Nikto would get extremely defensive if someone were to point out how controlling he is—not because they would be incorrect, but just because it has a negative connotation. He is controlling, and he knows it. It’s actually something he takes great pride in, because it means he’s doing as he promised and taking proper care of you. Most people don’t seem to understand that “controlling” isn’t a bad thing in his case.

Every time he leaves for a mission, a physical, tangible list of required daily routines is left behind: drink tea, take vitamins, at least an hour of gentle cardio (enough to stay healthy, but not intense enough to risk injury), self-massage any places that ache, at least 8 hours of sleep a night, enough meals for excellent nutrition, strict hygiene requirements, etc., etc., etc.

The order doesn’t matter—what matters is that you do all of them.

And Nikto could not be happier with his sweet bird, because she follows the list to a T.

When Nikto arrives home—facial scars itchy from constant sweat, body in ruins, hands raw from scrubbing blood and dirt out from under his fingernails (the last thing he wants is to dirty you and introduce your body to the scum he works in)—the sight of his girl glowing on the couch, healthy as can be, is enough to numb any of the baggage he’s carrying from his time away.

He drops his duffel bag and beelines for you, knelt down in front of you before you can even get a greeting out. His face buries away in your chest and he draws in a deep inhale, arms tightening around your waist when the scent of your sweet, warm skin floods his brain. It’s such a relief to have something gentle and clean after being surrounded by brutish, dirty men for far too long.

“Missed you, lyubimaya, missed you so much. We worried for you—always worry, never stop worrying.” He pulls back slightly, and his hand quickly finds your face, gently pinching your cheek and turning your head this way and that.

It’s already begun.

Nikto is obsessed with you. You’re his love, of course, but you’re also his most important responsibility. He cares for you like he cares for his favorite gun—he makes sure you’re tuned up, well oiled, undamaged. Any damage done to you, he blames himself for, even if he had nothing to do with it.

“You did as we said while we were away, right? Of course you did—such a good girl, moya ideal'naya devushka.”

A chaste, firm kiss is planted on the curve of your jaw before he finally stands back up. “Fetch us a towel, please,” he murmurs, too soft to be a command but too strong to be a request. You don’t hesitate to comply, walking to the bathroom quickly. Grabbing a clean, fluffy towel, you make your way back to the living room where Nikto has taken your spot on the couch. He takes the towel from you gladly, folding it with a careful precision and laying it over his right thigh.

“Come here, lyubimaya. Let us see you.” He grabs your hips and guides you to stand between his legs as he stares up at you with starry eyes.

His hands snake up in an intimately familiar gesture, catching your shirt on the way and peeling it over your head. He neatly folds your shirt and places it beside him before your pants and underwear receive the same treatment. Completely bare before him, Nikto stares up at you with a reverent shimmer in his gaze, and his warm palms trace the curve of your waist. An arm slinks around your hips and pulls you to perch on the towel.

“There you are.”

He starts from the top and works his way down—as he always does.

His fingers stroke your soft hair from the scalp, admiring its downy texture. "We missed you," he whispers against your neck. "Haven't felt anything this soft since the last time we saw you. There is nothing soft out there, lyubimaya. Nothing like you."

A fingertip traces the curve of your ear like the edge of a fragile shell. "You can still hear us, can't you?" He kisses the spot right where your ear and jaw meet. "We want you to hear everything we think about you."

A tilt of your chin so your face is closer to his, “show us those pretty eyes,” a thumb pressing past your lips, “smile for us.”

His thumb runs along the ridges of your teeth—no cavities, no chips. It then presses flat against your tongue before sliding back out and wiping the leftover saliva onto your lips. Your lips are pink and soft and moisturized. He finalizes that section with a press of his lips to yours. As he does that, his hand cups your jaw, and his finger press to your pulse. By the time he pulls back from the kiss, he’s already internally counting the beats of your heart to make sure they’re the perfect speed. Once he finishes with that task, he tenderly sweeps his thumb over your cheek, looking over the skin of your face for any abnormal blemishes.

That's when he notices an angry red mark right in front of your ear that had previously been covered by your hair. "What is this?" He immediately asks, running his finger around the edge of it, avoiding touching any of the reddened skin so as not to hurt you. You plainly explain to him that it is nothing but a small burn you self inflicted when experimenting with a new hair tool.

"Have you properly treated it? Burns can easily become infected, and this one is on your face." He is evidently peeved at your accident—not at you, of course, but at the idea that you have obtained an injury in his absence. "Your face is very important to us."

If it were up to him, you would live rolled up in bubble wrap.

He's only placated when you confirm that you've been attentive in your treatment of the burn, and the remaining mark is an almost entirely healed residual of the mishap.

With that, he continues.

His hand slips to the back of your head and into your hair, sliding it between his fingers right at your scalp before running them through the length of the strands to the tips. The texture is soft and perfect, not dry or knotted in any spots. He buries his face near your nape until the only air he can inhale is scented with you. Faint traces of sweat linger on your scalp, undisturbed by perfume or soap—Nikto has always preferred being able to smell the deep scent of your skin over vanilla or flowers. Clean, but not fake.

“Up,” Nikto requests. His hands slide under your arms to pick you up and have you stand between his legs again. He then thumbs the underside of your breasts with a featherlight touch, and leans forward until his head is rested upon your chest, ear right over your heart. The rhythmic beating against your chest plays right into his brain, causing his eyes to flutter shut as he listens. It's like he needed proof that you're alive—like just feeling your pulse wasn't enough. “Your body is the best song,” he whispers under his breath. His hands then move to hold the weight of your chest in his palms, carefully massaging the soft flesh with his fingers, and his thumbs swipe over your nipples, causing them to harden.

Nikto always takes extra time to look over the parts of you that are needed for childbearing and care—that’s really why he does all of this. One day, you will carry the sweetest child in your womb, and Nikto will be able to see how, for once, his life brought about something gentle and good. He will be bonded to you by blood, and will do anything to keep that life once he has it.

“You feel exactly as we remembered,” Nikto whispers. “Just as good as before we left.” A breath. "Better, even."

His calloused palms slide down to press over your womb, applying a firm, comforting pressure. “Nothing hurts, does it, moya devushka?” He asks softly. You respond with a shake of your head, and your hands move to cradle his nape. Just that small touch makes him surrender, his face pressing into the valley of your chest. “Good.” A sigh. “Good.”

He kisses down the valley of your chest with tender care, over your stomach, your ribs, your naval. Finally, he sits with his back curved enough to lean down and kiss over your womb. He's slow and methodical, like somehow his kisses could sink below your flesh and heal anything that could dare try and break you.

He slowly slips his hand around you, flattening it over your coccyx, and giving it a small pat. “Turn around for us,” he murmurs. With that, you turn around, and feel his hand smooth up the curve of your spine all the way to the base of your skull, slowly pushing you to bend over. Your hands grab your ankles, and that’s when his hands go back to your hips.

Nikto simply stares for a few moments at the sight before him. It’s been far too long since he’s gotten to see you like this. A finger slowly slides to the shimmery folds in front of him, enticingly warm and slick. A second finger joins it, scissoring out to spread you apart and get a better look. “So beautiful,” he comments under his breath. “The most gorgeous flower.”

A finger presses in and applies downward pressure, opening you up. Just as quickly, it is pulled back out. You make a soft noise, pleased at the feeling of having his touch again. Nikto watches with fascination as you clench around nothing. When you relax again, he presses in a finger once more, curling it carefully. “Pain?” A breathless no tumbles from your lips, causing your breath to catch in your chest. He hums as a second finger joins in, and he languidly pumps them, spreading them apart more with each movement. Your walls are velvety and warm, gripping his fingers in a way that seems to suck them in deeper with every pull away. You’ve become wet enough for the movements to effortlessly glide, creating an all too welcoming environment for his probing fingers as they work. Nothing irregular. Nothing out of place. Everything perfect.

