I'm an INTJ. I hope to write more often; my consistency is horrendous. I love black coffee, soft n creamy cheeses (NO BLUE PLEASE), cigarettes, pencil sketching and listening to music.
I'm ALWAYS open to music and novel recs. You could call me a Phillip Graves enthusiast~~ :33
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REQUESTS STATUS: CLOSED
Until further notice, TwT.
ASKS STATUS: OPEN
Feel free to ask me about any headcanons or any questions about the characters I write for :>
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Here are the characters I write for currently~
โโฑโฎโฑโ CALL OF DUTY: โโฑโฎโฑโ
โญ๏ธPhillip Graves
โญ๏ธCapt. John Price
โญ๏ธSimon Ghost Riley
โญ๏ธValeria Garza
โโฑโฎโฑโ DHURANDHAR: โโฑโฎโฑโ
โญ๏ธMajor Iqbal
โญ๏ธRehman Dakait
โโฑโฎโฑโ DEATH NOTE: โโฑโฎโฑโ
โญ๏ธL Lawliet
โญ๏ธMisa Amane
โญ๏ธRyuk
โญ๏ธNear Nathaniel Riversย
โโฑโฎโฑโ MHA: โโฑโฎโฑโ
โญ๏ธAizawa Shouta
โญ๏ธBakugou Katsuki
โญ๏ธShinsou Hitoshi
โญ๏ธEnji Todoroki
โญ๏ธMina Ashido
โญ๏ธOchaco Uraraka
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โ ห เฝเฝฒโโฑโเฝเพ ห current book rec:
After Dark by Murakami (great palette cleanser between heavy reads)
โ ห เฝเฝฒโโฑโเฝเพ ห current song rec:
Violence by Grimes & i_o
RIO by The Weeknd & Anitta
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NOTE: This has been marinating in my head for a while, and I think it's the perfect time for me to FFIIIINNAAALLLY put this out for y'all. It's a different pace from the heavy content I usually write about. Hope y'all enjoy this piece. Have a good one.
SYNOPSIS: You and Phillip are on your way back from an intel run in the disgustingly hot southern summer heat. The heat ramps up as you and Phillip get into a heated conversation about who's good enough for you. FLUFF N ROMANCE
INSPIRED BY:
Too Fast To Live, Too Young To Die by Nessa Barrett
Tulsa Jesus Freak by Lana Del Rey
Dry wind blew past you, your hair catching the fine dust that the wind deposited with each angry gust. There were corn fields for as far as your eyes could see, tall on each side of the dusty road for miles and miles. The temperature reached near boiling-hot levels, the mid-August heatwave raising the temperature in the car. The Cherokee had seen better days- the air conditioning far from functional. If it were up to Phillip, he'd have pulled up his Rover- but he needed to lay low, stay under cover to gather information on this infamous money launderer that dealt arms in this part of the state.
The truck's engine groaned with effort over another pothole, sputtering as if trying to catch its breath. Phillip sat shotgun, one arm slung out the window, sweat glistening over the sunburnt skin. He looked over to you, looking at your shorts, which had ridden up a little. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "You'd think this sorry excuse of a machine woulda died by now." Phillip breathed out sharply, reaching into the glove box for another soda- only to find none.
You propped your legs up on the dash, fixing your sunglasses on your face. "Ain't it as old as you?" You joked, poking fun at him just to pass some time. He shot you a glare- half amused, half exasperated. "Real mature." He drove over another bump, making him roll his eyes as your boots smacked the dash. "Ain't even near as old as me. I'm thirty-four years young." He adjusted his own sunglasses with a scoff, leaning back into the peeling leather seats. "Thirty-four?" You rolled your eyes, dramatically scoffing. "You look like a daddy of five." You folded your arms, eyeing him as he fumbled with his pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Red. How clichรฉ. Phillip snorted, shaking his head as he laughed- a rumble from his chest as he lit his cigarette before throwing you the pack.
You caught it with one hand, grabbing the lighter from the dash after popping a cigarette between your lips. "Yeah, well, I got three ex-wives in my nightmares." He said, exhaling smoke through his nose. The road stretched for miles, nothing but dirt under the tires. "You really never been married, Mister Graves?" You taunted, smoke escaping the corner of your lips as you did. Phillip sighed, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before he smirked. "No." He looked towards you, looking at you with an expression that read 'seriously?'. He breathed out. "Whatโd you expect, some high-dollar Hollywood tragedy where mercenaries carried off my bride and my kids got caught in a shootout?" He said dryly, flicking the cigarette ash out the window. His voice dripped with sarcasm, matching your taunting tone. "Besides, it'd only be a liability." He said softly, looking out onto the road with his brows furrowed. The mood in the jeep fell flat.
