— smuff, 4,6K characters, god forbid i dont do rushed endings, inaccurate descriptions (?)
It started when he grew into combat, where efficiency and precise was mandatory. When his name was engraved into the hard copy of his formed Shadows Company, his blade collection's quantity and variety was growing into pair of numbers. Karambit, classic bowie, dagger, you name it. The way he wield it is akin to silk, his fingers groping the handle before he twists his wrist and tipping the blade in a man's guts. It is also the way he commands it under his hand, just like the way he maneuvres you into positions he loved, which you didn't mind at all. It is all apart of his play and you would love to be entangled in his game.
To start this scene, he was playing with one of his favourite blade while also staring at the live baseball game. "Game is getting borin'. You hear me, love?" You hummed to his question as you tend to your chores, which was cleansing the glassed dinnerware. "C'mere." He commands as he hears your disinterest. "I'm busy. What?" You inquired as you tilt your head out of the kitchen area. "It's stealing your attention away. C'mere." Scoffed, you pat your wet hands away with the dish towel before beelining towards Phillip. "You're being dramatic." You stated as he brings your thighs to his lap. "See, honey, we have to have fun together in order to not bring this marriage to shambles."
"We had fun at lunch time. You mostly had the fun." You argued, which fuels his fire of competency to win every arguments. "Ah, don't say it like that. I made you cum many times, no? This tongue," he licks his lips, which you frowned in a joking manner as a reply. "Did wonders on ya. And ya still not satisfied?" "Not that, 's just... you're acting like we didn't have sex in decades." "Felt like it." He sighed as he fondled your thighs.
"Y'know we could do somethin' else..." He concluded before you shot back. "Nuh uh. Dishes ain't done." "Fuck that. Luckily, I ain't deployed yet so we can have fun." He drawled before carrying you into his muscled arms, bringing your whole weight onto his strong embrace. "Honey!" You laughed before smacking his back. "Mm, you ain't leavin'." He mused as he flops your body onto the linen bed sheets.
"We're going to try something. You like, we'll do it often. You don't like, shame." You rolled your eyes before inquiring about his idea. "See, we're going to test my blade." "Fuck off, I'm not your enemy for you to be piercing my skin off." You joked. "I'll do it slow, intimate, y' can even say the safe word!" You shook your head insistently before backing off. "See baby, this isn't for you to decide. We're going to test it whether you like it or not." He is manipulative at times. Trust, it is all apart of the play and consenting. You love it that he shows his true nature in and out of his workplace. It is also what fuels you to marry him. because you're just as evil. "Fine." "Ah, that's more like it." He nodded in satisfaction before crowding you into your shared pillows, his gaze piercing you down.
"Tell me what you're going to do to me, honey." You commanded, he answered. "'m gonna strip you down 'till your naked." He stated as he strikes your bra and short shorts down with his knife. "Then, I'm gonna test this skin out. See if it's strong enough for my blade's sharpness." He is a man true to his words as he slowly drags the tip of his switchblade to your thigh, blobs of blood tipping down underneath you. "Mark you as mine. P," he drags the letter down with his fingers on the handle of the blade, marking you exactly to his initial on your fat. You huffed and whined from the pain, albeit biting your lip from how ecstasy the feel of him tearing your skin out. "G." He resumes by continuing the 'G' beside the letter 'P'. "Beautiful." You stared at the artwork in fascination, your fingers clenching at the sheets in arousement. Unbeknownst to you, he also marked himself with your initials.
You get to introduce yourself to his marked thigh when he suddenly strips himself down to nothing. You gasped. "See for yourself, baby. You're mine, I'm all yours." You stared at it with gleam, caressing it with your fingers. You don't even ask when, you're just honored he's marking himself as yours. "Phil, 's beautiful." "I know. You're beautiful." He winked before kissing you up with his lips. You replied to the kiss by matching his intensity, bite and suck. "'M hard. Let's fuck." "Just when I thought 's all soft and passionate, you are always here to ruin it old man!" He laughed your statement off before he suddenly pounces you under his weight, bringing your thighs to either side of his hips. No warning, he entered your flower with the swift of a thrust. No lube, you were already wet from his foreplay of slicing your skin. "Ah." You both resonate the sound, your nails tightening on the skin of his back. Meanwhile, his palms coddled your rear as he slowly thrusts his hips. "So tight, beautiful. You're all mine?" You nodded to answer his inquire. "Always." Moonlight glowing beneath the curtains amidst the lovemaking, Mr Graves and Mrs Graves is united between the sheets in the end.
