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Phillip Graves x Officer!Reader - Smoke break.
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.
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