Sprinting to your inbox to request Shanks and "Open your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you” from that prompt list… 👀
SHANKS x Y/N
Request: smut dialogue prompts (thanks to @delusionisaplace for making this fantastic list! 🎀)
(cw: daddy!shanks, restraints (hands only), fingering, cunnilingus, mention of safe word, dad/daddy are both used, shanks shows you your princess parts 😳)
(a/n: this is wholly inspired by your between what was and will be, which shall live forever in my brain and inspire everything i write about shanks from now until the end of time :)
Songs: "Brooklyn Baby" by Lana Del Rey
words: 965
Shanks sits at the edge of your bed, stroking one hand over your bare thigh. He’s wearing his blouse open to the waist, his cargo pants barely hiding how turned on he is by you. You’re naked, for your part, besides the pink ribbons tying your wrists together above your head.
“Ready for me, angel?” He asks, skipping thick fingers over your knee. You flinch a little, nervous but excited.
“Yes, dad,” you kick your legs a bit, coltish limbs trembling in your restraints. “‘M ready.”
“I need you to spread your legs, baby,” he coos, shifting so he’s in front of you. He kneels on the bed, strong hands tickling each of your knees. Slowly, you let them fall open.
He gasps.
“So pretty f’me, baby,” he sighs, running his fingertips over both your pussy lips, “I love seeing you like this. Prettiest pussy all on display just for me,” he grins at you, smiling wide in the amber light of his bedroom. You pull at your bonds, slightly.
“Touch me?”
“Shh, shh,” he hushes you, leaning forward to kiss your impatient lips. “All in due time, sweetheart. Lemme show ya first, okay?”
You nod, kicking your legs again. He places a big hand along your calf, soothing your anxious fidgeting with the warmth of his touch. He gives your ankle a delicate squeeze. “Want daddy to show ya your pussy parts, baby? Ya want dad to help ya with the ache?”
“Mhmm!” You moan out, squirming a little. He chuckles, his red hair framing a scruffy face. You want him closer, closer, so much fucking closer, please, Dad--
Finally, he traces one large, calloused finger over your clit. “D’ya know what this is, babygirl? It’s the part that makes ya feel so good,” he leans forward to place a kiss on your swollen rosebud. He traces two fingers down either side of your major lips, pressing kisses as he goes. “These are my baby’s pussy lips,” he explains, voice soft and gentle as he rumbles against your heat. You buck into his face, wanting more.
“Ah ah,” he warns, pressing the flat of his hand down on your pelvis. His palm scratches the slightly wiry hairs that lead down to the crest of your thighs. His thumb circles lazily on your clit. “Dad’s not done.”
“Okaay,” you whine out, trying your best to stay still. You wrap your hands around the ribbon, pulling slightly at the bonds. The tension of the restraints—firm and taught—builds a heat in your core that Shanks is currently stroking.
“Here,” he muses, sliding the finger pads of his third and fourth digits along your soaking folds, “Are your minor pussy lips. They’re so sweet for me, baby. D’ya know how much Daddy loves tastin’ ya?”
He lays down on his stomach, and starts licking you clean.
“Fuck, Dad—!”
You whine, arching your back against the bed. His messy sheets wrinkle under you, already too-hot in your lustful state. Shanks licks your pussy up and down, doing figure eights around your slit.
“Please, daddy…,” you whimper, struggling with your ribbon restraints, “I wanna cum. Make me cum? Please, please, please—,” he cuts off your begging with a sharp slap to your clit. You gasp, stung, but bite your lip against a complaint. No need to make your punishment worse, after all.
“Dad’ll make ya cum, okay? Since ya asked so nicely,” he slides two digits inside your entrance, rubbing softly as he sucks your clit. His lips wrap warm and firm around your bud, and you hiss at the contact. And the suction—
“Fuck,” you curse, breathy and hoarse. Shanks laughs against your pussy.
He pushes his fingers in deeper.
“Take it, baby,” he soothes, stroking your thigh with his other hand. “Dad’s so fuckin' proud of ya,” his thumb presses sweet circles against your inner thigh, and you croon. “There ya go, sweet thing,” he whispers, between sucking your clit and spelling his own name. His tongue moves in swift circles: a pattern you’ve long since memorized. “Ready for Daddy to make ya cum?”
He crooks his fingers up, scissoring in and out gentle against your finest spots. He gasps, watching you arch. Your orgasm hits you like a sucker punch: loving and violent, with the bittersweet aftertaste of overstimulation. Your legs shake, and he croons.