However, just before you can become worked up, his fingers slowly slide out. Your walls flutter in response, accompanied by a faint whimper. Nikto can’t help but grin as he watches and lifts his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean in one smooth motion. You taste sweeter each time he has you. He grabs the towel from his thigh and dabs along your puffy folds, cleaning off the gathering slickness. “Does it feel good?” A nod. “There’s nothing unusual?” Another nod. The towel is settled over the couch cushion beside him.

In a careful movement, Nikto leans forward and presses a kiss just over your entrance, nose briefly burying into you. Then, another is pressed right at the end of your tailbone.

“Up,” he requests, holding you at your belly to help you upright. “We need you on your back.” You’re pulled to the spot beside him, and you lay down comfortably. Two of his hands grab one of your ankles and cradle it before his thumbs rub up the sole of your foot, causing your toes to reflexively spread. They then bury in the soft meat of your arch, and are joined by a tender kiss right at the center. This process is once more repeated on the other foot, a final kiss being placed to its arch.

"Perfect," he whispers, gazing down at you with admiration. "Our absolutely perfect girl."

With every precaution he could ever take to not crush you, Nikto climbs between your legs and hovers over you, turning to lay on his side next to you with you half tucked beneath him. His lips brush over your temple with every ounce of respect and affection he holds for you in his body.

He can rest from his mission now, comforted by the knowledge that his life's purpose is perfectly safe in his arms.

© urprettybird

Having Phillip in your bed is something you wouldn’t even have imagined was possible just an hour ago, but now that it’s happened, you’re scared at the prospect of never having it again.

You lay on the mattress with his solid weight on top of you, his arms braced on either side of your head. His body is slotted between your legs, and the tent in his jeans tells you just how worked up he’s gotten. He kisses you like a man starved, tongue continually pushing into your mouth as he groans. It’s like actual heaven on earth.

Then his hand touches your waist.

You cringe a little, hands grabbing his shoulders tighter and eyes opening for a second. He doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to caress the curve of your belly and dip of your hip. “Can I take this off, baby?” Calloused fingers dip just barely beneath the edge of your shirt and you can’t keep pretending that everything is okay anymore.

Your lips halt their kissing and you just barely squirm under him, allowing him to keep kissing you if he so chooses.

That catches his attention.

He pulls back quickly to look at you, his free hand stroking your cheek tenderly. “Somethin’ wrong? Too much?” He immediately asks, his typically strong and composed voice sounding breathless.

Your brain floods with insecure thoughts, far too many to possibly explain to him. Plus, the last thing you want to do right now is kill the mood.

But what if he sees you? What if he takes your shirt off, and the moment his hand glides over the plush rolls of your stomach, he realizes just how large of a mistake he’s made. What if he climbs off you immediately and doesn’t so much as look at you again—or worse, looks at you with disgust?

You already hate when people touch your midsection because it leaves nothing to hide. Wearing a baggy shirt to cover it is one thing, but letting someone feel over your shape gives them the exact knowledge of what fuels your raging self esteem issues.

After a few seconds of being stuck in your own head, imagining all of the worst possible scenarios and all of their worst possible outcomes, you subtly shake your head and manage a weak reply—no, nothings wrong, but maybe the shirt can stay on?

Phillip's disappointment is obvious, but his respect overrides his hunger—barely. He swallows and awkwardly shifts his hand away from your waist. "Yeah—yeah, okay," he whispers. He leans back down to kiss you, but you can tell he's more hesitant now and it kills you. You mumble through little apologies as his kisses cover your jaw and cheek. "Don't be sorry, baby," a kiss to that sensitive spot just under your jaw, "I don't mind—really," a bite to the shell of your ear, "don't wanna do nothin' you don't wanna do."

You're a hypocrite, though.

It's not long before you find your own fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, beginning to bunch it up his waist. "You want it off?" he asks when he notices, and he's reaching behind his head to quickly peel it off before you can even reply.

And holy shit.

His body is made up of hard lines and sharp edges. Every muscle is almost disturbingly defined, flexing and rippling with every minute movement. He's even leaner than usual because of the mission he just returned from, and the sweat on his skin makes him shine under the dim light of your lamp.

You were hoping that it'd make you feel better—and part of you does feel better, or at least somehow even more turned on—but it really just continues to darken the shadow cast over this moment. His body serves as a perfect contrast to yours, and it pushes the nagging question in your mind: why you?

He catches you staring and smirks, more than happy to show off. He grabs one of your wrists and presses your hand flat over his heart, letting you feel the muscles of his chest. "Yours," he whispers, leaning down to kiss your throat again like he isn't completely undoing you right now. "All yours."

When you still don't move, his hand guides yours down his chest and over his abs. "Touch me, sugar," he murmurs gruffly, hips pressing closer against yours and breath hitching at the sensation of your soft fingers against his needy body. He’s clearly proud of his physique, so why would he be so interested in someone who seemingly puts no effort into theirs?

You use both hands to shakily trace the dips of his muscles and the ache between your legs only worsens. Your thumbs tun over the ridges of his hips, following the v-shaped muscle right to where it disappears below the waistband of his low-riding jeans. The pad of your finger feels over the line of hair just below his navel, and you swear that just getting to touch him like this is weirdly infinitely better than any other experience you've had with partners in the past. To be fair, in the past you only ever allowed to talk with guys who "you thought you might actually have a chance with," even if they weren't necessarily your type.

Now you feel a little silly for being so dramatic about a shirt. He took his off so easily, and you're lying there fully clothed. Though still extremely hesitant, you take one of his hands and push it back under your shirt. His fingers reflexively curl, sinking into the pillow flesh he feels there. You tense up again when you feel him touching the softness of your side, but you still weakly say something about giving him permission to take your shirt off. You keep your eyes averted, choosing to stare at the wall beside you instead of admiring him.

There's no option but to be logical in this situation. He already knows what you look like—it's not like it's a secret. What are you gonna do, try and pretend to be skinny for as long as you try to be with him? How would that even work? How would you two even be able to do anything?

"You sure?" He clears his throat, but it does nothing to help the growl-like quality its developed. "I wanna see you so bad—so, so bad—but only if you want me to see you." With another nod from you, he slowly works on pulling off the offending article. One hand guides your back to arch off the bed so he can slide the fabric from under you, and he watches with an intimate intensity as he gently uncovers what to him feels like treasure.

When he fully pulls it off and tosses it aside, the tension in the air is palpable. He presses a kiss to your cheek and then slides himself lower on your body. "It's just a shirt, baby," Phillip mumbles. He presses his face into the soft plane of your belly and begins to pepper kisses along it. His lips are just below your bra, then your ribs, then your stomach, then your navel, then the waistband of your skirt. "It's only a shirt."

His bare skin is hot and sticky where it presses against yours. Each word he speaks is muffled from the way he refuses to separate his lips from your flesh. Every word is spoken in this soft yet desperate tone you've never heard from him before.

Every little bit of this feels too perfect.

He continues to kiss around your hips, but when you let out a whine-like noise, he briefly pauses. His heavy torso is pressed just so perfectly between your legs that you can't help yourself. Before kissing you again, he tightens his arms around you to apply more pressure, and when you whimper again, his suspicions are confirmed.

"Lemme help you," he whispers agains your hip as his hands lift to the waistband of your skirt, fingers running under the edge of it. "I wanna make you feel so good. Do you want me to make you feel good, baby?" his gazes up at you from between your legs without lifting his head. Your breathless little yes is all he needs.

His fingers quickly work on undoing the fastenings of your skirt so that he can shimmy it down your thighs and toss it wherever the hell your shirt ended up. Your underwear is already soaked through, a dark, wet stain proving your desperation on full display for him to see. The scent of lust is already thick in the air, so deliciously suffocating that it fills your brain and turns every thought into one of animalistic need.

You feel his fingers rub over the damp fabric between your legs and your thighs instinctively close around his hand, hips rocking up as they ache for his touch. Phillip chuckles softly at your reaction and uses his free hand to ease your legs apart again. "That's it," his hand presses your legs farther apart, "just relax for me, baby," his finger dip just beneath the edge of your panties, "doesn't that feel nice?" his breath ghosts your sensitive skin.