CONTENTS & WARNINGS — smut. 2,4K characters. an experience recording with alejandro v. for ur of (but you both sound intimate you guys might aswell be in a relationship). imitation of knotting. bad translated spanish (?)
ALEJANDRO has the camera recording for 2 minutes long and the scene across anybody's phone who spot this video accidentally was a sight. Your back arched akin to a stretching cat, your wrists tied up together with his belt behind your spine. The owner of the belt was behind you, ramming your little rear hard enough to the point of breaking the bed had the highest chance of happening. Your ass ripples from every thrust he landed, and that is the moment where your eyeballs rolled to the back of your head. With the pace to be described intense and bliss, you instinctively wanted to scream. As much as you wanted to do so, you were geting punished for disobeying him.
The punishment was getting a gag ball muffling your words and curses from exiting your mouth and concealing them in your sore throat. Your whines and screeches were the only sounds heard in the video and Alejandro's husky audibles. "Hear how you sound when you're obeying me? 'S what you should sound like everyday, chiquita. Obeying me like it's your duty. What if some pendejos tear you away from me, hm? You gon' run away with them?" He interrogates before putting down his palm harshly onto your ass with his meaty hand.
You let out a whimper, your rear squirming from his harsh slap. "Answer me, or I'm colouring your cute little bum red." You shook your head at his question insistently as possible, knowing you didn't want him to stop with his spanks and was the one action that arouses you the most. "Good girl, now let me abuse this cunt." He states before pushing your face into your silky pillows, drowning it in your drool before he smacks your ass and continues to thrust in your juicy flower with his thick, lengthy cock.
You gazed at the camera that stood at the top of the headboard with bed eyes, showing your full row of teeth as you cheekily grin. And when he finally came, he insistently pushed his hips to your full-of-hand-marks bum, filling your cunt and atempting to fit his balls in as if imitating the action of 'knotting'. "Fuck, you're damn tight bébé. This hole's all for me, huh?" You nodded, wiggling your hips back as if accepting his 'knot'. He likes the way you instantly follow his every order. If he could, he'd devour you to the roots of your tresses until the tip of your toes. Let everybody know how only this devoted wolf owns this pretty little lamb and that nobody but him can possess her. If they try, they'll know how ruthless ALEJANDRO is if someone attempts to claim what's his.
a/n — originally wanted to do this vladimir m but didnt know if anybody wanted it lols
Phillip Graves and his need to eat you out everywhere, everyday, everytime. On the couch, the dining table, the backseat of his car, and the classic, bed.
Starting from the bottom, he'd grab your legs, kissing every spot on it. Your feet, thin ankles that's affected by his kisses. Knees that'd be smothered in his wet, sloppy kisses. Afterwards, he'd grew bolder by the time he has reached above your knees. Grabbing your thighs while your ankles sat on his shoulders, he'd kiss those supple thighs. Biting them, while meeting your hazy gaze. You felt heated by his affections, let alone when his mouth get to your flower. When the time finally comes, he'd first admire his gift with his aroused gaze. You'd be clenching the sheets as he stares, stares, and stares. Every moment you'd be squirming from the lack of simulation, but he wouldn't be that harsh on his sweet flower.
He'd dive in with a lick of his tongue, testing your honey between those thighs. You moan, head up as you faced the ceiling. He'd coo at your womanhood, while breathing into you. He'd trace your innie/outie with his fingers before licking into your supple hole, pressing the palm of his tounge onto it. "Phillip..." you cried out his name as your thighs tried to clench around his head, practically crushing him. He didn't allow that when he restrained your heavy thighs with his big, meaty hands, constraining your thighs to one spot only. "Stay still, honey." He coos before diving again, his sweet mouth on you while his nose mounts your clit. You moaned with the added sensation, practically flooding with arousement. Fortunately, he'd slurp up those juices before it could escape your womanhood. By the time he makes you cum, your eyes would be full of tears and your hands aching from clenching the sheets. But the result?