You cleared your throat. "By the look on your face? I wouldn't have been surprised if you did have some sorta story." Phillip clenched his jaw, tensing just slightly. He crushed the cigarette in one of the empty Coke cans. "Look on my face says what?" He asked pointedly, making you tense up as well. "That I'm some broken-hearted romantic or that I've got a body count higher than the numbers in my account?" His voice was guarded, as if your words had struck something deep within him. The truck rolled over on another stretch of cracked road, sending dust into the air. You coughed a little, swatting away the dust from in front of your face as you put out your own cigarette. Phillip's gaze stayed fixed on the road, scanning for threats- as if Sin Nombe himself was going to step out from one of the dried shrubs along the road. An awkward silence settled between the two of you like dust on the road.
As much as you wanted to blame him for snapping at you for something so small, guilt thrummed in your chest. You cleared your throat, watching fields pass by. "I've always thought of gettin' married." You said softly, trying to break the silence that had settled. Phillip blinked at the thought of it. "Married?" He almost scoffed, the scenery now passing by like a blur as he imagined you leaving. Settling down. It was hard to imagine one of his best soldiers getting dolled up and pregnant for some man that wouldn't cherish her. "I know I don't look like it, but I'm a hopeless romantic." You said, pulling your knees up to your chest as you looked out the window. "So what, you gonna meet some country boy down here 'n pick apples together or sumn?" His tone was dry, a little teasing as he struggled to imagine you being domestic, living the whole white picket fence life.
"Well, I always did have a thing for them cowboys." You joked, trying to get a reaction from him. "A southern accent's always charming." Phillip bit his tongue. He pictured some lanky guy in a leather hat, musty boots, with a name like 'Jedidiah' that smelled like hay. "..cowboys? Like rodeo guys or ranchers?" He asked flatly. The mental image was absurd to him- you sitting on a bundle of hay looking at some sunburnt cowboy badly strumming a guitar. You looked at him sideways. "Whatever you're imagining, stop." Phillip coughed awkwardly, trying to get the image he'd painted out of his head. "I guess I'd like the kind I can raise geese with. It would be fun to raise children on a farm." You said.
Phillip didn't have a comeback for once- you were describing a whole life, a whole picture like you'd thought about it a million times before- and he was nowhere in it. Noticing his sour expression, your heartbeat picked up. You were just fucking with him. Surely, there was no way THE Phillip Graves was jealous of another man putting a ring on your finger. "What are you thinking about?" You pressed, looking at him intently. He fiddled with the radio knob- only static. His adam's apple bobbed as he replied without looking at you. "Just thinking about how geese are assholes."
"Really?" You said, dragging out the Y. His expression looked like a toddler pretending to be fine after they dropped their soft serve. "So should I start fixin' to see a guy that'll put a ring on it?" You teased, waiting for his reaction- he seemed bothered about the idea of you settling down. He exhaled through his nose like an angry bull, staring straight ahead like it would hide what simmered below the surface. "Yeah", he said flatly. A beat passed before he swallowed his spit, moistening his throat. "...who is it?" He quietly added, eyes on the road.
"No one." You scoffed. "I was just fucking with you." Phillip's breath hitched, heat creeping up his neck- he felt relieved. Fuck, why did he care so much? "Seriously, a cowboy? I would never live in this heat, scooping cow dung and cleaning a coop." You folded your arms, surprised he believed you in the first place. Phillip remained silent, lips pursed as the sun started to fade below the horizon. No reaction. So, it was time to tease him more. From this stretch of the road? It was still hours from home. "I need a sugar daddy." You said, leaning back into your seat. "I'd love an old dude with salt 'n pepper hair that's too old havin' any business with me." You eyed him, gauging his reaction.
Phillip's eyes shot up. "Absolutely fuckin' not!" He exclaimed, taking a moment to break his eye contact with the road to study her face like she said cows could fly, or that his men secretly enjoyed Crumbl cookies all of a sudden. "Seriously?" He eyed you sideways, not expecting you to be so shallow. "You wanna date some guy that's asleep by 8 and snores like a bear?" He shook his head as you giggled at his reaction. "C'mon, you're a bigshot! Can't you set me up with some crazy rich investor?" You said, grabbing onto Phillip's arm as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He glanced at you, his head snapping away when he realised he could see down your tshirt- the heat now crawling to the tips of his ears.
He cleared his throat. "First of all," he snapped, "I'm not a damn matchmaker. And second, none of those pigs who think they're sophisticated for talkin' 'bout artisanal whiskey are ever getting within ten feet of you unless it's for some stupid lunch meet for funding, ya got that?" He scoffed out in disbelief, making you groan. "That's not fair.." you mumbled under your breath, slightly pouting. Philip was so frustrated he wanted to scream, but he settled on a good old lecture. "You need someone tough, loyal, and someone who stands their ground when things get uncomfortable." He paused. "Someone who's seen the ugly parts of life but still remembers how to smile- and NOT older than thirty-five." He said, putting his finger up, not waiting for you to argue with him. "Thirty-five?" You snapped back. "That's too low!" You said, letting go of his arm, your words making him groan as he threw his head back.
