nsft phillip graves headcanon
graves loves his shadows like his own family. his own kids. but god, it’s always the worst when he’s thousands of miles from home and his men are a little too drunk. especially when they’re all going on about the way their girls feel the best in bed. it becomes a betting game.
osmond prefers doggy. the new guy full nelson—with an ex gymnast girlfriend finally making his dream possible, while arthur and mace are debating about which is better, their girl laying on their side and her leg on their shoulder or wrapped around their torso. the duo have now begun putting bets on it; which position is everyone’s favorite. arthur, with his loose lips, proclaimed missionary was ‘boring’ and ‘i wouldn’t do it unless she asked.’
“i bet our commander likes shoving his girl’s head in the pillow,” mace chuckles as he takes a sip of his liquor.
“nah. he strikes me as a prone bone man.”
the only question which strikes him is this: do any of them ever look into the eyes of the women that spend weeks, sometimes months alone waiting for them to come back home?
there ain’t no way in hell that man loves anything more than watching you roll your hips on top of him. the eye contact? peak. your eyes rolling back as he bottoms out? heavenly.
the way he can hold the plush of your thighs between his fingertips?
the praises—not “good girl.” no. that’s cliche & you’re not some dog. you’re not something to command like his shadows. you’re the one thing that takes his mind off the life in the darkness. the words that spill out of his mouth could and do make a grown man blush. “my fuckin’ girl,” - “angel”, - “princess.” words he never imagined himself calling another human being. sometimes his mind flashes to when he called you the divine feminine and you couldn’t help but laugh as your forehead rested on his.
or how about when he can sense you’re tired and the thrust of his hips up toward yours and your movements become sloppy? the cries of his name when his thumb brushes your bud to inch you closer to your peak so he doesn’t spill his warmth within you too early? no. only the best for his girl.
the idea of not seeing his partner’s face as they peak? downright heartbreaking. won’t do it. and once your moans echo around the room and he finally releases inside you, he can’t bear to close his eyes; knowing you’re there with him. taking comfort in the fact that this is the closest he’ll get to heaven after all he’s done.
he spills the rest of his beer between his spread legs, but not before answering:
“cowgirl.” he answers, standing up and looking back toward their camp for the night before continuing: “now shut up and get some sleep. we’re leavin’ at 0800.”
with that, he walks to his tent and checks the time back home; knowing he’d be back in your arms by time the sun set tomorrow.