“Sweet girl,” he’s saying, pressing kitten licks to your swollen clit, “Such a good fucking girl f’me, baby.”
You nod, whispering the word that gets you out of your bonds.
He’s up, swiftly undoing his sailor’s knots so that you can wrap your arms around him, pulling him in as close as he can get. His weight shifts over you (trying not to crush you) but you huff in frustration. You pull him tighter on top of you, and he laughs.
“Closer!” You complain, burying your head into his chest hair. You breathe him in: salty and sweet. Like a caramel macchiato with steamed milk. He smells comforting, like home.
“Love ya, girly,” he whispers into your hair, softly stroking the top of your head. He lets you pull him over to the side, so your legs are around his waist and his arms are bringing you in tightly to his chest. He’s warm. You wrap your arms through his shirt, between fabric and skin. He pulls you in. “Love ya s’much.”
“Love you too,” you whisper, lips moving against his chest. His muscles are strong and taut beneath you, even at rest. You sink your fingers into heated skin; his breath flutters, and you grin. “Did you like it?” You ask, already sure of the answer but still wanting to get drunk off his praise. He squeezes you in tighter, somehow.
Mech’s not sure why the aftermath of this mission is hitting him so hard, but he’s doing his best to calm down when Gwen’s presence shatters his control. Now it’s a count down to see if he can figure out how to put a stop to the instincts and hormones that are running wild inside him—before he does something they’ll both regret.
Science fiction, alien romance, male alien x female human
Story Status: COMPLETE
AO3: Snapped Chapter 1
Part 1 [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4 - NSFW]
Mech’s working on one of the control panels in the main cavity of the ship where he can hear the sounds that reassure him he’s back home—that they all are.
The distant voices of the others getting ready to go out, the whoosh of air through the vents, the clang of distant machinery are usually comforting, but tonight even they can’t fully sooth him, not after such a close call.
He keeps having to take deep breaths, keeps having to stop the black spines which line his back from flaring sharply in agitation. He’s even having trouble stopping the venom from gathering in his mouth and at the glans at the base of his claws, which keep wanting to extend. His body is too convinced there’s still a threat he needs to be ready to fight off to relax.
The distant voices of the others getting ready to go out, the whoosh of air through the vents, the clang of distant machinery are usually comforting, but tonight even they can’t fully sooth him, not after such a close call.
He keeps having to take deep breaths, keeps having to stop the black spines which line his back from flaring sharply in agitation. He’s even having trouble stopping the venom from gathering in his mouth and at the glans at the base of his claws, which keep wanting to extend. His body is too convinced there’s still a threat he needs to be ready to fight off to relax.
Graviels’ have a contradictory reputation of being both emotionless and berserkers, fueled by their planet’s history of controlling its citizens chemically. Having only dismantled that system of tight control a generation and a half ago, the teachings and beliefs are still prominent, just without the chemical suppressants and with a slightly laxer rule set. However, all have found their emotions and instincts too difficult to control at times after so long with something else doing that for them. Some graviels, especially those who went off world on their own, simply gave themselves over to such impulses.
Mech is usually pretty good at keeping himself under control, having found a good balance for himself of letting him feel those emotions without surrendering to them—or letting others see how they affect him. Still, usually a round of meditation and deliberately calmer tasks—necessary, low stress, rather boring ones—are enough to get him feeling back to normal.
This time though…
This time, nearly a full day later, he continues to be actively trying to push from the forefront of his mind how Gwen felt in his arms, limp and still. He’d been captured first and the way they had thrown her in however much longer later, unresponsive and unmoving, plagues his every other thought. She already worries him with that strange human mix of fragility and resilience. Able to withstand so much, but just as liable to be broken by something inconsequential like the rest of her vexing, paradoxical species.
Mech had scooped her up as soon as he’d been sure the guards were gone and dragged her to the corner of the room where the speaker couldn’t pick up sound. Tried to do what he could to make her comfortable and bandaged anything he could, as best he could. Hoping his warmth and knowing a friend was there would stop any panic when she awoke.
The sight of her light brown eyes blinking up at him had sent the strongest jolt of relief and dread down his spine. It’d been so long since he cared about someone enough for such a simple gesture to mean so much. His reaction, his relief, terrified him because he could no longer pretend or ignore what she was to him. And yet he hadn’t been able to resist the smile he’d given her in return when he saw something similar, some relief close to his own reflected back in her eyes.