"You look so good like this." Panties pushed aside just enough for him to access you, his fingers begin to run through slick folds. "So pretty. You know that, yeah? Tell me you're pretty." The command triggers some sort of fight or flight reaction in your brain that's only overpowered by the euphoria of his fingers. "C'mon, say it. Say 'I'm pretty." Despite the humiliation and the insecurity, the familiar phrase shakily passes through your lips.

Phillip's grin widens when he hears your breathless, embarrassed mumble. "There ya go, good girl. So pretty." Dizziness from the praise almost clouds your brain so much that you hardly notice your underwear is being peeled down your legs. Your knees are guided to rest over Phillip's shoulders and his arms wrap around your thighs, biceps flexing against their thickness.

The way he hugs your thighs squeezes them so tight around his head he's nearly lost in the softness. A muffled moan leaves his lips when your fingers slip into his hair and pull him closer. Nosing against your clit, Phillip takes a deep inhale of your scent and the effect is instant. His tongue slips out from between his lips and licks a long strip up your slit before his lips wrap around your clit and begin to suck. Squirms and writhes are drawn from you, whines of Phil and please leaving your lips. He only sucks harder in reaction, arms working hard to keep you from squirming too far and make sure you stay still enough to be cared for.

His hot tongue slips between your folds right as a finger slips to your fluttering hole, already wet and needy. When it slowly begins to slide in, your body jerks against the mattress, and your fingers curl in his hair until you're tugging on it in a way that hurts so good. Moans vibrate against your cunt that cause you to roll your hips harder and fuck yourself on his face.

Your needy writhing is enough to get him even more worked up than before. He begins to roll his hips against the mattress, grinding into it to give himself just enough relief to not go absolutely crazy. Each jerk of his hips causes more rumbling moans and growls.

He dips his finger in deeper before a second one joins it, curling and pumping in a way that has you dumbly moaning and squealing. “Almost there, ain’t ya?” He asks, his voice barely audible from where he’s hidden between your thighs. You nod breathlessly, and it’s not long before your sensitivity gets the best of you and you’re cumming all over his face.

Through the haze of your release, you can hear his self gratifying and pleased laugh rumbling against your swollen cunt. He opens his mouth and works on lapping up all that you have to offer, his face wet, and scruffy chin dripping with you. “You taste so good,” he mumbles. “Good job, baby. Doesn’t that feel so good?” He continues to suck and lick and pump his fingers until you’re groaning, legs beginning to kick at him from the overstimulation, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice.

It isn't until he's sure you've fully made it through your high that he finally lifts his face, but keeps his fingers inside. Phillip kneels back on his haunches and has the absolute cockiest grin on his face as he observes the way your chest is heaving, one arm draped over your face to cover its redness and lips still parted to draw in panting breath after panting breath.

He could die right now and be the happiest man on earth.

His fingers slide out slow and gentle, rubbing them over your folds and collecting your release and slick on his fingers. The sound of a belt buckle undoing is what finally makes you uncover your eyes, and he doesn't even take the thing off before he's working at the button of his jeans, tugging the fly down impatiently. His boxers are straining from how hard he is, desperately pushing against the confines of the restrictive denim.

When he finally tugs all of the fabric down, his cock springs up to slap his abs, pre dripping from the tip and leaving a faint, shimmering trail on his skin. With your slick dripping from his fingers, he begins to work his fist over his length, all while keeping his eyes focused on you and you alone. Grunts and huffs escape him, his teeth biting into his cheek—if he were a weaker man, he'd cum right on the spot.

Crawling up towards where you are, he moves to lay beside you, half propped against the headboard and half slumped down on the bed. Though needy, he lets go of himself to grab your hips and hoist you upright, manhandling you in a way that's making warmth spread between your legs all over again. "C'mon, girlie," he murmurs, dragging your leg across his hips so you're straddling him. "There ya are."

One of your hands grabs the headboard and the other grabs his shoulder. Even though your legs are still shaking from the orgasm, you try to keep some of your weight off of him—you wouldn't want to crush him, after all. You keep yourself low enough to make contact with him, but not enough to apply any actual pressure. Phillips's brows furrow in confusion, and even when his hands dig into your pillowy hips to pull you down against him, nothing seems to change.

"What're you doin'?" he grumbles, his hips subconsciously bucking up against yours to find more contact. "Sit, baby. If I cared about keeping my pelvis in tact, I'd still have you on your back." A curtain of hair falls over your face as you lift your apprehensive gaze to watch him, but he stares back with nothing but determination and hunger. One of his arms wraps behind you and tenderly yet firmly guides you down against him. His other hand moves to your thigh, rubbing at the muscle in an attempt to get you to relax and let go.

It feels so revealing to be on top of him like this, your body on full display for him to see. Of course, Phillip was respectful in your wishes to keep the lights dim and minimal, but you still feel so exposed.

He presses a hand between your legs again, and that’s what finally weakens them enough for you to drop down against him. Groaning at the contact, his hips immediately rocking towards yours to slide himself between your folds and nudging his tip against your clit. “Fuck, you feel so perfect.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips and swallow the drool gathering at the corners, his ecstasy apparent in the sheer admiration he watches you with.

Smoothing over the curve of your waist, his fingers trail up your back and to the clasp of your bra and twists it to undo it with ease. You sigh at the release of the tight bands and straps finally loosening and the support your bra provided is quickly replaced by Phillip’s grip. His hands cup the heavy weight of your breasts, thumbs running over your nipples until they harden, rolling them between his fingers once they’re stiff enough.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, you are.” Warm lips replace his fingers and suck and lick over your chest, his hands dropping down to your hips to grab them with a bruising grip and slide you back and forth over him. Pre continues to spurt between you two and wet his happy trail. “You wanna ride me?” He asks lowly, pressing his face back into your neck. “You wanna be my pretty cowgirl?” Your sputtered pleas to have him inside you makes him moan and he moves so quickly you wouldn’t be able to take it back if you wanted to.

His strong grip lifts you just enough to guide you over his cock, one hand gripping himself at the base to guide himself. The tip catches on your entrance and he’s suddenly pushing you down, but not too far and not too forcefully. He knows how big he is—he doesn’t just want to split you open on the first thrust.

He’s in just a couple inches before he begins to pump himself in and out, testing your reaction. Slick walls seem to draw him in further, attempting to swallow him as deep as possible. Your head falls back from pleasure as each thrust pushes him deeper and deeper into your needy hole. “You sound so pretty, baby. Love those moans. Say my name, cowgirl. Lemme hear what I’m doing to you.”

You’re just about to comply with his request when he suddenly drags you down his length, fully pushing himself to the sheath. Instead of his name, a loud, piercing squeal leaves your throat, and your body slumps against his. He laughs cruelly against your ear, kissing the side of your head with a softness that doesn’t match the rest of his actions, hips bucking up into yours. “What? What happened, hm?” He presses into you with an especially deep roll, causing you to shudder against him. “Can’t talk all of a sudden?”

He wraps his arms around you and presses the ample curves of your chest against him, enjoying the contrast against the hard planes of his. "Fuck, I ain't gonna last like this, baby," he growls, beginning to lie and drop your weight onto his hips, grunting each time your warm walls swallow him deep. "Still didn't say my name," he adds with feigned annoyance. Warm lips press right against your ear, making sure that you can hear him with perfect clarity, down to the little whines that slip as he tries to catch his breath. "Who is it that's doin' all this to you?" You're almost too far gone to be able to respond, but nearly incoherent screams of you and Phil stream from your lips.

That's all it takes for Phillip to fall over the edge. "Shit—I'm gonna cum, sugar." You're too fucked out to tell him to pull out—but, honestly, you don't want him to anyway. Your hips slam together with the deepest thrust yet, his head nudging a spot so deep inside that you didn't even know it existed before. The moment his warm load is shooting deep into your body, your second one is releasing all around him. A mix of the two of you drips out of your abused hole and leaves a creamy ring at his base. His hips roll up into yours as he groans, head tossed back and mouth open. Small twitches can be felt inside of you as your walls tighten around him and milk him dry.

