(special shoutouts to @stevieroqers who sent me so many tutorials to help with my gifmaking, as well as @sweetxvanixlla, i literally can't think of chuck without thinking of you ♥︎)
VOTE FOR CHUCK IN ROUND 2 OF THE HBOWAR CHARACTER TOURNAMENT!!
Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with Chuck Grant x Reader, George Luz x Reader, David Webster x Reader, and Don Malarkey x Reader
tw// mdni (18+), adult content, explicit sexual content
[PROMPT] The third part to the Sexually Frustrated Headcanons series. Part 1 is here.🔵 Part 2 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here. 😂
Chuck Grant x Reader
He was always known as the cheerful blondie from California, but quite honestly, he was feeling far from cheerful while staring at the wood of the top bunk. Another furlough, another night of stark realization that you and him couldn't be together.
He smoked a lot. The sticks kept him occupied when he salivated, when he tasted the air like he could taste your skin and your lips, like you were here smiling at him coyly as you pushed him down on a bed. He smoked and smoked and smoked, and through the hazy cloud, he could almost visualize the dips, angles, and curves of your body.
Liebgott told him he'd buy him some drinks, even some girls. "Why don't I treat my blondie buddy at the cathouse? I'll turn that frown upside-down" he'd amusedly state, but Chuck was barely holding onto his facade of a smile by gnashing his teeth. He was serious about what you and he had together; unlike Wild Bill, he wasn't one to sow a million oats everywhere when he had a promise.
Thus, the pictures. They were his greatest treasures. His hand would still tremble when he'd pull them out and look at you. He was touched by how you went to a professional photographer to get them taken for his pleasure. His fellow G.I.'s knew about your pretty self, with your enthusiastic smiles and neatly coiffed hair; for a bunch of tough sons of bitches, they sure loved to hem and haw over pictures of their sweethearts like gossiping old ladies.
They could cluck over your adorable poses and captions. What they couldn't entertain themselves with, however, were the pictures that nearly made him shoot off a bullet in surprise at the first glance.
These pictures were scandalous. Bold. The sheer sensuality and confidence behind each laminated paper had him stubbing out his cigarette to rush for the nearest semblance of privacy. He'd gone immediately stiff at your nude body presenting itself in ways that you knew he loved. Every single position was his favorite; and you knew that because what you and he had done together before he left for the field had left him an addict for your touch.
He'd trained himself like a damned mutt. Whenever he'd remember those secret photos tucked into his breastpocket, he'd sport wood. Laughable, really, and thank God for the thick overcoats everyone was given. And thank the clueless grunts besides mind-reading Liebgott from noticing how there was a lot more bite to his smiles, and how strained his eyes were when he'd grin at some joke that unfortunately was no longer that funny.
The men could get relief at bars and hotels with all of their skirt-chasing, but Chuck just needed his damned hand and those photos. The problem was, there was always someone milling about everywhere he went. Well, he could always rent a hotel room alone, but all the moans and groans coming from the walls were just not a good time. There was no way he wanted to hear what Heffron sounded like when he was getting off again. And Shifty had the pace of a goddamned rabbit—
He was frustrated. There was a permanent crick in his shoulders. The few times he was able to handle himself, they were always in some blown-out part of a building or some random hole he'd sneak away to. He'd have to rush himself, which he hated. God forbid someone like Don Malarkey found him and he'd be labelled the Beat-off Blondie Bandit for the rest of his life.
Could Charles Grant be spared one goddamned moment alone without anyone interrupting?
George Luz x Reader
Mr. Goofy was no longer Mr. Goofy. What happened for Luz of all people to tell Webster to can it? Even Randleman was shocked at how George chewed on his cigarette and stalked off into one of the rooms of the bombed out villa they secured. Looked like the jokes ran out in Belgium after the last battle they had.
Well, it wasn't so much of the battle that had George absentmindedly flicking his lighter on and off in silence. It wasn't the lack of Hershey's either. What had him sulking had nothing to do Lieutenant Speirs' sharp orders for the men to prepare for another bout of fire.
He was going to bust. Straight up. Blast off into space. He hadn't come for over three weeks, and he was fucking losing it. He swore he was going insane.
He swore he was going bonkers from not having your hand stroking him. Swore he'd tear a bastard a new one if he didn't have you saucily clamped around him. The hell was a man going to do without a mouth sucking the soul outta him?
But he listened. He kept his promise. Because he was a "good boy." You told him that, and there was no way he'd have you disappointed and not call him that again. You told him that he wasn't to get himself off the whole time he was gone. No edging, either. No looking at magazines or flirting with any skirts. If Georgie Boy behaved and was good, you'd give him the grandest of all rewards.