You'd be satisfied, drowned in his love as he let your thighs go from his grasp and climbing the bed to kiss your lips. His calloused hands would grasp your jaw before his lips, still coated in your juices intertwined with yours. You'd be tasting your sweet honey against his puckered lips before moaning as you realized he's covered in you. He doesn't seem to care at all when he unbuckles his belt and letting you see his excitement. The night is still young and you're yet to be fully exhausted by all of the fun he's going to give you.
contents— things phillip g. does that is attractive to you. 3,3K characters. lots of fluff. please read the end of the post
PHILLIP when he's focused on his paperwork, he'd have glasses on. Especially wheen he's old and his eyesight isn't getting better anytime soon. He would ride those glasses up onto the stable part of his nose bridge with his middle finger. Bonus mention — when you both would make out after he finishes his paperwork, he'd take off his glasses after it gives distances to both of your faces.
PHILLIP and his small kisses. Especially ritual kisses. For an example, certain amount of kisses on parts of your body. Each kiss is long or short, deoending on what amount he feels enough. Doesn't mean every moment he provides limited kisses. You get a lot, alright.
PHILLIP placing a kiss on each of your ankles when he's putting your heels on your bare/socked feet before letting it go.
PHILLIP and his adamant to meet your every need. You complain about your feet being hurt in heels, he'd carry you like a bride. Embarrassed? Fine, fine, he'd bring a spare one just for you. The pillows not being your standard when you're trying to sleep but you're too tired to adjust? He'd adjust it for you. Need something from the attic but you're quite scared? He's grabbing the stuff for you himself, just sit down.
PHILLIP a man that isn't afraid to cry around you. He isn't weak, but he is a human. He will break down when everything is just too exhausting. And you're the only person he doesn't mind crying to. Especially when you carress his head, telling him it's all going to be okay. His vulnerabillity is what gets you the most, a feature he has that he doesn't mind your hand carrying.
PHILLIP and kneeling. Kneeling at your feet on one knee to confess his marriage with you isn't the only time he would kneel for you. When he's begging for you to take him back, he isn't afraid to show his vulnerable side and kneel to you. Tell you how he didn't mean for your relationship to go this bad, saying he'd fix it. He'd grab your hands, kissing your knuckles while tears slipped from his cheek.
PHILLIP that would graze his thumb on your bottom lip when making eye contact. Especially during a heated argument or before a make out session.
PHILLIP admiring you when you're busy doing things like reading or cooking. He knows you know he's staring. And he'd smirk everytime.
PHILLIP and his discreet behaviour of following you around. You wouldn't even know he's doing it. When going to another room while your eyes on a book or a mobile gadget, he'd just walk behind you with almost no sound of his footsteps at all.
PHILLIP when he's fidgeting and need something to use his hands, he'd use it on you first. Fondling your bra strap, your sweatpants elastic band or just touching your hair.
PHILLIP when he sees your bangs shielding the sight of your beautiful face from him, he'd tuck it behind your ear.
PHILLIP bites you when he wants to use his mouth. In short, he has an oral fixation. Biting your neck, shoulders, ears, thighs, almost everything if you keep being cute with him.
PHILLIP a man that would always find a way to put a hand on you. Not the abusive way, the husband kind of a way. Putting a hand on your lower back when you're walking side by side, holding your hand when yours gets cold in the winter. Forgot to put on mittens was your excuse. But he doesn't care when it is a way to get him to hold you anytime.
a/n— for the ppl that has been in my tag list b4, i had to get alejandro scrapped out of the post bcs it had no correlation. so im editing this draft rn to tell you all my situation. again, very sincere apologies from me 🙏🏼
contains — 18+, 5,3K characters. several positions in bed phillip will put you in. + bonus part
warnings — smut. im my own beta reader.
a/n — the ending felt kind of rushed / could be a continuation to this
PHILLIP GRAVES a wild, southern american that doesn't play about his wife. You get to be coddled anytime. Things that you want, he can afford. Things that you hate? He'll eliminate them. Things that you want to do first thing with him in the morning? He'll set aside his plans just for you. But that doesn't mean you get to take, take, take but never give, give, give. So when it comes to a mating opportunity? That is when he pounce. ♥︎
PHILLIP GRAVES loves mating press. The moment he gets those sexy legs up on his shoulder, he's hugging up your thighs with his beefy arms and pistoning his hips into you. It is because he loves how intimate the position feels. It is because you can't stop him from pumping you with his babies. Wiggle those hips, you'll just accentuate the feeling of him inside that pretty pussy. Big, muscled hands around the back of your knees, making sure you won't thrash. You can't help but cry from bliss when he places wet, sloppy kisses up your upper body, telling you how he loves you and that you're the only woman in his life. He says he does not regret wifing you up with his southern american charm. He accentuates those words with a big kiss on your wedding ring. When he cums, this fantasy of a white picket fence will stop becoming a fantasy but a reality.