When his vision finally clears again, he looks back at you. His eyes are softened with affection and appreciation. There’s almost something reverent about his gaze and touch, like he’s worshiping you with the way his hands roam your body.

His hands grab yours and maneuver your arms to wrap around his neck before his wrap around your waist and he begins to press kisses over your shoulder. “Thank you, baby, thank you,” he mumbles between kisses, muffled against your sweat slick skin. “I ain’t ever felt something quite like that.”

Just as you feel your mind grow hazy, body still stuffed and satisfied and hands mindlessly playing with his hair, he whispers softly against your ear one last time. “You believe me now, sugar?”

© urprettybird

A/N: thank u guys for all the love on this fic TwT I didn't really have a plan going into it but I'm pretty happy with how it ended up, and I hope u guys are satisfied by the finale too!! U guys better like in depth, overly descriptive smut bc i took u through EVERY second of this interaction.

Tag list:

Who are you to refuse, really?

It is dark—but, well, you walk around in the dark all the time—and you don't live in the safest area—be honest, you're at absolutely no risk of getting abducted at your weight.

For god’s sake, your brain needs to quit it with these insecure thoughts and just accept this opportunity. How many times in your life will a military commander with a pretty voice and muscles big enough to take on your weight be this persistent in pursuing you?

Exactly.

You nod, but that lingering part of you is worried about having him so deep in your personal space. It feels too serious and vulnerable. Still, what harm could a puppy-eyed soldier bring to the dark walk up to your place?

Not a moment of hesitation passes before the driver’s door slams shut, and he almost forgets to lock the car. "See, if I had let you walk all the way home, it'd be this dark out while you're still out near my place. Sketchy stuff, darlin'," he mumbles as he finds his place at your side.

His arm hovers at your back, fingertips just barely brushing at the dip of your spine, like he wants to help and guide you even though he doesn’t have the first clue as to which door is yours.

The two of you begin to climb the stairs up to your level, and you’re only halfway up the first flight when you break the silence with an apology. You feel guilty for being so harsh towards him in the car, because he truthfully hasn’t done anything to deserve it.

And also the smell of his cologne is stuck in your nose. And the feeling of his eyes on you is making your heart race. And the ghost of his warm hand still lives on your thigh and it feels so, so good.

And maybe you’re sorta willing to give this a chance, even if it means you end up humiliating yourself.

If only you felt more confident in your ability to flirt right now. It’s a warm night and you’re walking up two flights of stairs—you’d bet money you don’t look your best.

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Phillip easily replies. “I shoulda realized you weren’t into it—I'm usually a lot better about this stuff. I guess I just really didn’t wanna give up my chance with you.” His tone is almost self deprecating as he speaks. “I’ll stop botherin’ you, I swear it.”

Shit.

Have you really managed to be so insecure you fumbled a once in a life time opportunity to get with a man this hot?

You almost trip over the stairs but manage not to fall on your face. How can you backtrack all of this without sounding desperate? Stuttering over an explanation that it’s really not that serious and you actually don’t mind, you find yourself inviting him to have a beer at your place before he drives back—to pretty please let you make up for all of your previous defensive behavior.

The words tumble out before you can even fully realize what you’re saying, but you’re somewhat thankful of that fact. If you weren’t a complete blundering mess at the moment then you probably wouldn’t have had the confidence to ask something like that.

Your heart is racing faster than at any other point this night, and when he doesn’t immediately respond, you open your mouth to take it back.

“You sure, sugar? I don’t wanna impose any more than I already have.”

No, please, please, please.

You nod your head and chew on your lip.

“Hell, I’d love to.”

Oh, thank god.

When you make it to your door, Phillip stands close behind you, one hand braced on the doorframe. His shadow casts over you in the dim light of the hallway sconces, and you swear the gravity of this situation lands on you like a physical weight. His other hand reaches around you and pushes the door open once you’ve unlocked it like he’s eager. When he steps inside, he closes the door right behind him.

"Nice place you got here," he comments idly, glancing around at your arguably messy and bland living room. He’s gotta be lying just to be nice. You've seen his place—you know yours doesn’t compare.

You grab two beers from the fridge and hand one to him, dropping to lounge on the couch. Suddenly you regret your invitation for him to join you because what exactly was your plan here? He's sitting here looking like your most shameful fantasy and you're just sitting there with no idea of what to say or do. He has to be the one to save you and initiate a conversation.

"I know you already forgave me," he starts. You're already cringing in anticipation. He's really not gonna let this topic up. To be fair, you can't stop thinking about everything that's happened tonight either. "But I really want you to trust me; I want to give you a reason to trust me." A sigh passes his lips, and you shakily sip your beer as you watch the way he looks over you. His eyes linger on every little bit from head to toe. You don't even realize how you tug at your shirt or grab a pillow to hold over your lap. Those things are all already subconscious habits at this point.

His jaw clenches as he watches, and he notices. He glares at the pillow like its very presence is a particularly offensive personal attack on him. "Let me prove myself," he whispers as he looks back up at your face, eyes darkened. A beat passes and you don't respond, so he shifts a little bit closer. Your fingers curl tighter in the pillow.

"You're genuinely the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

A shift closer.

"From that first moment I saw you in my home, I just knew I would never be able to let you go."

Another.

"And I told all my buddies that I'd getcha; but you ain't that easy, are you?" He scoffs softly. "No, I looked forward to making a fool of myself if front of all my men every damn time because it meant I got to look at you. I'd make a fool of myself a thousand more times if it meant you keep throwin' me scraps."

He gently grabs your can from your hand with no resistance from you, and he sets both drinks aside. He would rather hold your face anyway. His palm cradles your jaw. Your eyes are wide with awe and nerves, and he swims in them. "A whole meal is better than scraps, though, and I'm a greedy man." He's so close now that his warm, beer-scented breath fans over your parted lips. His eyes are half lidded, and they're more focused on your lips than your eyes at this point.

"Is this alright, sweet girl?" You nod and swallow thickly. "Good, then let me prove myself."

He ducks his head in a quick motion and your lips connect, his other hand moving to find your arm. You gasp softly—you don't even know why you're surprised, it was obvious what he was trying to do. Still, a part of you didn't really expect he'd actually go through with it.

You're caught off guard and your breath is trapped in your throat. He doesn't pull away, simply swallowing any little noises and breaths you try to steal during your kiss. His hand slides into your hair and cradles your head to pull you closer as he kisses you again, and again, and again.

Fuck, it feels so good.

You reach your hands out blindly to rest on his chest and he immediately hums in reaction, placing his own hand firmly over yours to encourage you. None of this feels real. His muscles are hard and solid beneath your hands, and you're looping your arms around his neck before you even process what you're doing.

"Please, baby," he mumbles against your lips, his tongue just barely darting out. "Believe me." His breaths come out in short, hot puffs, and his voice is lower and more drawn out than usual. He swallows down the taste of you on his tongue as he continues to devour you. "I need you to believe me."

He finally pulls back, only taking a breath to admire your flushed face and glossy lips before he's nuzzling into your neck. His arms wrap around you to clumsily hold you closer, and when he places a small kiss below your ear and you don't pull away, that's the only confirmation he needs. His lips part and he trails hot, wet kisses over the line of your neck. His tongue sweeps over the sweet skin, tasting the salt of your sweat and lingering perfume.

The soft little noises you make land right against his ear and each one spurs him on to kiss harder.

Now that he has you, he’s not letting go.

And now that he has you, he’s lost all control.

He gently nibbles at the spot where your neck and shoulder meet, and his arms tighten around you like he’s worried you might pull away at any moment. “You make every mission worth it,” he manages to say between kisses. “Every time I’m out there—with all the sweat, and dirt, and blood—I think about the fact that I gotta get back home so I can see your pretty face on my couch again.”

Phillip sounds drunk as he talks, and you know it’s not from the beer—you’re actually pretty sure he only managed to take one sip before deciding he’d rather drink you instead. You’re right there beside him, though. It feels like every kiss is melting your brain, dissolving away any apprehension or rational thought.

He lifts his head once more to press another kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to speak.

“Gimme more, baby. Please, I need more.”