He'd been so curious, so full of confidence. Of course a man freshly awake from the craziest sex would agree to anything. You could've asked for the White House, and he'd lead a lone assault to capture the property completely sober. Yes, he'd be good. Yes, he'd listen. Of course he wouldn't touch his dick or toe the line when it came to propriety at the bars. He'd be the goodest boy ever.
Yeah, shit obviously didn't fly the way he wanted it to. He was constructing his pitiful eulogy everyday. Herein lies George Luz Sr. He died of a stroke due to a blood clot in his terminally hard cockadoodledoo. The pathetically loyal mutt could've wacked off in the john because who the fuck could've known, but he kept the cock ring on. He is preceded in death by his grandpa—
You said you'd be there at the next field hospital location; they'd nabbed you to go help set up the next one. Lip stated that since they'd wrapped up this current area, going to the next rally point was due soon, and Luz was over the fucking moon. Fucking finally. Holy shit, how the hell did monks do this? There was no way they weren't jerking their gherkin when no one was looking.
For all that was said, there was nothing about you exercising restraint, and knowing you, it was kept that way intentionally. You might give him a grand reward, but your sweet Georgie Boy hoped you could handle his grand punishment.
David Webster x Reader
He didn't get it. He didn't get why you didn't see eye-to-eye with him. To him, sex was just an itch he had to scratch; something purely physical he had to "take care of" before it got too burdensome and clouded his judgement. He still cared deeply for you, and you only. So what if he wrote down the prices of all of the ladies at the brothels he had? Was it so wrong for a man to do a cost basis or price analyses on his purchases?
So, no ladies offering themselves for free, either, you said. None of that going off, doing his thing, but sparing your reputation. Sex wasn't just physical for you. You wanted your relationship to be "real", and this was your "real."
"I'm not settling for anything less, Web. I...I want to love and be loved genuinely by a man who loves me deeply in return. I want—"
"But what's love got to do with it?" he idiotically asked, and you had to idiotically explain yourself that sex wasn't just a basal craving to take care of for you. But then again, in retrospect, this was no jest. This was no coy game of chess. He was "real", and you realized that whatever you and David Webster had, this was his first time with something you considered readily understood by the masses.
This was his first time agreeing to all of your conditions, and in a blown-out foxhole, he pondered over a dying cigarette. He could go without sex for a while, but every unmet aspect of his appetite was in full force. It had been a long while without your body eagerly taking him in, and the urge to kill the coil building up in his gut occupied his mind more so than the primal need to see dead bodies stacked at the other end of his barrel.
The way you clung to him, clawed desperately at his back, as he drove into you over and over again. The crescendo of your voice, how you called for "Web" over and over and over again. He could see the imprints of his hands on your skin and your glossy eyes. Over and over and over and over again. Again and again and again. Cigarettes. Coffee. Blood and guts and foxholes and dirt and day after day, night after night. Rutting into his own hand until he shot nothing but blanks but never satiating that grandiose hunger that kept him awake in the dark.
Liebgott sardonically told him that he'd buy him a lady; maybe that'd "get the stick outta his ass" the way he took the bit and was more prone to entertain a fistfight. "What's love got to do with it?" didn't fly, however. So he abstained. He abstained while the other joes went and got filthy with their own needs, and he sat in damp mud with a cheap bottle of booze and his own ass, his book of choice unread and ignored. To fuck his own hand or to not fuck his own hand? Aye, now that was the rub. Except, he couldn't bare to do anymore rubbing, and no fucking, and lacked mental fortitude to subdue the lust settling into the hard lines of his jaw.
So he wrote. If he couldn't read worth a damn, he'd write. So he wrote and wrote and wrote the most sinful things he'd ever written. Surprised him, really, the creative genius he apparently had; God help him if leadership or one of those German officers found out what debauchery he created on paper. Would he be burned at the stake or shot immediately? Who knew. What he did know was how ink told tales of how he took you, where he took you, how long he took you. How you pushed him down and took him, fast and hard, slow and deep, rocking into him while you carved your pretty nails down his heaving belly. Not a single drop of his spend going to waste.
He wrote and wrote and wrote, and he gave no fucks about sending his depravities back to you. He knew his officers read every single dirty thing he wanted to do to you in his letters; he didn't give a shit when Captain Winters kept on leveling uncomfortable gazes at him or the knowing stares from Captain Nixon. They knew what he wanted, and all he wanted was to fucking bust, but he couldn't have that reality here in this blown-up foxhole, could he? If he had to suffer, than everyone had to suffer.