PHILLIP GRAVES that uses the turtle position on you when you feel too tired to hold your own weight. He's considerate this time. Face down, ass up with your back arched like a cat. He can see every mole on your back and that little tramp stamp you got for his birthday. He doesn't mind it at all. In fact, he enjoys it. He can choke you, pull your hair after wrapping those luscious locks into his tightened fists. Especially when he gets those wrists tied up and ready for him to drag you into another position once you both came.
PHILLIP GRAVES is the kind of man that would do lotus position on you when he's tired. You're gonna have to respect his ambition to breed you although his energy is less than fit to be having sex. Your legs around his waist, he doesn't hesitate to slide his member in your flower, tainting what is his. Both of you and his thighs plap plap plap against eachother as he pumps into you with his meaty hands fondling your cute butt. He places kisses on your shoulder, telling you how he doesn't want you to hate him and leave this marriage for good. Is he still on about that argument? Either way, his whiny voice was coming in your ear and out from the other because his dick just feels toooo gooood.
PHILLIP GRAVES and the classic missionary. You both always do this intimate position other than mating press. His locket necklace that contains a picture of you inside was dangling against his toned chest everytime he thrusts. Your toes up in the air, curling like your soul was seeped out. Your hair tousled across your shared silky pillows, you look up to the mirrored ceiling above you. You felt ecstasy from the sight alone. Both of your bodies tangled against eachother, your tummy pressed by his grubby hands, his gaze entirely on you while he place kisses on your thighs. You grin, your bitten lips from his rough kisses from before had now left dry red patches across your lips instead. Your hand held out to his shoulder, scratching yet dragging him closer against you as the night goes on. With the air conditioner humming across the room, it felt like an experience in heaven with your dearest husband, Phillip. Will this last forever? You can't tell, but what you do know right now is you're going to cherish him forever.
PHILLIP GRAVES and spooning. It differs when you only see him from his military profile. But when you get lucky to have him in private, he is anything but stern and precise. He has his left thigh propping your other thigh up before he slides that tip in your wet hole. When he feels you wrapped around his hard member, his groan was slipping from his lips before he could bite the sound off. You swallow his sound with a slippery groan of your own, continued by strings of your whiny moans. When he licks the spot behind your ear or teasingly bites the sensitive spot on your shoulder, you roll your eyes before giggling. You reached a hand out to the back of his head before caressing those light brunette locks and scratch that scalp. He gets sleepy instantly— which that won't do. He has to make you cum first. So, he does the slyest thing that he could do. Which you'll have to admit, works everytime. He adjusts his hips and get that bulbous tip to reach your g-spot. You cried of delight— he makes your melodies a goal to abuse that spot, again and again. As you came, he doesn't pull out. Like your hole is a spot his cock can rest in. You whined and squirm everytime, but lets him stay anyway.
BONUS— Phillip would be the type of guy to cum between your legs just by rubbing his tip between your sweet pussy. Firstly, he gets you wet by fingering you. If you do it before dinner, he would devour you whole with his mouth, or just do the combo (fingers + mouth). Then, he'd rub that bulbous tip against your wet clit and pussy, covering his member in your milky fluids. Rub, rub, rub before his cock bursts of flavour. You'd moan at the sight everytime, not surprised at how depraved he could be around you. And you're planning to test that depravation soon when you get him back.
content — 4,5K characters. fluff (has suggestive mentions) LONG ASS HCS between you and phillip.
warnings — phillip graves. im my own beta reader. first-time writer. english not my first language. curse words. suggestive mentions.
a/n — got the idea at dinner. behind this story is a journey of me editing this plenty of times im surprised theres a misspell. writing this while listening to im your man by leonard cohen.