© urprettybird

A/N: WHOS EXCITED FOR THE FINAL PART YAYYYY. part 5 is gonna be so so yummy u guys don’t even know >:3

Tag list:

@bookishpuppytale @jellychannie @cumikering @atlas3rr0r-1974 @pistolprinc3ss @slittlewing @vused @miniaturetotemglyph

“Не красна изба углами, а красна пирогами.”

“A hut is not beautiful for its corners, but for its pies.”

-

Nikto thought he had finally been granted release. Through the muffle of the gauze wrapping his head, he was unable to make out more than a sound as sweet as the lullabies his mother once sang to him.

Heaven, he thought—nothing on Earth could replicate a sound like that. He’d never been a religious man—faith wasn’t something that mixed well with him—but here, with the soft glowing light in front of him and the hum of a gentle voice nearby, he can’t help but feel he was wrong.

He can't respond to any of the murmurs he hears. Even if he could, he wouldn’t know what he would say. The bandages under his chin had been ruthlessly tightened, restricting the motion of his jaw, which he was thankful for. If he could move his face, he’d feel it tear—even from a twitch, even from a blink.

By the time Nikto was found, his face was nothing more than raw meat—skin stripped from muscle until it could be questioned if he was even able to stay alive. The thought of the surgeries awaiting him in his near future isn’t an exciting thought, but is also hardly a thought at all for him. His brain had drifted far from his body. 

That’s when he feels a warm presence on his arm, followed by some type of tapping and fidgeting. His fingers jerk—a small proof of life—quickly quelled by a discouraging touch.

“Stay still,” the angel sings. “You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

Who is Nikto to argue? He keeps his hand flat on the bed. When an angel commands you, you listen. A small click and some more tapping, and the warmth retreats. 

“The doctors refused to tell me about you, y’know,” the voice continues. “Told me it’s none of my business.”

Good. She doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t want her to know.

His name would rot her teeth. 

“I never get told anything, though—at least not by the doctors. Special cases like you are always so secretive, but soldiers talk. Oh, how they talk.”

Scissors snip through the bandages on his arm, exposing raw flesh to the cold air of the hospital. Damp cotton runs over the edges of his wound. “Your graft is taking well,” she sings again. “They say I can’t look at it right now, but if it were bad, I wouldn’t be the one treating you.”

So he had already gone through surgery. He’d hardly been awake for any of the past week. He knows the next time he sees himself, he’ll be unrecognizable. The damage was bad, it was obvious through the pain. Undoubtedly, doctors have become familiar with his body in a way he never will be. 

A stiff silence follows before he hears her again.

“Are you scared?” She whispers, pausing almost as if to listen for his response. “Whenever I ask that, people like to say they aren’t. Maybe they don’t want to tell me. Maybe I should stop asking.” 

His fingers tap again softly, a weak excuse for an effort to interact with her. 

Was Nikto scared? When Nikto thinks of fear, he thinks of the rabid looks in the eyes of his captors when control had first slipped from his grasp. He thinks of how he learned his heart could pound so harshly he was worried it would break his ribs and of how a stuffy room can feel cold when your face is an open wound. 

Fear was no longer an emotion, but a situation; a situation he hoped he’d never find himself in again.

“You better hope you can start talking soon. They’re keen on getting your psych evaluations going,” she finally mumbles once more. The wet cotton leaves his arm, and he feels her begin to rewrap the wound, attempting to move his arm as little as possible.

“They want you to keep working—said you’re really good at what you do. I think it’s cruel. I don’t see how what you do could possibly be worth it if this can come of it.” 

Quiet footfalls sound against the linoleum floor before he feels the metal of the scissors again, now on his thigh. She doesn’t speak this time, and it makes Nikto wonder if everything she’s said thus far was all in his head. It had happened to him before, too, hearing an angel’s song.

Sometimes when Nikto was stuck in that room, feeling his own blood spray into his lungs or be swallowed down his throat, he’d hear whispers in his ears. The whispers would tell him to close his eyes and would croon until he was on the edge of sleep. Through the slits of his damaged eyelids he would see a light—a figure standing before him—and his eyes would shoot open. That’s when the voices would stop. A sudden, echoing silence would fall over the room.

It makes him feel sick.

He wants to talk. He wants to tell her to keep talking, but his vocal cords feel like they’ve been ripped out of his throat and haphazardly sewn back in. Any attempt to push air out his throat felt like dry gravel tumbling into his airways. All of the screaming he’d done may as well have rendered him mute.

His shoulders tense, then release with a shudder, letting out a low and strangled groan in place of any real words. He flinches as the hum reverberates in his chest.

The scissors pause, and he can feel a pair of eyes burn holes through the gauze and scratch at his lids. His hands ball up into fists momentarily before splaying flat on the sheets again. The scissors resume.

“I always wonder what patients were like before I met them,” she finally continues, her voice somehow even more relieving than just moments ago. “You could be a chatterbox for all I know.”

The missing patch of skin on his leg receives the same treatment, a cold, wet sensation tracing its shape.

“Or maybe you’ve always been quiet. I know a lot of people enjoy it–the quiet. You might be annoyed that I’m talking this much.”

His hands clench again, a groan of protest escaping his chest. He doesn’t know what he’d do without her talking. It had been so quiet in that room. So quiet that reality had split. So quiet that his mind would create people to fill the silence.

And even worse—they never left.

But she’s better than all of them. She doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t yell until echoes fill every crevice of the silence or send incoherent murmurs flying back and forth between his ears. She just talks. She absorbs the silence with her words and gives his brain something to grasp other than fragments of himself.

She’s the first thing he’s awake enough to hear in a week that isn’t yelling or panic, and, on top of it all, her songs heal his body.

Each word spreads across his skin and binds itself to the ragged seams in a way that puts his bandages to shame. It almost makes him glad he's restrained from speaking, like protection was cast upon her to shield her ears from the vermin that crawl out of his throat.

“They told me to talk to you because it would be good for your brain. I don’t know how to treat brains like I know how to treat injuries, but if your mind is anything like your skin, then talking to you is probably worth a shot.” A sigh floats through the air. “In a day or so, your facial bandages will be replaced with something less invasive. Maybe you’ll be able to talk back to me, then.” 

And he’ll be able to see her.

And see himself.

He's suddenly embarrassed by the situation he finds himself in. He fell from grace, and a guardian followed him down. Now, ruined by the fall, she tends to what’s left. He can’t offer his face or his voice. He can't offer an identity of any use. He can’t even offer her a name. When a knife sliced Nikto’s palm, God melted the metal into a salve that could treat the wound his power was responsible for. Even in the cold, sterile air of the room, Nikto found a person. Not a soldier, but a person. 

It had been so long since Nikto was surrounded by vessels of humanity–surrounded by true emotions that were present enough to be audible in an inanimate voice. She has the voice of someone who still daydreams when instructions seem to fade into nothing more than whispers from another room. Someone who looks out the window and still wonders what would happen if she stepped into the view. Someone whose words would still sound pretty even after she learns what it's like to scream without her lips. 

He wants to watch her drink every drop of humanity he had bottled up in himself. She’ll choke at its soured taste, and he’ll be there to catch any drops that dribble down her chin. He’ll squeeze the bottle so hard it breaks and use the shards to cut a piece of her, fitting it into what others have stolen from his face. 

This angel will grow his mind back into his body and twist its vines to reach his heart. 

The release Nikto had been seeking existed closer than he had anticipated. It stood in the corner of each room he infiltrated and watched the scene of his capture. That same release is what would compel him to close his eyes when the damage grew greater. Nikto could even swear that the release he was seeking was the one to whisper into his ear. It stood before him and grabbed his shoulders to keep him steady when he was being crushed, and disappeared when he was selfish enough to open his eyes. It will be there when he dies, he’s sure of it, and perhaps then is when he’ll learn its origins.

But for now he knows its voice, and soon, its face.

