us,” you tell him.

“No need to,” he replies. “I’ve prepared an outstanding variety of MREs for us.”

What a guy.

“What about me?” you ask pointing at his gear. “I don’t have the appropriate clothing for this.”

He looks amused. “That’s weird,” he comments. “I’m sure I saw something at the entrance earlier today.”

You stare at him, confused, dash to the front door, and inspect the gear you saw earlier. To your surprise, it’s all your size.

You slip into the gear, feeling its weight and texture against your skin. The material is rugged yet flexible, allowing you to move easily. You run your hand over the pockets, checking to ensure everything is in place, before returning to the bedroom.

As you enter, Simon looks up from his bag, and his gaze travels down your form. You stand tall and proud; sure, you’re still tired and in pain, but at least you’re happy. You twirl for him to get a better look.

He nods his approval with a smile. “You look like a proper camper,” he says jokingly. “I had no idea you had it in you.”

“Come on, Simon!” You shout, fists clenching at your sides as you stand in the doorway. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” you implore, your voice growing softer. “At least say something nice.”

He regards you, his lips curling upward in amusement. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “You want something nice?” He asks, and you nod, smiling.

“You got it.” He steps closer, towering over you, and gazes down with warm and tender eyes. “You look beautiful,” he says. “Absolutely stunning.”

———————————————————————

#simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #cod ghost #cod mw2 #simon riley

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thebisexualdogdad · 10 months ago

Text

Club owner fuckboy Mihawk x GN!reader

● Mihawk owns the hottest club in town with Shanks, Ace and Buggy working there as bartenders and Smoker and crocodile as security

● and he is the biggest fuckboy around

● he has a reputation for hooking with customers

● he lives in the penthouse above the club so it's easy for him to bring someone upstairs for sex

● you and your friends became regulars at the club after Sanji gets hired as the new chef and you immediately caught Mihawk's attention

● after hearing about his reputation from Sanji you decide to play the long game, letting him buy you drinks over the course of a few weeks but nothing more

● until he wants you so bad he's desperate and practically begging to get you into his bed

● Nami tells you to not make him wait too long or he'll find someone else to get his fix from and that means me no more free drinks for any of you

● so you give him a taste by making out with him in his own personal booth in the vip section of the club

● and a week later you finally spend the night with him

● and it is the best night of your life

● the rumors about what Mihawk is packing turn out to be very true

● he's absolutely massive (he has a variety of lube on hand for everybody's safety)

● and he knows exactly how to use it

● the next morning your friends are blowing up your phone asking how it was

● you respond with a picture of a sleeping Mihawk on his stomach displaying all the scratch marks you left down his back

● and sure both of you are still hooking up with other people on the side because of his inability to settle down with just one person

● but he clearly favors you making time for you 3-4 times a week while he usually only sleeps with someone once and is done with them

● sexting is frequent with Mihawk

● like every single day frequent

● he sends you so many shirtless pics

● which leads to pics of him with his hands down his pants

● and then videos of him playing with himself while moaning your name

● he's a total dom in the bedroom

● he's in control of every second and makes sure you know it

● he's got an entire closet full of very expensive sex toys for you to play with

● you also sometimes bring a third in when you meet someone you are both attracted to at the club

● Mihawk loves having you watch him fuck someone else

● making eye contact with you the entire time

● and waking up in the middle of both of you the next morning (which usually leads to him fucking you in the shower after they leave)

● your friends greatly enjoy the benefits that come with you hooking up with Mihawk

● for Luffy that is the unlimited amount of food that he gets for free (despite Sanji being his roommate but Luffy would never turn down free food)

● Buggy doesn't quite enjoy you being around as much as mihawk because he usually ends up playing babysitter when your friends have a little too much to drink after the drinking games they play with Ace

● especially Usopp who's a bit of a lightweight and Buggy has had to accompany him many times whilst he's puking in the alley behind the club

● Shanks on the other hand enjoys having Robin and Zoro there to taste test new drinks he's experimenting with

● all the while Mihawk's full attention is on you, getting handsy in his booth to get you worked up before taking you upstairs to fuck you senseless

#one piece imagine #dracule mihawk imagine #dracule mihawk x reader #x gender neutral reader #headcanons

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lunarw0rks · 1 year ago

Note

Can I request a Philip Graves NSFW Alphabet

A/N: On second thought, I don't dislike his character as much as I thought I did... No particular reason, or anything 🫣

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), smut

Word Count: 3k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GRAVES MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Not the most delicate, but he tries, and that’s what matters.