Devoted! Phillip Graves who always knows what you want by every small things that you do. Biting away the skin around your nails due to your fluttering nerves or anticipation, he assures by intertwining your fingers together with his. Your furrowed eyebrows due to the sweat or oil accumulating your forehead, he wipes them away with the back of his hand or blot them with tissue paper that he carries around incase of emergencies. Those emergencies always consisting of you. He knows you don't like germs from his dirty fingertips. Not that you're a germaphobe, but having a sensitive skin also means your acnes can come to a head and leave you riled for the next few weeks. Phillip doesn't want that, how will he get to kiss you without you pushing him away?
Devoted! Phillip Graves and his need to tease you just to get his awaited affection. A hand that wanders everytime it is on your body, a bite on your parts every now and then when your attention is on something else other than him. Loves that you'd smack his head afterwards. This also means his selfishness is beyond— for an instance, when it comes to aftermath of an argument. . . It comes to a head when you find Phillip talking to another woman on the streets after you just left the house for a grocery run. Hear me out, he wouldn't cheat. He still loves you. But considering how your relationship was to a stagger due to an argument, he uses his power to make you heed his needs which was to talk to him. Let this American tell you how he's the only thing in your life that won't lie to you. Reassure you his business ain't dangerous. That entails, talking to another woman lest to get your attention and gives you both a chance to resolve the issue among your relationship. His manipulation ended up being successful when you confront him with enraged gaze and a tongue so sharp. Your chagrin differed when his gaze began to fill with satisfaction. His grin sly as a minx, it left you no choice but to tug on his collar with fierce strength and kiss it out. When you get home, you'd show how fierce you can get when you're riled. In bed.
Devoted! Phillip Graves who unfortunately doesn't do PDA in public. However, always gives pecks to your body parts to show his love to you in semi-public. (the empty aisle with no shoppers in sight, area with no cameras, his office with opened binds, alleyway. . .) Your forehead, knuckles, wrists being the most affected spot. He wouldn't do such things in public, only he gets to see your flustered state. However in private, when he has you all to himself, he isn't afraid to show you off. A lick behind your ear, sloppy kisses at your plumpy lips. When he's always bold—a dry-hump, caresses at your inner thighs and... sly shit he would do to you. And you would giggle it off because you're just as depraved as him.
Devoted! Phillip Graves who doesn't sob whenever he has to be away from you for his missions. But would take his time with your shared moments together before separating. Before missions— you and Phillip would tend to your shared plants together. Water, fertilize, wipe the dust on the leaves according to your procedure. Also gives him a reason to fantasize having a baby with you together. And said baby to be cradled between your arms, pretty much suggesting a life of a white picket fence with you. You and Phillip would also do candelit dinners. His favorite dress on your supple body, wrapped for him like a gift. Have deep, heartfelt conversations and soft caresses between you both. After said dinner, he would unwrap you his gift and make love to you with moonlight blaring behind the pink curtains you set up in your shared bedroom. During missions— he sends you pictures and voice notes. Clicking the button, you would be receiving. . .
Photos of him and his pets shadows on missions together, selfies of his sexy, smirky face. When you feel lonely. . . He will give you a peek of his junior underneath his pants. Oh, how you're impatient. Voice notes? You get to hear his drawls. Sexy, american accent accentuated with a southern twang.
"Darlin'! How are you? How's the weather back in Texas?"
"You feelin' good? Waiting for your sexy husband?"
"I know you missin' me. Just wait 'till I get home."
"Just sayin'. You could ride this all day. . ."
Not-so subtle squelches in the background. . .
After missions— you'd fulfill his promise the moment his boots land on your welcome mat since he teased you with the voice note. No breeding opportunity would ever escape underneath your watch. Nor his
Let's just say, Phillip would get to have said fantasy of a white picket fence with you, his dearest. ♥︎
It was supposed to be a casual night out—the team squeezed into a corner booth, drinks in hand, the rare hum of laughter instead of gunfire.
You noticed them first: two girls by the bar, whispering, sneaking glances at your table. You caught one of them staring straight at Ghost. Classic. You elbowed him, grinning. “Looks like you’ve got admirers, big guy.”
He didn’t even twitch, just kept sipping his pint. Soap leaned forward, already cackling, “Aye, they’ve got taste—”
But then the two girls strutted over, hips swaying, smiles sharpened with intent. You nudged Ghost again, smirking. “Told you.”
Except… they stopped right in front of you. One of them leaned down, fingers catching your chin, tilting your face up with infuriating confidence. “You’re even prettier up close,” she purred.