She’d smiled despite her injuries and it had taken all he had to calmly relate what had happened to him since he’d been separated from the group. Limiting himself to light strokes of her hair, her arms, needing that physical reassurance even after checking her for injuries. She had reciprocated, passing the time listening to him by playing connect the dots with his black speckles, until she filled him in on what had happened with her and the others.
They’d formulated the next part of their plan quietly, practically talking into each other’s ears as they lay curled up in the corner together. They’d had to make escapes before or plans on the fly or fight their way back to the others—but it had been rare they were in such a tight spot and injured as they were.
But they made it fine, in the end. He tries to replace the sense memory of her limp body with the feeling of her hand in his, of her body braced behind her smuggled shield protecting them both from that missile after they escaped the cell. Of their reunion with the rest of the crew, of the ship still whole.
It's difficult though, when the ghost of her injured form still haunts him so persistently.
He blinks and the image is gone, replaced with the wires he’s working on instead. His right hand is clenched around the edge of the panel, nearly denting it—his red skin made paler from his tight grip, the black splotch on the back of his hand standing out darker than usual in contrast. He lets go immediately, running his fingers more gently over the metal to check for damage.
After assessing it’s unbent, he drops his hand and runs the other through his black hair. He attempts to distract himself by wondering if it's time to cut his hair from just above his shoulders to closer to his eyeline, but settles for just tying part of it back so it’s out of his face.
Maybe he should go down, further into the bowels of the ship. Usually the main deck is more soothing because of the others around, but he thinks that some isolation might do him so good—especially if he’s going to be getting lost in his thoughts so obviously.
Sure enough, only a moment later, he hears the others begin to gather behind him in the main area by the door.
He knows they’ve stopped at this port for a reason. Finest taverns and dancehalls for miles around. They each deal with their leftover adrenaline from such a narrow escape differently. He’s channeling his into patch jobs for the ship. He knows Lara’s off training with some sparring program, Jace is running laps, and Tee is in deep meditation somewhere precarious. The rest of the crew, excluding himself of course, is going out—for drinks and dancing and companionship.
Everyone trying to remind themselves that they’re alive in their own way.
It's practically a routine at this point, he reminds himself. They’ve been on dozens of missions just as close. Closer even.
So why is something about this time so different? So unshakeable?
He can always sense when Gwen’s near—can’t even begin to remember when that started—but it’s so strong this time. He knows with complete certainty when she steps over the threshold into the room. It’s like they’re reaching out to each other despite the distance, despite the spanner in his hand and the favorite silver clutch that must be in hers.
Slowly, like a condemned man, he braces himself on his hands before pulling back from the wall and the panel he’d been futilely trying to work on. With unerring accuracy, he turns his head smoothly.
His eyes met hers in an instant and he feels it.
Snap.
Her eyes widen slightly, like there was a physical sound to accompany the sensation. He’s almost sure there wasn’t—certainly no one else is saying anything. The rushing he hears is surely the blood pumping through his veins and not auditory to any one but him. Same for how his heart pounds, tension tightening its way through his every nerve. None of them seem to notice the way the atmosphere is heavier, thicker. Sounds seem louder. They grate on him. Everything around him suddenly chafes against his very being—everything except her.
“Gwen,” he says without even realizing he was going to speak as he straightens up. His clear voice rings across the space, cuts through the other’s chatter. His eyes drag down her form. Instead of her usual baggy uniform of cargo pants and a long-sleeved top—as suited to their traveling, casual lifestyle as his own black tank top and dark gray pants are—she’s in a dress.
It’s light blue, with a pattern of swirls of dark blue and silver all over it. The flowy skirt looks like it’ll flare as she spins in a dance. The top part of the dress looks like thick sashes tied around her chest and behind her neck. He doubts she’s got much on under it—the lines would show. There’s a strip of her midriff bared, showing off the delicate ring she has there. The whole dress looks like one tug would leave her bare.
The idea of someone else’s hands on her, even in a friendly dance, makes bloodlust fog his vision, makes the spines on his back flare. He ruthlessly smoothes them back down.
His voice manages surprisingly well to not betray any of his sudden turmoil when he continues, “You can’t go out tonight.”
Her brow furrows, the others stop talking immediately—they must finally sense something’s wrong too. They normally never shut up that easily. “Why not?” she asks, but there’s no outrage to it, not the way there had been when he used to order her about. He’s long broken himself of the habit—she never listened anyway and most of the time was right not to, no matter the experience he’s got on her. She can tell when he’s messing about or too far up his own ass–and when he’s dead serious long before the others can.