"Older guys usually come with baggage." Phillip pointed out. "Ex-wives, kids in therapy, health issues..." He moved his arm around, gesturing vaguely. "You wanna deal with that?" He asked, voice dripping with amusement. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hands on the wheel first." You said, holding onto the railing above the window as the jeep swerved a little. "You make it sound like the perfect man for me is a mercenary, like someone from Shadow Company-" Phillip cut you off. "That's not what I meant, and you know it." He sighed, voice breathy. He rubbed a hand on his stubble. You giggled at his weary expression, the jeep falling into silence once again.
You looked outside the window, the weather cooling down. You could finally peel your thighs off the leather seats. Phillip decided to pull over into the parking lot of a diner- a lone diner with nothing around it, left or right. The truck came to a stop with a heavy clunk, the engine sounding like it was moaning in pain. "Don't drink too much soda, I'm not stopping for you to pee again." He mumbled, undoing his seatbelt. "Graves...?" You said softly, looking at him. "Hm?" He said absentmindedly, not looking at you as he reached for his handgun- these areas could be shady after all. He only looked towards you when you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Thanks for lookin' out f' me." You said, pressing a kiss to his stubbly cheek. His ears were cherry pink now- he only remembered to move after you'd jumped out of the jeep, running towards the diner. "Loser pays for dinner!" You giggled.
Phillip sighed, running a hand along the back of his neck. He stuffed his gun into the band of his jeans, deciding to stay for a minute to cool down what you'd awoken in him. What was paying for one dinner, anyway? He'd be damned if he let another man take you out. He adjusted himself in his jeans, shutting the door of the cranky old jeep before walking to join you inside the oily diner.
!!WARNING!!: KIDNAPPING, HOSTAGE SITUATION, NO DEATH, NO INJURIES, RUSSIAN ROULETTE, MENTIONS AND USAGE OF ARMED WEAPONS, NO REAL GORE, SUICIDAL THEMES,MENTION OF WAR AND WAR CRIMES IF YOU SQUINT, DUBIOUS THEMES, GRAPHIC IMAGERY, DUBCON, KISSING, DRY HUMPING, SPITTING, SEX, P IN V, BETRAYAL, SMUT, NSFW.
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
SYNOPSIS: Reader is a member of the TF 141 unit, and is held hostage by PMC member and CEO, Phillip Graves, following the betrayal in an attempt to obtain intel from reader about the unit's coordinates.
NOTE: Time to feed my obsession!! 0๐ 0 Lowk inspired by Buckshot Roulette. I'm obsessed with the game. Kinda proofread kinda not, sorry for any misteaks ๐ฅฉ
You sat right across that darned man- the same one that gave you butterflies- now left you with a sinking sense of doom. The metal chair rattled, the grating sound echoing in the small room as you fought against your restraints. It had been hours. A single lamp swayed above the table caked with rust in front of you. There he stood, beyond the table, leaning against the grimy wall. Phillip Graves. Weren't contractors supposed to follow ethics?
"It's just showbiz,"
He drawled out, brown cigar tipped at the edge of his pink lips. "-nothing personal, darlin'." A cloud of smoke escaped his lips, punctuating the words that spilt out in that charming southern accent of his.
It would've been endearing, really- if he hadn't betrayed you. Your hands were bound rightly against your back, twisting in uncomfortable ways. The metal pressed into your wrists, branding your skin with bruises that would definitely stick around for a while.
"You're sorely mistaken if you think these cheap tricks will get me to speak, scum." You spat out, pupils shaky, but still maintaining eye contact with the burly man- who only frowned at your words. Your temple throbbed after hours of interrogation, you were loyal. Always had been. A man with pretty blue eyes wouldn't change that- it never would. Or at least, that's what you told yourself.
He stood there, thumbs pulling on the loops that kept his holster fastened to his jeans. He stared you down with an unimpressed expression, his lips pursed- The mouldy, damp room wasn't doing much for either of you. He bit the inside of his cheek, shifting his weight onto his other leg, deep in thought. This was getting him nowhere.
So, he decided to change his approach.
He unfastened his holster, pulling out the gun. CL-1, 4" barrel, sleek, carbon steel frame. He slid the pistol across the table, towards you. It skid in your direction- out of reach nonetheless, since you were still bound by chains. Not handcuffs, no, he knew you better than that. You were well trained- trained enough to escape handcuffs like it was a party trick. Your eyes zeroed in on the gun, adrenaline spiking, mind spinning with endless possibilities- What the fuck was he up to? Was the gun loaded? Was he stupid? Why was he handing it to you like that? Was he trying to mock you, since the gun was just out of reach? Your mind buzzed with unanswered questions, each piling up one after another.