The table exploded. Soap howled, Price nearly choked on his whiskey, Gaz slapped the table like it owed him money. Even Ghost’s shoulders shook as he turned his head, mask hiding the smirk you knew was there.
You’re standing there, rooted to the spot, heart thudding and face hot. “Uh… what?” you manage.
The girls wink and lean in, and you realize—you’re the one they were after. You stumble backward a step, muttering something about needing a drink, while Ghost lets out the faintest laugh, shaking his head. You’ve officially been traumatized by lesbians, and everyone is having the time of their lives watching.
Your only thought as you slide down the bar stool: never trust your assumptions again.
cw: power imbalance, bordering stockholm syndrome, dependant relationships, needles, medical procedures, drug abuse, captivity, referenced trafficking, brainwashing
The first ever memory you have, is of Phillip Graves. In you head, there is a big void and then, like a saviour, an angel sent to you from heaven, there‘s him.
You remember his voice, before all. He had always been calm but confident, collected in a way that told of self control. Then, his features. They stand out in your brain, like a mark no one could ever reach. Divine beauty, you vaguely remember thinking, even if your mind had been wiped clean, with nothing to offer but a blank slate just for him.
He had been haloed by the sterile lights, icy gaze boring into yours. Still, he had never made you feel cold. Whenever you touched your own skin, you could still remember his calloused hands softly mapping your skin, on that very first day. Je always had been warm in a way no one else could offer, burning, claiming you.
The words he said had barely stuck at all, hell, you were too doped up to remember much. It was all faint, as if someone had stuffed wool into you head. But the ring of his voice, that southern twang, had stayed with you.
In that moment, a violent delight had taken ahold of you. Shivers had wracked you again and again, a giddy smile, so wide that it made your cheeks hurt, had claimed your face.
It hadn’t mattered that there were thick leather bindings keeping you pinned to the hospital bed, barely allowing any movement. It hadn’t mattered that there were numerous infusions and tubes attached to your body. Even the itchy gauze and stiff gown hadn’t bothered you.
Because Phillip Graves had not just been there to see you into this world with soft words and gentle touches. No, when you had smiled at him, all programming that he worked so hard for, he had cooed and smiled back.
He had even given you a name, in that white room, under the blinding lights.
You replay that memory again and agin. Each day, each free minute, is filled with thoughts of him. Even now, in his bed, as you skin carries a sheen of sweat and your heart beats away anxiously, you try your best to think of him. You tray to keep your cool, he likes that, you know he does. Fear shouldn’t affect you, not anymore.
„I just don’t get it.“ You admit quietly after a while, when your heart finally calms to match your breathing again. The nightmare is still fresh on your mind. It comes again and again, haunting you until he pulls you close and brushes your hair from your eyes.
You don’t recall ever experiencing it, yet it feels so real. Graves is there, standing over you. But, so unlike yourself, you don’t feel good about being knelt at his feet, don’t like his hand in your hair. In your dream you snarl at him, and then he strikes. Once, twice, sometimes thrice.
Through your pain, words are exchanged over your head, degrading and mean. You can hear men laugh, loud and wrong. Then, you‘re tugged along. Dark figures swarm you, you feel trapped, bound. The pain is all you remember. Sharp needles and blinding lights. Loud voices and repetitive motions, again and again and again until the sentences are burned into you brain, until all you eyes remember are him and the dark figures.
His voice takes you out of the memory. „Ya don’t need to get it. I told ya, it ain‘t real. There‘s no more to it.“ He sounds kind, but the underlying insistence tells you not to ask again. For a moment, his hands tighten in you hair and you follow his pull, until your eyes meet.
„I saved you, don’t forget that.“ Even in the dark his eyes are bright. The blue is ingrained in your mind, and despite your will, you relax. Distantly, you feel yourself nod. „We‘ve got a job to do. Can’t do it if you‘re all in your head.“
His expression softens when your hand tries to follow the movement of him, staying on his chest as best as possible, when he adjusts himself on the bed. You scoot closer, feeling the warmth of his skin on your own like a warm chimney. It makes you feel at home.
He makes you feel at home.
His fingers trace over your wrists softly, the dark leather encasing them firm and reassuring. He hooks one into the metal ring and pulls. You follow easily, your mind tingles. It‘s pleasantly silent in your head now.