Very cocky after sex, but that doesn’t diminish him from making sure his partner is alright (a glass of water, a caress of the reddened marks forming, etc.) Most common with him, some harmless jokes coming from his lips at your expense, all while he’s fixing the stray strands of hair he messed up in the process.

[ ❝ i’m not laughing at you, just couldn’t resist that look on your face, sweetheart ❞ ]

[ ❝ you’re not all shy now, are you? ❞ ]

In terms of actual aftercare, he would keep it short and sweet, handing you clothing items sent flying minutes before. Despite just doing the deed, Graves would turn his back and allow you to redress yourself, no matter how silly the gesture seemed in comparison to what he’d just done to you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself—not a body part, but his cheek scar. He thinks it makes him look super sexy, and definitely shows it off in photos. When he first met his S/O, he was practically crossing his fingers that they would ask about it, so he could heavily embellish its origin.

On a partner—an ass man through and through, no matter his partner's figure. His fingers roam constantly, resting on your hips and sliding downwards until he can cup it. It’s not always sexual, either, sometimes he just somewhere to rest his hands on you.

Just how many times did he ogle it before you two even said a word to one another? An embarrassing amount… And after there’s an established relationship? He doesn’t even try to hide it unless he’s around his coworkers.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It’s no secret, he likes cumming inside the most when he’s allowed.

But even if he is, there’s one place he likes even more—the chest. Whether his partner is fem or masc., he likes when it drips from their cleavage/sternum all the way down to the in between your thighs. It’s like his own personal way of marking his S/O, an he pictures when he needs a quick fantasy.

And there’s definitely a lot of it. Like, a lot. Sometimes, he wonders how there’s any left for the second round.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

(W/ prior consent, duh) Perhaps it’s his southern upbringing, his religious guilt for having such an “impure” fantasy. But a mix of corruption kink + bimbofication is his dirty secret—a partner whos clueless when it comes to sex, but also when he’s flirting with them, batting their lashes and fussing over their appearance. One where he can be their first, one where he has to explain each thing he’s doing, to talk the brainless partner through it, etc…

[ ❝ I bet you’ve never even touched yourself… ❞ ]

[ ❝ touch yourself, right there… keep going. ❞ ]

[ ❝ you never done this before, hm? Does that feel good? ❞ ]

Even if he does this “roleplay” with a partner that’s not sexually inexperienced, or has a personality completely opposite to the one in the fantasy… if they’re willing to play the role, to let him indulge in it, he’d melt.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He definitely wasn’t always good at it, the man-whore lifestyle grew on him (lmao)

Years in the service, most of his intimacy was hookups, until he advanced through the ranks enough to mature and reserve more time for his romantic life. Though those serious relationships often fell apart, he gained a lot of skills from them—sexually, not with his communication.

By no means, is he a sex God, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know exactly what to do. As clueless as he is when it comes to nuisance or social cues, when intimacy is involved, Graves is surprisingly adaptable.

You didn’t like that, but you loved this? We’ll never do that other thing again, then—that type of attitude.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary—I mean, look at him. But that doesn’t mean it's not a stimulating experience; not at all. His partner’s legs would be as spread and controlled as he wanted them to be. His absolute favorite variation would be one leg up on his shoulder, the other hooked around his waist, that way both parties get the best angle, and he can keep a firm hand on his S/O’s thigh.

Cowgirl (+ reverse)—Adores it, probably would choose it every time if he didn’t enjoy switching things up so much. He has a full view of his S/O, all his favorite parts on display, whether they are facing him or not—and his hands can roam. Fingers dig into thighs, light smacks on their backside, gripping the chin to force a kiss, probably all in a matter of seconds.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Tries so hard to be a hardass, but it doesn’t suit him.

Sure, if there’s some roleplay involved, he can play that serious, dominant part with ease. But, casual intimacy with a partner? There’s a grimace on his face, or he’s chuckling at your reactions to his movements, whispering little lighthearted comments.

Being serious all day long has its downsides, so why not have a little fun… while having the other kind of fun? ;)

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Very well groomed, but not bald down there.

His hair doesn’t grow very thick, or very rapidly, so it’s relatively simple for him to keep it contained. The hair that is down there is super short, more like a short, blonde stubble.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Quite romantic, when the mood is right. A special day for you two, or a good day in general? He’s especially tender.