His voice, smooth and deep snapped you out of it. "Don't even think of shootin' me, love." He drawled. "My men will make sure you suffer." The words dripped off his lips like honey- but they still held the weight of the world. It was only a moment before he was seated in front of you, across the dented table- pale blue eyes staring holes into yours. He whistled, motioning one of his men to come in- a huge man obeyed, pushing the heavy duty door open to enter the interrogation room. Graves motioned to him again, leaning back into his chair, manspreading while tilting his head cockily. The man exited silently after he undid the knotted chains around your wrists. Hissing in relief, you rubbed the skin around the purple spots that bloomed on the skin around your wrist.
A faint smirk ghosted his lips as he almost urged you to pick up the gun in front of you, taunting you with folded arms. You reached out, fingers curling around the handle. The pistol felt heavy in your hand, its cool metal pressing into your clammy skin. Instinctively, you gulped as you checked the number of bullets in the cylinder- one. Just one.
"Spin it, darlin'."
He breathed out condescendingly, as if this was a game to him. As if he had no chance, no, intention, of dying tonight.
"Are you fucking insane?" You bit out, interrupting him.
"I'm not about to gamble with my life!"
The slight quiver in your voice was the only visible indication of fear Phillip could pick up on. His eyes bore into you, as if he was assessing you. Each microexpression made the temperature in the cold room drop even further.
"Really? You're at my mercy, y'know?"
He paused- eyes boring into your soul. "You have nothin' to lose." The drop in his voice sent shivers down your spine. His words, devoid of any patronising nicknames, only served to drive the nail in. Reality seemed to sink in slowly, like the rotting water that leaking through the ceiling, dropping into every crevice between the floorboards.
"I'll let ya go if ya win." Phillip breathed out, taking another puff from the fat cigar.
Win? What did that even mean? That Phillip's men would drag his body out the room if he lost this stupid gamble, and that you'd be allowed to walk free? Shadow Company didn't operate like that. Not to your knowledge, at least. But Graves was a cocky, stupid man- unpredictable, to say the least. And right now, you didn't have a choice.
Your heart was beating so furiously you could feel your veins throbbing at your temples, and you could hear your heart beat in your ears. Swallowing, you held the barrel up to your temple after spinning the cylinder, randomising the order of the bullets. Your face was hot now, and the room seemed to distort itself every time your heart beat. Trying to tame your uneven breath, you thought about the odds. It was just one in six- for now. You could only pray for a blank round. You steadied your hand, pulling the trigger. Click- blank.
"Lucky, aren't ya, angel?"
Phillip bit out, looking at you intently. The blood seemed to rush down into your veins with the silence that followed. It was a blank shell. Scoffing, you threw the gun at him with a jerk. His muscles flexed, catching it with practised ease. Flicking the cigar away, he picked up his pistol. Phillip's lip curled up as he positioned the gun- never breaking eye contact, almost as if he was trying to provoke you.
Watch me. See if I flinch, his eyes seemed to say. He pulled the trigger without hesitation- like he was confident there was absolutely no chance he'd drop dead. The barrel shifted to the next shell with a click- another blank fire. He chuckled, sliding the gun across to you once again.
"You're fucked in the head, Graves."
You hissed out, tension boiling in your veins. He withdrew back into his chair, folding his arms. He didn't bother speaking now, seemingly invested in the game. That was the end of the first round.
By the second round, you didn't flinch as you pulled the trigger. Graves' eyes bore into yours, the tension building with each blank fire. You could see the veins pulsing in his arms, his steady breath and indifferent eyes. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he wasn't enjoying this. With a curse muttered under his breath, Graves tossed the pistol back to you.
Finally, it was the last round, a 50-50 chance you were playing on. If you were going out, you sure as hell weren't giving him the pleasure of watching you squirm. The air was thick with tension as you looked into his eyes, unflinching. You gulped when the silence followed- you were lucky. Real fucking lucky. The last blank shell was yours. Right now, that meant...
"Well, I guess my luck's run out."
Phillip breathed out, still cocky. He grabbed the gun as you slid it over. Your temples throbbed again, this time in disbelief. There was no way Graves would go down this easy- what a rat he was. There was something satisfying about knowing that bullet was going to end up lodged in his skull, messing up his pretty face. He was annoying. Hard to get rid of, like a pest. Still alive after his tank was bombed, still alive when the live bullet is his, still alive when he's a dead man walking.
To your dismay, but not surprise- no, god, no- he stood up. The chair grated against the grimy floorboards as he did. His weight landed on the floor with a heavy thud with every step he took towards you, till you could feel his breath, hot and heavy on the nape of your neck. He guided your head back with a touch so gentle it almost made you forget who he was- your enemy, your captor, the fucking traitor that he was. His eyes locked with yours as you looked up to him- his sharp jaw and his stubble all forming a delicious view. One you weren't supposed to savour. Especially not when he'd starved and interrogated you for hours. His eyes burned into yours with a quiet intensity that made the hair on your arms stand on end. God, what a man he was.