„You saved me.“ You agree easily, remembering him on that day, an angel sent to you. Again and again. You don’t have need anything but him.
„I did.“ He agrees easily. You don’t pay attention when he sits up, one hand still of your cuff. The clinking doesn’t scare you anymore, you trust him.
When they needle pierces the junction of your arm, you almost sigh. Graves rubs your skin once more, soft and caring. „Let‘s take ya out of your head. I need ya in top shape tomorrow.“
And with the way you start floating while he holds you safe any close, you can’t find it in yourself to disagree with him. Not now, not ever. He saved you. You have a job to do.
Thinking of Graves and all his war crimes. He HAS to have a hot lawyer backing him right?
CW: Fem!reader on this one! A little suggestive at the end, but not bad.
Phillip Graves and his lawyer who always walks around Shadow Company HQ with your nose turned high, in these blouses and perfectly ironed pencil skirts and suit blazers. Always manicured and styled, walking in heels like they're sneakers, not a bit of insecurity in your stride.
He saw you for the first time and hired you on the spot. Not a moment of doubt. It was just a coincidence that when he looked you up later, you happened to be good at your job. Lucky him.
Phillip Graves and his lawyer who could be paid 6 figures and it still wouldn't be enough to deal with all the shit that man throws at you. From the egregious lawsuits that I know this man has against him, to the southern charm and flirting that he throws out like it's nothing, with a little "oops" if you try to tell him he can't just leave piles of bodies in his wake like there are no consequences. But of course, there aren't any consequences. Not with you around.
You tells him he needs to be more careful, follow the rules, maybe use his goddamn brain. But of course, he just grabs your hand, kisses your knuckles and tells you that it's alright, sugar. he knows you can take care of it for him. He doesn't miss the way a shiver runs up your spine. Or the way that your eye twitches. He loves riling you up. Bastard.
Phillip Graves and his lawyer who goes off on him, throwing a little tantrum about how he's reckless. Selfish. Insufferable. And sure, he watches your mouth move. Knows that words are coming from your lips as you pace around his office, your heels clicking on the floor. Unfortunately, all he can think about is bending you over his desk and pulling up that little skirt.
Summary: Despite dating, you and Tom never stop competing for the top spot in class. After an exam bet lets the winner choose your first pet, you narrowly beat him-only for your new kitten to choose Tom over you.
Warnings: One suggestive comment, fluff
A/N: I've been thinking about this for a while especially the academic rivals but dating version. Let me know what you think! Requests are open.
Masterlist
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"Can we get him, please?"
You and Tom were walking back to the castle when you passed a pet shop in Hogsmeade.
"Tom, look at that little kitten. He's adorable!"
Tom looked unfazed.
"Cats are unreliable. They leave hair everywhere. If you want a pet, get a snake."
"Tom, snakes are creepy!"
"They're elegant."
"They eat rats."
"So do cats."
You paused.
"Well played. But we're still not getting a snake."
"I'm not letting a cat stay in my dorm."
"But kittens are adorable!"
"No."
You huffed.
"Well, I want a pet."
Tom leaned forward.
"Then how do you suggest we settle this, love?"
You thought for a minute before a mischievous smile spread across your face.
"Whoever scores higher on their midterms gets to pick the pet."
Tom raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile.
"You do realise I scored higher than you in the previous exams?"
"Only by three marks. I could've easily surpassed you if Snape hadn't been so stubborn."
You crossed your arms.
"So, do we have a deal?"
You extended your hand.
"I suppose we do."
He shook your hand before bringing it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles.
"You'd better watch your back, Riddle."
"Looking forward to it, Mrs. Riddle."
"I'm not your wife."
"Yet."
You rolled your eyes.
He smiled.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Midterms rolled around.
You studied your ass off.
You were going to get that kitten.
Unfortunately, you'd fumbled one of the questions in the Potions exam the week before.
And next was Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Tom was brilliant at DADA.
You?
Not so much.
No matter how many times you read the textbook or worked through practice questions, Tom always stayed a few marks ahead of you.
But you weren't about to give him the satisfaction of winning.
His ego did not need to get any bigger.
Just studying wouldn't work this time.
Nothing could distract Tom when it came to his studies.
Nothing...
...except you.
A smile spread across your face as a plan formed in your mind.