But I don’t get the feeling he would take too much time with his S/O… it’s not in his nature. There wouldn’t be candles or music, or rose petals, but his charming words and skilled hands would make up for any lack of showiness.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Probably has a strict routine, to do it every morning or every night, purely to relieve the stresses of his job, as opposed to pleasure. Sometimes, he’ll do it just to get to sleep that night, or when he’s deployed for months at a time and misses his S/O.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Crying kink: most arousing if his S/O wears eye makeup and it's ruined by the time he’s done, running down their cheeks from the tears brimming. Though he wouldn’t do it often, there might be some pain inflicted to induce the tears (w/ prior consent).

Dumbification kink: heavy on this one, because he knows he’s doing something right. Once his partner is unable to form sentences or let out sounds too loud to properly respond to him, it’s a rush to his ego. Though he likes verbal feedback, hell, even a conversation in the middle of sex, them being too deep in their own pleasure to speak is a turn-on for him.

Breath play (receiving): to put it bluntly, he’s too terrified to try this on a partner, for fear of hurting them. But to be choked by his S/O, or the air restricted in some other way, it’s definitely a lowkey turn-on for him. But, somehow he still remains in charge, all while gasping for air.

Breeding kink: quite vocal about this one, and he wants kids someday, so why not? (w/ prior consent) When not involving the whole pregnancy aspect, it’s just a pretty sight to look at for him—the aftermath of it oozing out and down his partner’s thighs.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He’s quite picky with his locations. Bed or car, those are his two most common places, anywhere else is pretty rare for him. Of course, there would be some sex in his office once in a blue moon, but that’s about as far as he would go.

Bed—there’s way more opportunity for movement, less strain on each other’s bodies, and it’s somewhere you’re both familiar with. On the plus side, it’s much easier to strip and change the sheets, rather than sanitize an odd location after the deed.

Car—(Just look at him, he has a pickup truck. Don’t fight me on this) It’s purely his own fantasy, fucking his partner in his truck, especially when he’s on the move, or Graves simply couldn’t wait until you made it home. Definitely would keep a hand on your thigh during the drive, or if he was hinting at some car sex, it would slowly tease until you cave.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Visual teasing turns him on the most because he wants the smooth (or dirty 👀) talking to be left to him.

Most commonly, and most unbeknownst to you, when you’re busy with a task while wearing one of his shirts. (filling the dryer, placing a dish in the dishwasher, even just scrolling on your phone while bent over the counter). Even when fully clothed, it gets him, but most of all if you’re only wearing underwear underneath his shirt. Better yet, if you’re wearing nothing at all.

And he doesn’t always act on these motivations, sometimes he can’t because he’s halfway out the door. Other times, he just wants to savor the image as long as possible, to release the pent-up sexual frustration later, when it had all day to simmer.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There’s a lot he would do for his partner, but anything involving weapons, genuine pain, he won’t do it. If his partner wanted to roleplay, say some dub-con, he would do it just for them.

But full-on non-con, no preparation, no reciprocation, even if it’s just an act? He’s not into it. It’s not just vocal reassurances he needs, it’s physical—his partner touching him, wetness, begging, etc. He won’t be satisfied unless he can physically see them want it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving—an acquired taste for him, because he was once very inexperienced and awkward about it. It was never something that grossed him out or something he refused, but he was more worried about not doing it properly, despite how much his partner might be receptive to it. To make up for it, he always uses his hands at the same time, a sure way to make it pleasurable, just in case his tongue isn’t enough. Once he gets going though, once he learns every little sweet spot, he’s not coming up for air until he thinks the time is right.

Receiving—hear me out; I don’t think he enjoys getting head nearly as much as the average man. Of course, he would indulge himself if his partner was willing, perhaps wanting it every so often, but I feel it’s a rarity for him. When he does, he’s surprisingly gentle, only guiding his partner's head a small amount, and he prefers if the pace is slow and sloppy. He wouldn’t force you to your knees, bruise your throat, or yank your hair, not unless it was a fantasy of yours, of course.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Shockingly, he’s quite rough and fast, despite how unadorned his preferences are. In the act’s entirety, his pace is quick and rough, but not painful. He starts slow, but after being given any look of approval, he goes his usual unrelenting pace, all while his hands remain delicate. If his partner enjoys the fast pace, it’s perfect, and he would go until his body couldn’t.

If not: Once he’s gotten his climax, or he’s satisfied himself, he’s willing to go slower in favor of his partner’s pleasure, and only theirs. In fact, it’s almost immediately after he finishes—he doesn’t remove himself but slows himself to ensure his S/O will be just as satisfied. Slow, but deep thrusts no matter the position, just until they’ve finished.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He has a love/hate dynamic with quickies.