He tutted, squinting his eyes as if he was pitying you. "Tsk, tsk , tsk." His lips curled. "Guess the last bullet's mine, huh?" He leaned closer. "But the big, bad Graves doesn't play fair, does he?" His voice was mocking, teasing, condescending, and low enough to reverberate in his chest that emanated heat in the bone-cold room.
Your body seemed to soak up his heat like a sponge, flooding your cold body like a lifeline you desperately tried to hold on to, to get your thoughts straight. He grabbed your chin, rolling your soft skin between his rough, traitorous fingers. The same ones that rested on his hips when he commanded a room, the same ones that flexed every time he balanced his rifle with ease. His lips curled into a twisted grin as he pulled out your chair, circling to stand in front of you while his arms rested beside your shoulders, arms flexing as he leaned into the chair. You were starting to get dizzy now- the mix of adrenaline and starvation catching up to you.
His gaze seemed to run over every crevice of yours, eyes drinking you up like a man starved. He smelled like gunpowder, heavy tobacco and warmth. The tobacco smelled bitter, a little sour combined with the smoky and acidic gunpowder that mixed with the heat of his body in a way that could only be described as sinful- and It went straight to your gut. It gave you something to hold on to, to focus on, to keep you from passing out. He leaned in, your noses touching. "Shame you're wasting such a pretty face on a unit that's so apathetic to your disappearance ." Phillip tutted condescendingly- low, meant for you to just catch it if you were paying attention. You swallowed, 'wanted to say he was lying, t' say he was wrong.
That he was saying that to get into your head. To break your morale.
But what if it was true?
It had been much, much over 24 hours. You were starving. Exhausted. And honestly, scared. The task force definitely had more than enough resources. For god's sake, you were a Tier 1 operator- surely they wouldn't let you suffer at the hands of Graves for very long, right? You gulped. Your tracker was still on you, just in case things went south. There was no way. Phillip was just trying to get to you- because that's what he did, that bastard. Sly fucking fox.
The seed had already been planted- he played on your insecurity. He knew right where it would hurt- after all, he'd been keeping a very close eye on you.
You never really felt like you belonged among the members of TF141. Even right now, knee-deep in this stupid operation, all you could think about was Capt. Price's disappointed expressions, the ones he always shared with the rest of the team when addressing you, how he seemed to favour the other boys over you, trusting them more, how they were deployed on more missions, how he clapped their backs and said he was proud of 'em. You were sure he was disappointed again, you were sure he'd call you careless and assign you to fewer operations after they'd retrieved you.
Was it really your fault Gaz didn't cover you as planned? Of course he had to go play hero and break formation. Why didn't they ever have your back? Dammit, didn't you mean something too? You were part of the team as qualified as they were, if not fucking more. You worked twice as hard just to fit in, just to earn your spot. You held yourself together, muscles stiff- face stiffer. After all, you were still facing Graves, who definately wasn't known for his morals, in one of his filthy interrogation rooms of one of his many bases.
Fuck, you didn't even know where you were.
Your breath hitched, betraying your composed facade. Graves let out a breathy chuckle, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as he did. Smiling made him look younger than he actually was, scars blending in with his smile lines. It almost put you at ease, mind foggy after hours of pressure techniques. The proximity made your heart beat faster, a verboten heat coiling in your stomach. And fuck, did you feel like Icarus- engulfed by what he most wanted, heat radiating off Graves like the sun on your skin- burning, blazing, branding, like he was leaving a mark like he had always belonged there.
Graves grabbed your chin, forcing you to make eye contact with him- his aquamarine eyes slant as he spat into your mouth, engulfing your lips with his. You hesitated at first- then the warmth filled your senses. His fingers didn't loosen their grip on your chin, preventing you from moving- not that you had any intention of doing so. You kissed him back- it was passionate, carnal even- but not romantic. You couldn't believe this was happening- was this all just another tactic? Tactic or not, you melted into his lips, your inhibition slowly draining away. After all, you were starved. For attention. For love. For care. And when you're starving, even rot can feel like more.
He pulled away- leaving you dizzy from the lack of oxygen. "Pretty girl, aren't 'ya?" Graves growled, hoisting you up hastily before kicking the chair away, like you'd disappear if he didn't move fast enough. His arms engulfed your figure- he was much bigger than you. His arms roamed your body, exploring every inch, testing your reactions. You shivered under his touch, still dizzy from the sudden movement and lack of food.