“Need you to stay here,” is all he says. His fingers clench around the metal tool in his hand and it bends. It’s taking everything in him not to pull her in his arms this second, not to finally taste her.
He drops the wrench with a muted clang.
“There a problem?” Gwen asks, frowning in concern. And does her voice sound a little breathier than usual? Must be his fevered thinking.
“Yeah,” he admits because he can’t deny it, not to her. He’ll say whatever he needs to in order to get her to stay. “Need your help.” His tail is holding the panel shut, while he re-secures the panel he’d been working on with one hand without looking. Wild veruden raiders couldn’t pull his focus away from Gwen.
“What’s wrong?” Captain Staci looks between them, alarm growing on her face and he remembers the others once again.
“None of your business,” he replies sharply before he presses his lips together. Shouldn’t have said that.
“Want to try that again?” He can’t look away from Gwen, but he knows Staci’s got her frills up if her voice is any indication, reminding him that talking to her like that is a very thin line to tread.
“Sorry, Captain,” he says, trying hard to think through the pounding of his blood, the hormones dumping into his system. He needs Staci to head out, but he also needs her to let Gwen stay back, so she can’t be too angry or worried. “Personal problem,” he manages, sticking to short sentences as he tries to find the right combination of words. “Ships fine. We’re fine. Need Gwen though.”
“Alright,” Gwen says, a little slowly, but she knows he wouldn’t ask for her help without reason. Knows he would never admit to a ‘personal problem’ without it being a big one. She’s aware of exactly how private he is. Respects it.
Part of why she’s his favorite.
“Gw—” Harry speaks up that time, but Gwen cuts him off before Mech has to. He’s never liked Harry, too flirtatious and cavalier by far, with a liking for Gwen that makes Mech jealous even on a good day, no matter how illogical.
“It’s fine,” she looks away from Mech to give Harry a reassuring smile. He knows she’s doing it because she’s agreeing to stay back with him, but he hates that she’s even looking at someone else.
This is worse than I realized, he thinks as he drops his remaining tools back into their box a little too roughly.
He methodically packs everything up, trying to pull himself under control, while she reassures and jokes with the others. By the time he’s walking over to her, she’s waving them out.
She looks up at him with a wry smirk. “Gonna tell me what’s wrong now that the peanut gallery is gone?”
Under her posturing, he can tell she’s worried for him. Makes everything inside burn brighter for her. He appreciates the attempt at levity for all it’s not actually doing much good. He opens his mouth and all the things he keeps locked up tight the rest of the time, all the things that he wants to say to her, about her and what she means to him and how she makes him feel, threaten to pour out. He closes his mouth again before grunting, “Medbay.”
She blinks up at him and he sees true concern blossom on her face. “Mech…”
Gwen reaches out and he can’t let her touch him right now. He’d never let go. Mech stalks out of her reach, wondering if she’ll follow. Praying she won’t. Praying she will.
Hey people give Taylor Swift shit for writing Fifteen when she was just 18 and how it feels pretentious coming from someone who's still really young but. is that not how they felt at 18?
I'm 18 and all the stuff in that song is exactly what i would tell 15 year old me and my 14 year old sister rn. Like. Yeah when you've lived alot longer 18 feels tiny but. You're not the same person at 18 as you were at 15? You still have your whole life ahead of you but three years is not insignificant? High school is a shithole and very few people HAVEN'T learnt a lot in that time. Heck, 15 year old me was a completely different person from me. I may still be stupid and naive but 15 year old me was a lot stupider and a lot more naive.
And maybe i feel this way because i am the same age as she was writing it but. Listening to the song when i was 15 and listening to it now is so different, and i know the difference will only get wider as i grow up. And i KNOW the message of the song still applies to me, and i KNOW in a few years I'll look back on myself now and realise just how young 18 still is, and i KNOW i still have so much to learn about life, as did Taylor! But that doesn't discount the fact that by the time you're 18 you've learnt atleast enough to advise a 15 year about some things. And i feel that people forget that as they grow older. And it sucks that people give Taylor shit for it when she just wanted to tell her younger self some things she learnt.
Flag of the Kingdom of England and Wales (Also known as "What if Scotland and NI left the UK?")
from /r/vexillology
Top comment: I decided to use St. David's Cross instead of The Red Dragon beacuse: 1 - IMO it looks cooler 2 - It's easier to make 3 - Just looks better when combined with England's Flag 4 - Why the hell not?