© urprettybird

A/N: I wrote this about a year ago now and posted it on ao3 (same user on there) where it actually got a pretty good amount of attention !! unfortunately after that I had the worlds worst writers block, so even tho I told people in the comments that id post chapter 2 soon, I ended up just being a massive liar. part 2 is somewhat written tho, so I'm hoping that posting this here will give me some motivation to keep writing this, because I lovedddd this idea when I first came up with it (nikto is my absolute fav). If you're upset at me bc Nikto isnt using plural pronouns, then dw, thats coming later lol. i lowkey just copy and pasted this and don’t feel like looking over it so i’m just crossing my fingers that the formatting is all good. hopefully u guys like it <3

You should have just listened to your gut instinct. The first fifteen minutes of the drive is quite possibly the most tense, awkward, unpleasant experience you have ever had to sit through. Apparently, the same can’t be said for Graves, because every time you cast a glance over his way, he has a comfortable smile on his face and a relaxed looseness to his posture.

If it were up to you, this entire drive would be spent in complete silence. No teasing remarks from Graves, and no annoyed responses from you. He would simply drive you to your place and drop you off without a word.

But nothing is up to you when it comes to Graves, is it?

“Y’know, it’s a damn shame I didn’t get to see more of you tonight. You look real pretty—I mean, when do you not, huh?” He flashes a smile in your direction, and the most you care to give as a response is a hum.

“I guess I can’t complain too hard, though. I definitely ain’t losin’ out on any quality time with my favorite girl by the time this drive is done.” That comment makes you think; Just how committed to this bit is he? He just abandoned the party he was hosting, leaving a crowd of people to their own devices in his home just so he could give you a ride. It actually bothers you so much that you ask him.

His brows furrow a little, like he hadn’t considered any of it. “Oh, that?” Graves shrugs dismissively. “Well, I really do all of those things just for my boys. They can celebrate with the party, but I also wanna be able to celebrate how I want. This? I’m doing this purely for myself.”

With a clench of your jaw and a faint wrinkle of your nose, you turn your head to look out the window again. Graves looks your way again, expecting to see your face looking back at his, but your irritation with him is evident by the way you seem to try and angle yourself away from him as much as possible. It causes his confidence to waver as he looks back out at the road.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles after a beat, clearing his throat. “Really—I don’t want you upset with me. It ain’t gentlemanly of me to be all pushy with you like this.”

Gentlemanly? Is anything Graves does supposed to be gentlemanly?

You reply with something huffy—something along the lines of oh, yeah, real gentleman you are. Quipping that his posse isn’t even in the car to give him the reaction and attention he’s so clearly craving, you feel yourself growing more and more defensive each moment. His presence alone is typically enough to turn you prickly. That being said, you don't feel nearly as self assured as you did when those words left your mouth.

It feels strangely vulnerable to admit to him that you're aware of what he's doing. It feels like admitting your own weakness—admitting that you were never strong enough to stand up against him before, and instead just sat there and took it. Images of people laughing at your interactions flash through your mind and coil your muscles tighter.

Any semblance of strength you had in your argument is chopped down by his expression, though.

“What?” he immediately replies, sharp and low, yet something like offense and hurt is woven in. “I mean, yeah, I guess I sure as hell am thankful there ain’t more people here—I’d rather have you all to myself.” It’s like even when he’s the one being serious he still feels the need to try and defuse the situation with flirting. “Lemme get this straight: you think that I’m bein’ sweet on you for other people’s attention and entertainment?”

Graves’ hands grip the wheel tighter as he stares ahead at the road, only illuminated by his headlights at this point. His jaw is set and there’s a swirling in his eyes as they squint, like the concept alone is dizzying. All you can do is agree with his question.

"I mean...if I'm being entirely honest—”

And here comes the confession. Here is the sweet admission of guilt.

"I'm a lil' hurt you think I'd do sumthin' like that; and I'm admittedly even more hurt that I made you feel that way." He looks at you with a searing intensity. "Seriously, it was never my intention."

What?

He looks back at the road as you're left completely confused.

Taking a few moments to carefully consider his words, Graves lifts a hand to rub it over his mouth, biting his cheek too hard to be comfortable. “They ain’t laughing at you,” he suddenly says shortly. “My friends—it’s not you they’re laughing at; they’re laughing at me.” After a pause, he glances over at you with confusion. “What could they be laughing at you for?” The only response you’re willing to give at the moment is turning the question back on him.

His response is immediate. “Hah…what isn’t there to laugh about? My friends know how stupid I am for you, baby. Obviously they’re gon’ laugh at how much of a fool I’m makin’ of myself every time I talk to you.” You think your head might just explode at what you’re hearing. The entire reality and relationship you’ve built around Graves in the time that you’ve known him has completely shattered.

Still, something in your brain refuses to believe it. If he has lied for this long, why wouldn’t he be lying now? So, as is consistent with your behavior, your response to him is sharp and defensive, loudly proclaiming that your tired of his act, and that you don’t appreciate being teased just so he can feed his ego. You’re confident in yourself (no you aren’t) and if he can’t appreciate that, then he’s perhaps the most self absorbed and self conscious man you’ve ever met.

His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens with a small sputtering sound, only to close again.

"M'sorry—I really am." That's all he says, and it sounds like it's all he's planning on saying for the rest of the ride.

Somehow you feel like you're the asshole in this situation now.

He sounds so soft and defeated. He sounds like he cares, and, God, how you just wish someone would care.

Right before the threshold of where it would be strange for you to respond after such a long bout of silence, you quietly thank him. Despite how hard you try to distract yourself with looking out the window—at how the shadowed trees and dusty dirt road slowly transition into highways and flashing city lights—you find your eyes are annoyingly drawn in his direction.

That guilt from earlier begins to creep up again. He's never been rude. He's never been offensive. And now, something in you is beginning to second guess your previously firm belief that he's some mastermind with a cruel plan to humiliate you.

Your gaze lingers on him for longer than you intended, observing his solemn expression and the way he seemingly refuses to allow himself to look at you now, despite how eagerly he typically finds any excuse to look at you. Stoplights are full of awkward silence and averted looks rather than teases and stolen glances. The car ride is turning out to be so much worse than you ever could have predicted, and it's only about halfway done at this point.

Enough time passed that you simmered in your feelings, and the grip he seemed to have on your eyes finally begins to waver. Slowly you begin to look between the window, to him, to your lap, and then to him again, painfully restless. Unfortunately for you, his eyes finally flicker to yours again right as you look at him, and a punchy, frustrated sigh huffs from his nose. You quickly look away again before you can catch any other reaction on his part, but its already too late.

You cast a sideways glance at him, just enough to see that he's looking back at the road again, and then you look back out the window. There's no coming back after this. You can seriously never go to one of these "morale boosting parties" ever again. The worst part is you can't even tell your friend why the topic is suddenly so awkward for you.

Oh, even worse, what if Graves tells your friend about all of this. What if they already know? If Graves is being truthful, then it seems you're the only one who's stupidly been blind to this situation the entire time, despite being involved in it. If Graves isn't being truthful, though, then that's more pathetic. What if your friend has known about this teasing this entire time? What if everyone else is in on it?

What if you've always just been a circus clown for his parties?

The car is full of the red glow from a stoplight and you're too distracted with your spiraling thoughts to even fully remember that you're currently sat in Graves' car. A muffled rustling of fabric can be heard to your left, but you don't think twice about it, and subconsciously keep your arm tighter against your side when you realize his arm is now resting on the center console.

A beat passes. Another shift. His warm skin is touching yours again. You shrink yourself, again.

When you feel that somehow his arm still manages to touch you, it's enough to derail your train of thought. It's physically impossible to make yourself any smaller. Your thighs are sore from keeping your legs pressed together, your body is hot from keeping your arms crossed, and your back aches from the awkward angle your tilting at to create extra distance between the two of you.

A hand lands on your knee.

His skin is rough and callous, and his hand holds weight to it, though you can tell that he's attempting to be careful and gentle in the way he touches you. A deep, unwelcome warmth blooms in your lower belly at the feeling, and despite knowing better, you look at him again.