His warm, gloved palms pressed against your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. His mouth found your neck, sucking on the salty skin there. You could feel the tightness in his jeans from the way he pressed into you from behind. You leaned into him a little more, soft whines escaping your lips as he probed you with his fat fingers and nasty mouth. He hummed approvingly as he squeezed the fat on your thighs before pressing his hips into you desperately. His heavy boot kicked your feet wider as he leaned closer, his cock straining against you as he stepped closer, playing with your chest.
He bent you over the cold table, splaying his palm on your back- the disparity between the freezing cold metal, and his muscular body burning with desire only served to intensify the heat coiling in your gut. His other hand reached to grip the roots of your hair, tugging on them slightly. "Pretty, pretty girl," he purred. "Gonna be good f' me?" He breathed out, grinding his hips into yours, pulling your hair so he could look into your eyes- teary and tired, too lost to form a thought. You looked at him- his jaw loose, his breath heavy.
The tears pooling in your eyes made all the blood in his body rush to his groin till it was twitching uncontrollably.
"Tell me to stop,"
Graves mumbled, trying to maintain control. It wasn't permission he was looking for- no, god, he could see the desire in your eyes. It came out as a plea- he wanted to know you to wanted him too. He wanted you to say it was okay, to say you wanted this as much as he did.
"Tell me to stop, doll,"
Phillip groaned against you, pressing his forehead into your back. His hips twitched involuntarily, making him groan. Tired and dehydrated, you only managed to whine, rubbing yourself against him- don't stop. A primal noise escaped him, your movement firing the ego in his chest, breaking the fragile control he had over himself. Too far gone to take off your clothes or his, he chased his high, rubbing himself against you through his combat jeans.
His hips snapped into yours like thunder, animalistic growls reverbing in his chest with each movement. Your whines only made him harder, if it was possible at all. His hands squeezed your ass, pressing his weight into you as he moved his hips deliciously. You moved against him, mewling, building rhythm that increased friction, making Graves moan against your back.
His arms flexed beside your head as he steadied himself on the table, his hips pressing into yours repeatedly. His warm chest pressed into you, his movements becoming sloppy. " 'm gonna come," He choked out, " 'm gonna-" He hips pressed into yours, soaking his jeans and your tactical pants. The wetness bloomed across his pants, seeping onto yours. The room echoed your gasps, still coming down from the high. It was exhilarating, even if you hadn't finished yet.
Graves groaned, having to force himself to peel away from you. You gingerly propped yourself up with your arms, turning around to look at him fiddling with the buckle on his belt. Chuckling, you turned around, watching him with a smirk as he fumbled. "Fuck-" He groaned, the buckle coming undone. It didn't take him much time to pull himself free from his ruined boxers. His gaze seemed to darken as he looked at you like a man parched. God, he needed you- and he looked like heaven. His tip was red, angry, twitching like it had a mind of its own as he came closer, holding you.
Phillip guided you backwards onto the table, his rough hands surprisingly gentle- after all, he knew was going to break you now, and you let him- it was sinful, but it sure as hell was satisfying. He didn't even have to ask- your eyes said it all, how much you wanted this.
He tore off your pants with ease- the black one that was part of your TF uniform. It felt like a restraint- between you and him, and you and the task force. His gloved hand pulled aside your underwear, the other helping position himself. He slid into you in one go- the wetness from his release making it easier. Your back arched off the table as you grabbed onto him, his thighs shaking as your warm walls fluttered around him.
He searched your face for any discomfort, and then started moving against you when he found none. The room seemed to blur as he moved, your vision thinning. Soft gasps escaped your mouth- you would've been louder if you weren't so exhausted. Your walls fluttered, squeezing around him as you finished, not having much stamina. Phillip followed soon after, finishing deep inside you. Even after Phillip pulled out, you felt full, liquid oozing out of you, onto the table. Phillip pulled off a glove, using it to wipe you down. Noting your surprised expression, he chuckled- warm, this time.
"What? 'm not a brute, sweetheart." He said, leaning in to press a warm kiss onto your forehead. It almost brought you to tears- god, he was making you soft. A thumb grazed over your temple as he looked at you, his expression unreadable. He set your underwear back in place. "Let's get you freshened up and get your tummy full." He said, commander voice on. He helped you up gingerly- he knew you were exhausted and sore. After all, he'd been hot on your ass for the last few days, barely taking a break between interrogation hours himself. And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly seen. Not for your rank, or your expertise- but because you were just human like the rest of them.
Now, the 141 would find out why they should've come looking for you, instead of declaring you MIA to the higher-ups. They were going to understand that they never should've claimed they didn't have enough resources to collect you. And Phillip Graves was going to make sure of that.
Woooaoow this took me so long to write. Would you guys want a part two? Lemme knoooooooow <333
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"My darling-" He was cut off by the sharp slam of his Bel Air. The same one he'd contemplated buying over the Impala, but said "Fuck it, let's get both." The suede leather seats still had your warmth clinging onto them, your scent lingering in the air.