Little “joyrides” where he parks abruptly and has his way? Can’t get enough of it, and it’s merely a recurring fantasy. The same as, a quickie before he leaves for work? Finds it incredibly sexy if his partner stops him just before he’s out the door.

But, when his work is in the way of taking all the time he wants with you? That’s when he yearns for more time with his S/O, to get things done properly.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Not often, unless you were really adamant about trying something new or risky. He’s pretty set in his ways, and he already knows what he likes.

[ ❝ you would like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll remember that… ❞ ]

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

A few rounds, give or take.

He’s at his peak stamina when it’s been a while since you two had sex.

Besides, he’ll say he’s ❝ pacing himself ❞ when in actuality, he wants to make his partner need him, especially if they get desperate enough to outright ask for more. It’s a boost to his ego, it’s arousing, and you’ve affirmed his skills, all in one.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

During sex, he probably wouldn’t use them on his partner, unless they really, truly wanted him to. What better, than making them finish with only parts of his body? But if you want to add a toy to the mix, he’s not going to stop you, either.

Graves would be pretty clueless when it comes to toys, having never used one on himself or a partner. He’d be especially shocked if his S/O had their own already, but it’s not a threat—it’s a turn-on, for him to think about, how they satisfy themselves when it’s not him doing it. Deep down, he wants you to send him pictures using them, or suggestive messages when he’s away for months at a time.

To put it simply—he would rather visualize you using them solo, as opposed to him doing it to you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Outside of sex, as an act of foreplay or verbal teasing? He could do it all day; snide remarks to get his S/O needy touches that only last seconds, a suggestive noise/phrase coming out of his mouth like it's nothing.

[ ❝ Fuck… ❞ ] he practically moans it, waiting for the moan to draw you in, then: [ ❝ …this dinner is amazing ❞ ]

But as soon as you’re undressed in front of him? He wouldn’t be able to stand his own teasing for long, because all he wants is to get down to business. He would rather hear his partner finish, than whine when deprived of it, if that makes sense.

To be frank, he’s probably needier than any of his partners, always wanting to be bottomed out and making them feel the same pleasure he is.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Doesn’t look like it, but he’s quite vocal. Often similar to the intro of this video (Not p^rn, just a tiktok edit, I promise).

It’s constant talking, sometimes praise, other times he’s having a conversation with you in between his grunts. When he’s close, they become more drawn out and low, though his pace is only quickening.

[ ❝ almost there, sweetheart. Then I’ll do it again, just for you. ❞ ]

[ ❝ so sexy… and just for me. ❞ ]

[ ❝ love hearing you enjoy yourself like this, honey. ❞ ]

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

This might be a strange one, but bear with me.

He secretly loves being on medical-leave, stuck at home and laid up, (not seriously injured), because he loves being fussed over deep down. Who doesn’t love soup brought to your bedside, extra cuddles at night… and a few favors ;) to ❝ ease his pain ❞

Plus, he doesn’t have to worry about getting up early and leaving you the next day, so your favor could go on for quite awhile…

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Body type: He’s lean and toned, but heavily defined. Relatively hairless on his chest, and back, even his happy trail isn’t very noticeable. Graves doesn’t look like someone with that much muscular definition, until he flexes or exerts himself.

In the pants: Above average in size, but not overly girthy, and it naturally curves upward very slightly. 2.5” IN girth, 4” IN when soft—6.8” IN when hard.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Quite high when he’s around his partner because they’re there to reciprocate it. But, surprisingly low when he’s away. He’s truly too stressed and exhausted to be thinking about sex, only does when he gets morning wood or has to relieve some of that tension by himself.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

Doesn’t sleep much as it is, and he seems like the type to not sleep after sex.

The pillow talk continues, even if his partner’s eyes have drooped shut and they’re not listening to a word he’s saying. Head on his chest, or vice versa, talking about how good it was or probably telling some funny story about when he got stranded in the desert.

[ ❝ you’re better than I deserve, lettin’ me do that to you. ❞ ]

Sometimes, he’ll go back to his paperwork mere minutes after, a small apology escaping his lips when he does so. [ ❝ sorry, darlin’ ❞ ] or if the act was cut short, he’s not opposed to keeping one of his unoccupied hands on you (take that how you want).

#task force 141 #call of duty #mw2 #mw2 fanfic #task force 141 x reader #shadow company #phillip graves #commander graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves smut #phillip graves cod #phillip graves x you #modern warefare ii

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