There's an intense, trained focus to the way he watches the road. His jaw is tight and nostrils are flared, like every ounce of energy is being used on both not acknowledging what's happening, and praying that you won't just jump out of the car right now. The red light catches the beads of sweat on his hairline, and if you watch his chest close enough, you can see that his breaths are fast and shallow.

When you look away again, it's only a few moments before he moves once more. Like he's attempting not to scare off a skittish animal, his hand carefully applies more pressure, sliding just an inch higher up to your lower thigh. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine and spreads goosebumps over your arms. It feels like your body already knows what your brain refuses to accept.

Your thighs relax slightly, allowing them to just barely part and he doesn't hesitate to take advantage, sliding his hand just barely higher once more. The tips of his fingers just barely graze your inner thigh, and your breath catches in your throat.

When you shift in your seat, his hand tightens over your flesh like he's worried you'd somehow manage to runaway despite being trapped right next to him in the confines of the car. You swallow thickly and squeeze your eyes shut, both trying to focus on the feeling of his wandering hand, and also focus on keeping any semblance of reason in your thoughts.

You don't dare look at him at the next stoplight, but you don't have to look at him to feel the burning of his eyes on your face. A quiet whisper of your name leaves his mouth, low and gravelly. Still, you don't look, and don't attempt to remove his hand. The light turns green, and he continues driving.

Time seems to pass much quicker than the beginning of the drive. The weight of his hand carries every convincing argument he failed to make when proving his innocence, and your lack of rejection is the only confirmation he needs that he's not completely in the doghouse.

The car almost becomes its own bubble separate from the rest of the world, shielding you from the prying eyes of colleagues and friends. He doesn't have to perform. You can both be vulnerable. Whatever interactions you've shared and opinions you have formed in the past don't have to exist here.

Before you know it, you see how the buildings around you become increasingly familiar, and it its not long before he turns onto your street. Part of you could not be more relieved that the end to this fever dream is in sight, yet the other floods with disappointment.

Part of you knows that this won't lead to anything. You'll thank him, exit his car, and go up to your place. His hand won't be on your thigh anymore, and his gaze won't be on your face. You'll go to your bedroom and sit on your bed for god knows how long mulling over the car ride: what you should've said, what you could've done differently, what he's thinking.

Now that you think about it, you're pretty sure you don't even have Graves' number. The next time you'll see him will be at one of his parties probably months from now, and both of you will pretend that none of this ever happened; that is, if you can even build up the courage to go to his house again.

He pulls up to your apartment, stopping as close to the entrance as he can manage. The way he puts the car in park and turns down the radio gives you the impression that he has the intention to talk to you now—to have some sort of uncomfortable heart to heart—but you could not be less interested in exploring that avenue.

By the time he turns to look at you, you're already frantically clambering out of his car and awkwardly thanking him for the help, his hand falling and landing on the warm leather of your seat. The night air feels especially cool on your hot skin, and the streetlamp seems to perfectly illuminate the red, flushed hue of your face.

When he doesn't immediately respond, you mumble something about promising to pay him back for the gas money, and turn to begin to making your way over to the stairs. With your back shielding you from his view, you cringe and scrunch your face, already beginning to freakout over the events of the night. You're only stopped by the sudden sound of your name being called out in that deep drawl.

When you turn around, you find the drivers side of Graves' car open and him stood right outside of it. His car is off and there's a certain needy desperation to the way he watches you.

"It's dark—Lemme walk you to your door."

...

"Please?"

© urprettybird

A/N: I'm not dead !! omg i totally didn't mean for over TWO MONTHS to pass between this and the last chapter. hopefully u guys haven't forgotten about this fic lol. i was supposed to get a laptop and thought "ok, I'll just wait to write the next chapter when i have a laptop," bc I hate writing longer stuff on my phone, but then i didn't get a laptop. it was too late tho. my brain was already stuck in "I'm not writing this again until I get a laptop" mode, and then that ended up taking two extra months. Also I didn't like proofread or edit this chapter at all so it's lowkey not the greatest. TLDR I'm dumb. i hope u guys liked it tho!! all of the love u guys have given to this fic means sooooooo much <333

Tag list:

@bookishpuppytale @jellychannie @cumikering @atlas3rr0r-1974 @pistolprinc3ss @slittlewing @vused

You just stare at Graves for a minute, bewildered at his suggestion. Being stuck in a car with Graves for an hour? That’s quite possibly your worst nightmare. He seriously just suggested you willingly subject yourself to living your worst nightmare.

The thought alone is claustrophobic: a small space completely filled by Graves’ presence—his smell, his interests, his everything. It’s as intimate as being inside of someone’s bedroom, as far as you’re concerned. Never have you considered yourself so close with Graves that you could spend more than five minutes alone with him, and even then, those five minutes would be extremely awkward and annoying.

With a scoff and a shake of your head, you begin to walk off—not back to the party, but off the porch of his house and towards the road. You say that if it’s him driving or no ride at all, then you might as well just walk.

That’s probably the first time you’ve seen Graves genuinely surprised by something. He squeezed his eyes shut and give a small shake of his head before he’s quickly following you.

“Walk? Darlin’—baby—a sweet thing like you can’t just go out walkin’ in the dark; especially not with that outfit, and especially not without a phone.” He’s somewhat amused by your stunt, but his warnings also seem to be genuine. “You don’t know what kinda creeps are out here. These backroads around my place ain’t something a bird should have to walk through.”

Honestly, of all of the things you’re dreading that could possibly come from this long walk, your thighs chafing is top of the list at the moment.

Do you live about an hour drive away? Yes. Is it completely unrealistic for you to make the walk all the way to your apartment? Also yes. Are you still planning on keeping this bit up until he either gives you your phone back or you somehow make it home? Oh, absolutely.

Your eyes catch the setting sun on the horizon before they stubbornly go back to the road ahead. Graves is right—it’s not safe—but he’s literally the one who put you in this situation, and there is an incredibly simple way for him to fix it. In fact, you tell him exactly that, and even hold out your hand without looking his direction for him to place your phone back in it.

Instead, you’re unexpectedly yanked to a stop, body halted with such suddenness that you stumble back in his direction. His warm grip firmly holds your hand and he stands rooted to the ground.

“Seriously. I ain’t gonna let you walk another step.”

You can’t help but be a little stunned as you shoot a glare at him, then his hand, then at him again. His grip is almost white-knuckled around you, but it’s clear that he’s avoiding hurting you at all.

There’s no viable option but to quickly recover, though—the last thing you want is to let him notice the fact that him holding your hand suddenly makes you feel even warmer than before, and causes a jolt in your stomach, and…and…

Shut up.

A whiny “let go of me” and a tug, tug, tug of your hand protests his grip, but he remains unmoving. He stares at you with a sort of hardness, like his determination in this task is final. The more you fight it, the tighter he holds.

“I got a real nice car; it’ll get you home quick.” He chuckles quietly to himself. “And, I mean, what would it say about me as a commander if I just let you wander off by yourself? I could let you go, but, well, then I’d have a liability on my hands. I can’t let it go on my track record that I allowed one of my own guests to get in danger under my watch.”

After a moment too long of hoping that your unconvinced expression will change, he lets out a small sigh, and his eyes soften. “Please?” His grip loosens slightly, like if you really wanted to go, then he would let you. “Listen, I ain’t tryin’ nothin’. I swear on my old man, I just wanna get you home safe. You ain’t gotta spend all that money on a ride when I can do it for free, yeah?”

You suck on your teeth as the tension between you is forcibly broken. This is the first time you’ve been this close to him, and also the first time you’ve ever been able to get this good of a look at him.

And what a mistake that is.

His icy blue eyes are intense yet tender as they bore into yours, refusing to let up on any contact. There’s an almost boyish quality to his expression that sweetens the otherwise rugged look on his face. The way he carries himself is determined and confident with an intimidating amount of maturity.

And, ultimately—as annoying as he may be—Graves is reliable and trustworthy. You may not be the greatest fan of him, but your friend always has nothing but good things to say about him, not only as a boss, but as a man in general.