"That's really not what I meant," He breathed out, straightening his jacket, stepping out of the car, trying to keep up with you.
"My love-" He was only met with another slam- this time, warm toned chestnut wood on his face, nose to nose with him like it was an MMA showdown.
He sighed, turning around, hands on his hips. He bit the inside of his cheek- he'd have to make it up to you somehow. Not because he was scared to lose you, god no, he knew this was one of your little tantrums- he'd been too busy with work after all. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the nerve in his forehead jumping as he decided to retire for the night.
You woke up, still in a foul mood from the night before, kind of hungover, topped off with the fact that he didn't even try to follow you back? It left you with a headache that wouldn't stop throbbing at your temples.
Groaning, you rolled to your side, reaching for your phone. A single message popped up from him- check your door, xx.
You rolled your eyes, biting back a ghost of a smile that played at your lips, still smudged from last night. The satin robe slid down your shoulder dramatically as soon as you slipped it on, his courtesy of course- one of the many gifts you'd received from him. You swung your door open- the same warm chestnut you'd swung in his face last night. There, on the patio lay a bouquet of flowers, along with a shopping bag from piaget. Of course he would- you were the most precious thing he had to his name after all. What were a couple hundred dollars compared to you?
The bouquet sat at your marble countertop now- it took a considerable amount of work to drag it in, god, it was heavy- you wondered how the delivery man carried this thing here in the first place. The robe danced along your ankles as you undid the wrappers of the box that enclosed the watch you'd been wanting for ages- sitting quietly in your cart for a while now. The bastard must've gone through your phone while you were sleeping. And at the bottom of the bag sat a carefully wrapped charmel satin set, the intricate charm that hung off the bra gently glint against your eyes- along with a note.
"Will you wear this for me tonight? Let me make it up to you, my love."
NOTE: I'm in a mood >๐ <, might write some more. I wrote this on a whim. Not proofread. Sorry for any inaccuracies. LET A GIRL DREAM
Age gap, dense Phillip & reader, slight yearning, they like each other, but it's not established.
NOTE: i dunno uuhh i was bored, i really need to have more plot.
Phiillip Graves was an irritating, stupid man- an unfortunately handsome one, at that. What a shame it was, such a pretty face with the attitude of a pig. It had been a long day- a rare one, at that. It was one of the special occasions you'd see Phillip, despite being his secondary officer. He was in a shirt, the Tom Ford perfume radiating off his body like heat instead of the stench of muck and grime that clung to his uniform like a ghost. The scent- his scent was enough to send ripples through you. God, if only he weren't such a pain in the ass.
You used your shoulder to push the glass door open. The cold gust of wind wasn't enough to calm you down. Stupid investors, you thought. All of them carried with them a false sense of grandiosity and an inflated ego. It had taken a substantial amount of buttering and bootlicking, as well as weeks of nonstop networking, to get them on board with the PMC's next projects. Phillip's shadow almost engulfed you as he stepped forward, leaning against the railing as he stood beside you. He could see the exhaustion in your frame that you tried your best to mask, tried your best to look braver than you felt. His tired eyes flickered to his pocket, from which he pulled out a box of cigarettes, holding it to his mouth before offering you one silently.
The only sound around you was the soft wind hitting the concrete, brushing against the building. The lighter flickered to life with a click- undoubtedly an expensive one- you could tell from the finish. The smoke filled your lungs, the warmth spreading through your chest as you started the cigarette. "Shit." Phillip breathed out, smoke billowing out of his flared nostrils. His bicep flexed as his knuckles gripped the glass railing that seemed too wobbly to protect anyone from such a height. "Fuckin' piece of shits." He mumbled under his breath, balancing the cigarette between his pink lips. You let your head roll back, the grey smoke tainting the blue city sky as the smoke escaped your lips. He saw the way the smoke curled around your lips, making his already bruised ribs twinge a little from the sight.
You glanced at him sideways- couldn't help but admire his sharp features that softened against the city lights. The hotel was fancy. Fancy enough that you'd never step foot in here unless it was to meet a client or convince a board of directors. Each inch of the extensive hallway was carpeted in expensive Persian carpets- you could tell the curated and overly polished space grated on Phillip's nerves, despite him frequenting such high-end places. Perhaps it was the pretentious investor, or maybe it was his nosy manager. Whatever it was, you could tell Phillip wanted out now, every muscle taut with restrained frustration as he put out the cigarette. The smell of smoke, ash and expensive perfume mixed sinfully with the heat radiating off Phillip. He hated the stuck-up bigshots and their minions, and he hated how much this kind of life was taking a toll on him. He could feel the scabbing wounds on his torso from the last mission, and the healing that rubbed against his blue shirt- both souvenirs he'd collected from the last mission.
