#russian roulette

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