“Here, you can have your phone. Hell, you can slap me and call me an asshole—I ain’t gonna stop ya. Just know that I only have the best of intentions.” He takes your phone out of his pocket with his free hand and holds it out for you to take, loosening his grip on your hand even more. It feels partly like a challenge, though; like he wants to see if you’d really turn him down.

Despite everything—despite his actions, and your opinion on him, and the absurdity of the situation—you sigh and look down in surrender, taking your phone from him but agreeing to his help.

“Perfect, perfect,” graves immediately responds, his hand letting go of yours so it can drop to the small of your back. “C’mon, car is this way.” He begins to walk and his hand urges you to follow beside him, guiding you back towards his house and around to a detached garage at its side. A dirty old pickup truck sits outside on the driveway, and you begin to make your way toward it, but his hand pulls you back.

Inside the garage sits another truck, this one large and shiny. It towers over you and is clearly a show truck rather than a work truck. This, however, is still not the vehicle he takes you to. Behind the truck is a sleek, black car, well kept and pretty to look at. It’s one of those sports car types—not flashy or made for races, but definitely expensive and powerful. Of course Graves is the type of man to have an unnecessary amount of cars, and expensive ones at that.

Graves walks you over to the passenger side door and unlocks it with a beep-beep, opening it for you and taking your hand in his again. “Here, baby,” he murmurs as he helps you inside, closing the door once you’re settled. He circles the car and climbs into the drivers seat, taking a moment to get everything perfect. The air conditioning is on, old school country quietly spills from the speakers, and he’s got the directions to your apartment on his dashboard display. “Mess with the seat settings all you want; I don’t want you to be all cramped up in here.”

The inside of Graves’ car is exactly what you would expect. Clean. Unscathed. Reeks of black ice and leather. You fiddle with the buttons on the side of your seat, awkwardly pressing each of them to see what they change. It isn’t until your seat is pushed almost all the way back that you cross your arms and press your legs together, subconsciously attempting to take up as little space in the car as possible.

How dumb is it that you even have to overthink things as inconsequential as how you sit in a car? You don’t want to add fuel to the list of things Graves surely notices about your weight, and he would definitely notice that you would be much more comfortable if you allowed yourself to spread out.

At least that’s what your brain tells you.

“I promise you won’t regret this, sugarplum,” Graves assures, flashing a bright smile your way. You don’t bother giving a verbal response, simply forcing a straight, tight lipped smile before you turn your head to look out the window. With that, Graves pulls out of the garage and starts the journey to your place.

© urprettybird

A/N: this is lowkey a filler chapter but idc bc this is my fanfic and I’m gonna write and post wtv I want >:3 sorry this took so long to write, school has been keeping me BUSY lately (=_=;) I’m so happy that u guys seem to like it so far tho !! I was fully ready for this fic to flop.. i feel like i like my writing until i post it for the public to see and then suddenly i have to overthink every single word or else ill be forced into the stocks and the fandom will throw tomatoes at me

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@bookishpuppytale @jellychannie @cumikering

You always hate these things.

Inevitably, every time there’s a big success in your best friend’s job, his boss hosts one of these “get togethers,” or “parties,” or whatever you call a rowdy group of hyped up soldiers and their plus ones together in a house. It had never occurred to you how many people your friend worked with until you saw the way these things became full blown functions. Your friend always asks you to come with him because “I literally just risked my life to save your ass in ways you can’t even begin to comprehend—the least you can do is celebrate it with me.”

So, of course, like a good friend, you accompany your lonely little soldier boy to his boss’ events. It’s not the parties themselves that you hate, per se—it’s good food and good company and good music. The house is on a lovely estate that carries that fresh air smell you can’t get in the city. The thing you hate is the man behind the parties.

It’s not like you’re a wallflower or anything, but you don’t go out of your way to be the life of the party. You talk to your friend. You talk to your friend’s friends. You talk to the other women there. But your friend’s boss? He talks to you.

Well, to the whole room, really. Seriously, it has to be his personal goal to draw attention to you in any way possible.

Phillip Graves: the handsomest devil in disguise who will stop at nothing to embarrass you.

The first time it happened, you tried to brush it off. You were sat with a handful of people when Graves walked up with a smile on his face and a beer can in hand. He greeted some people before his eyes landed on you. Something, something, “I ain’t ever seen you here ‘fore,” something, something, “who ya here with?” something, something, “y’all together, or do y’know yer too good for him?” something, something, “good girl. He’s a helluva soldier, but you’re a helluva woman.”

It feels like he’s speaking to the crowd rather than you, and the chuckles that came from the surrounding people made you cringe.

Ordinarily, any other woman would be ecstatic at having some man who is built like a centerfold model and smells like a cologne outside of your tax bracket making flirtatious comments to them. You, however, have only ever been flirted with in the context of three situations: pranks, jokes, and dares. A pretty boy flirting with you? That’s a trap.

He always smiles wider at the audience’s reaction to his little performance. His eyes shimmer with something as he stares at you and basks in your humiliation.

And he has done it at every party.

Every party seems to be worse than the last, too. His friends instinctively look over the moment he approaches you, ready for the show.

Despite how hard you try—the hours of hair and makeup and outfit planning that you hope distract the party goers enough that they won’t notice your weight, because maybe if you have a pretty face it’ll make up for your inexcusable body—all of that work fails you. The hot, Texas heat melts through your painted face, frizzes your hair to an untamable poof, and makes you sweat through your clothes.

Despite everything, after a night at Graves’, you can always be confident you look your worst; which is exactly what makes his showy display all the more humorous.

Luckily for you, you’ve done a pretty good job at avoiding Graves tonight. Blending into the crowd the minute you spot him, excusing yourself to the bathroom a suspicious amount of times, and now, stepping out on the back porch away from the crowd.

Well, that’s more because your bra feels like a swamp than anything having to do with Graves, if you’re being honest.

You pick at the fabric of your shirt, attempting to pinch it away from the way it’s clinging to your torso. The skirt hugging your hips get the same treatment and is met with even less success as you futilely try to pull it back into being a skirt rather than the large belt it’s ridden up into being.

Why’d you think it was a good idea to wear something tight?

God, if it weren’t for the fact that your friend was your ride here, you would already be on your way home. You’re so done with this night, and-

“Whatcha doin’ out here, pretty girl?”

Ugh.

You turn your head to look towards that all too familiar voice. Graves saunters over to you with a charming grin as he blatantly looks you up and down, stopping so close to you that you choose to take a step back and establish some semblance of personal space.

How did you not hear the door opening?

“The only reason I do any of this is for morale boosting, and my morale ain’t boosted unless you’re in that room with me.”

You clear your throat awkwardly and explain that you were thinking about just heading home—you’ve had too much to drink and a ride is already on its way to pick you up. It’s all lies, but it might as well be true with the way this night is going.

“Leavin’ so soon?” he exclaims, clearly displeased at that idea. His eyes track your hands as you pull out your phone and discreetly attempt to order a ride without him noticing. You’re sure your friend will understand if you have to leave early, right? You had a thing for work that you totally forgot about and needed to leave immediately for without saying goodbye…or something.

“That just ain’t right. We can’t have that, can we?” You turn away slightly, not responding other than a short glare shot up in his direction.

You can’t help but feel rude sometimes. Graves has never actually said anything cruel to you—not about your appearance, or personality, or especially your weight. It’s the fact that he’s so overwhelmingly sweet and flirty that makes you sure he’s got this whole humiliation ritual strategically planned out. This is crueler than if he were to just make fun of you.

“C’mon, hun, cancel your ride.”

When you refuse to respond or comply, Graves has no option but to use alternative methods.

Graves’ hand slowly reaches out, and before you realize what he’s doing, he gently yet swiftly takes the phone from your grasp and pockets it.

Immediately, you let out an accusatory “hey!” and wrestle with him a little to try and get it back. You tell him that he’s a thief, that you’re tired and desperate, that he’s no less annoying than a middle school boy.

It pisses you off even more to see that all of your complaints and efforts to grab your phone only make him smile wider—that’s what finally causes you to surrender.

“Nuh uh. If you’re gonna go home, ya gotta at least let me drive ya.”

© urprettybird