"You look like you're craving a cheap beer." You breathed out into the familiar silence that had settled over both of you. Phillip scoffed under his breath. "Maybe I fuckin' am," the southern accent rolling off his tongue. It was endearing, almost. Mr Graves, CEO of Shadow Company, navy merc, old enough to be your father, wearing the look of a pissed-off toddler. Flicking the ash off the cigarette and taking a last puff, you moved towards the see-through doors that led back into the hotel. Phillip followed you quietly, resigned for the day- a rare sight.
You sat beside each other at the cheap, oily-smelling, dimly lit bar that felt oddly comforting. Phillip's large frame, combined with the large mug the pint of beer came in, made you and your dirty martini look comically small next to him. It wasn't perfect, far from it. There was nothing picturesque or quaint about this moment, but it was enough. Enough for now. Enough for you to slump against his burly shoulder as your cheeks heat up with the warmth of the alcohol. The cheap olives sitting in the glass in front of you stared back as Phillip's ears turned red. The soft stands of your hair brushed tickled his bicep through the thin fabric of his button-up shirt- you were warm against him. Lucky for him, you didn't notice.
Even if you did, he'd blame it on the liquor. You knew better than that, you always did- even if you pushed it away, deluding yourself into thinking it was wishful thinking.
NOTE: Age gap, the reader yearns for Phillip and worries about his safety when he's out on a mission. I didn't mean to make it this sad T^T.
The clock on your oak desk read 9:00PM. Two hours overtime. You wouldn't know class if it hit you in the face, darlin'- was what he said while showing off the all-oak furniture in your private office after you got that promotion. Your hands glided across the solid finish of the wood, deep in thought. The only source of light in the room was from the metal lamp perched on the stupid desk.
God, you'd rather be anywhere else.
But here you were, staring at the radio comm as if Phillip's voice would come crackling through the static at any time, despite the team going AWOL while still on mission. It definitely wasn't the first time, but god, had you hoped the last time would be the one back in May. It had been an excruciating 72 hours; how could that old fuck decide to just kill contact while being knee deep in Siberia, now god knows where. It was your job to keep them safe- at least that's what you told yourself as you ran commands on your 2014 MacBook, trying to track them down- anyhow, despite Shadow Company's tech team working around the clock to pinpoint the unit's location. Had something gone wrong? An ambush? A blackout?
You hadn't slept in the last 72 hours. 73, now. Your heart lurched against your chest, as if it was throwing up inside your ribcage. What if they weren't okay? What if he was never coming back? What if you never saw that stupid smirk plastered all over his face again? What if you never got to hear those nonsensical idioms you couldn't understand ever again? What the fuck did 'what's good for the goose is good for the gander' even mean?
God, how your heart ached to see that old man again. You wondered if you should just come clean to him, wondered what kind of expression he'd make when you told him how fucking bad you ached for him. The surprise on his face, the wide eyes...would he ever see you the same way, his confidant, who was old enough to be his daughter and still doe-eyed? If he came back, would it be worth it? To risk it all, to risk being pushed away, to risk ever seeing him again, even after you never thought you would?
Oh, how you pretended to hate him. You did it so well. The bratty attitude over comms, in his office, on the field, the constant eye rolls and sarcastic comments. You wondered how he tolerated you this long, but he couldn't just fire you on a whim. You did your job well after all- efficient, on time, and always perfect, from plan A to plan Z. Shadow company hadn't seen such low mortality rates since you'd joined, the letters KIA disappearing from their reports almost entirely.
And God, how you wished he'd come back home this time too, so you could catch glimpses of the wrinkles around his blue eyes from the distance like you always did. If only you didn't look away before his tired ones looked for yours around the hangar every time he returned- he knew you were always there- how could your hopeful eyes ever escape his trained eyes?
Hopefully, he came home this time- and hopefully, you'd notice the longing in his eyes as well.
NOTE: Sloppy writing for shits and giggles, not proofread. This is my first blog. I hope you guys enjoy this bite.
Phillip Graves, who swears up and down that he hates your very being from head to toe, yet renews your contract every year despite claiming he can't stand you at all.
Phillip Graves, whose eyes are always trained on your form, no matter where he sits at the briefing table.
Phillip Graves, who silently looks around the hangar as soon as the C-17 lands on base, hoping to catch a glimpse of your pretty eyes.
Phillip Graves, who snaps at you for the smallest thing just to see the spark of annoyance in your eyes- it's not his fault you're hot when you're mad.
Phillip Graves, who sneakily looks at the small photocard he has tucked away in his pocket while he's knee deep in Mexico, head hot with Shepherd's god-damned orders.
Phillip Graves, whose only solace is your whiny voice over the comms radio as you snarl at him for breaching protocol for the millionth time.
Phillip Graves, who makes it back alive from every mission just to do it all over again with you.
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