Hope the brass enjoyed his Harvard education during mail inspection. Hope you enjoyed his last episode he penned you. The Kama Sutra was one of his favorite literary works, and he expressed in full detail which positions piqued his interest. Did you also know he liked to draw? And how creative he could be when it came to your body? Well, now you knew. Now, you knew.
Don Malarkey x Reader
"The Don! My man, you still pent up—"
"Bill, you open that goddamned mouth, you're not gonna be able to close your gob for two weeks straight."
"O-Okay, Man. Wow. Looks like nothing's changed. All right, Buddy. I'll keep you in my prayers. Relax."
Everyone knew to keep their traps shut, but Guarnere really never minded any warnings; he ran towards them, just like how he ran back to antagonize a very frustrated Donald George Malarkey, who was apparently more prone to eating his cigarette than smoking it from how aggressively he chewed on the stick. All Don wanted was to be left alone to nurse his shitty beer and smoke in peace.
All he wanted was to see you. All neatened up. Or shabby. He didn't give a shit. He wanted to see you, but you weren't here at the bar, and he was burning.
You weren't here to tease his ears with your voice, like you ghosted your fingertips across his cheek. You weren't here in town. You weren't there at the fountain. You weren't there shopping for groceries, a time where he could smoothly steal a kiss or two behind the baker's stall.
And then you were there to smile at him ever so sweetly. Play with his hair, the shiny pins on his uniform, milking the desperation out of his propriety when he asked you if he could buy you a drink. Of course, you'd say yes. Of course, you'd let him hold you close, swing you around on that merry dance floor when the boys were able to get time off. Grin at him. Call him your cute Donnie. Make that hushed, delicious purr that drove him crazy when he dipped you low.
And when the two of you were alone, and he was kissing you and devouring the column of your throat, you'd let him. Yes. You in his lap, on that couch, kissing and touching and your ass grinding down on him, grabbing onto the lapels of his army greens. Yes. Finally. Months on end, and you'd teased him like the Cheshire cat. But months on end was worth it for this particular now, and if you kept on gyrating on him like that, say your prayers for your clothes at how fast he was divesting them from you—
Save your prayers for him, because after one last definitive grind, you got up for no good reason, gave him a chaste kiss, and walked out the door like nothing happened. You had him dumbfounded at how he just sat there in shock before realizing that this game of cat and mouse was still in progress.
You weren't the villain if he was a most willing participant, however. He loved the chase as much as you did, no matter how frustrated the end result turned out to be. He loved the mischievous sparkle in your eyes as you accidentally ground up on him in the crowded bar and your masterful escape attempts and how he pursued hotly at your heels and the way you just knew how to play that hungry dog in him eager for the hunt and—
And, and, and! And was how he was sitting there hungrily alone that night, watching the partygoers sate their own needs while he waited for you with baited breath. Waiting and watching, always for the flitter of your hair and clothing. Waiting for his devious mouse to poke its head out for a cat that'd do anything to be devoured.
won't be no peace when I find that fool
who did that to you
(some director's commentary under the cut)
i don't typically do this but i wanted to get into my thought process behind this one a little more in depth:
the initial inspiration for this one came after seeing this post by @sidgene. dog-coded speirs is always so brilliant to me, and i wanted to build on the idea of his being a sort of vengeful protector in the aftermath of grant getting shot, which is the angle i took for most of the video.
however!
i remember seeing a post some months back (that i can't for the life of me find anymore) that talked about speirs potentially feeling a bit of guilt over having been the one to give chuck the orders to go to the crossroads in the first place. and while obviously no one could have foreseen what was going to happen, guilt isn't necessarily a rational thing! and so i wanted to play with that idea a little bit, hence the clip of speirs giving the orders over the "who did that to you" lyric again.
i think chuck's face in that scene is also so good... he's obviously just upset in the moment cause it's annoying, but i think it's also got a really nice sense of foreboding to it as well (even if he doesn't know it lol). and then building further off this idea, the last scene of speirs walking away after not shooting the guy... i liked the bit of ambiguity there too, with both of them in the shot... speirs obviously blaming the guy who actually did the deed and shot him but maybe also internalizing some of it? is he also, in a sense, the fool that did that to grant? i just think it's a really fun idea to play around with and i hope that comes through in this video a little bit (it makes sense TO ME)!!
(i think it could also make for good fic content just saying......)