You pushed yourself away from your desk and stood in front of your mirror.
You brushed your hair and wore it down-the way Tom liked it-sprayed on your favourite perfume, and applied a touch of mascara.
Perfect.
You smoothed down your skirt before making your way to Tom's dorm.
You entered without knocking.
"Hi, Tommy," you said innocently.
"I think I left my notes here. You don't mind if I look for them, do you?"
You batted your eyelashes.
Tom's eyes narrowed.
"You're up to something, aren't you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
You stepped inside his dorm, pretending to begin your search.
You "searched" on his bed, lifting pillows before bending down to look underneath.
...conveniently giving him a rather nice view beneath your skirt.
Silence.
You knew he was watching without needing to look.
"Found them?" Tom asked evenly.
"Not yet."
"Pity."
"Well, my notes aren't under your bed. Maybe they're on your desk?"
You wandered over, pretending to search through the drawers before reaching for one just out of reach.
You stretched, letting him catch a whiff of your perfume.
"You're playing a dangerous game, love."
"What game? I'm just looking for my notes."
You smiled sweetly.
"I suppose they're not here. I might've left them somewhere else then."
You walked towards the door.
"Bye, Tommy."
You placed a deliberate kiss on his cheek before walking out of his dorm, leaving him momentarily distracted.
Now...
Onto phase two.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Later that evening, you returned to Tom's dorm, finding him bent over a book.
"Tom?"
"What is it, love?"
"Can you explain Inferi to me? I didn't understand today's lesson."
He looked up before gesturing for you to come closer.
"Ugh, first I need to get out of this uniform. Give me a minute?"
Without waiting for a reply, you grabbed one of Tom's shirts from his wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom.
A minute later, you emerged wearing his shirt.
Just his shirt.
Tom's eyes darkened.
"Much better, isn't it?"
You sat beside him.
"So... Inferi?"
Tom sighed.
"You're impossible."
But he opened his book anyway, pointing to the chapter as he began explaining.
"Wait."
You placed a hand on his thigh.
It tensed beneath your touch.
"I can't see the book from this angle."
You rose from your seat and settled onto his lap instead.
His hands instinctively found your waist.
"Sweetheart..."
His voice dropped into a warning tone.
"Don't be sour, Tommy. Now start explaining, please."
"You're attempting to compromise my exam performance."
You smiled.
"Is it working?"
"...Unfortunately."
He sighed.
"Sit somewhere else."
"No."
"Fine."
He simply continued reading-with you still sitting on his lap-as though nothing had happened.
You wrapped one arm around his neck while he resumed explaining.
Somewhere along the way, you began placing soft kisses along his cheek and jaw.
Tom paused.
"What are you doing?"
"Kissing you."
"Yes... I can see that."
He sighed but didn't pull away.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to. I don't need a reason to kiss my boyfriend, do I?"
"Must you do it while I'm trying to focus?"
"Yuuuuup."
You emphasized your point by placing another kiss on the corner of his lips.
"If you keep doing that, you're going to get yourself into trouble."
"Maybe I want to get into trouble."
You shifted in his lap before swinging one leg over his, fully straddling him.
"Five minute make-out break?"
Tom had always prided himself on his self-control.
Unfortunately, you were sitting in his lap, wearing nothing but his shirt, your hair cascading over your shoulders, those pretty lips practically begging to be kissed.
He groaned.
His composure cracked.
"...Five minutes."
Before you could respond, he captured your lips in a deep, hungry kiss.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Twenty minutes later...
His hair was thoroughly dishevelled, and his tie had somehow ended up on the floor.
"God, you're a menace."
You smiled smugly.
"I'm your menace."
"That you are."
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"All mine."
You glanced at the clock.
It was already ten o'clock.
The DADA exam was tomorrow.
"I should go back to my dorm. We have an exam tomorrow."
His fingers idly played with the hem of your skirt.
"Have you revised?"
"Several times."
"And you understand Inferi now?"
"Yes."
"And you're clear on all the concepts? Did you go over the-"
"Tom."
He looked up at you.
"I'm prepared for the exam."
You smiled reassuringly.
"I promise."
"...Okay."
He nodded.
"Good."
You leaned down and placed one final kiss on his lips before standing.
"Bye, Tommy."
You smiled warmly.
"I love you."
The door closed softly behind you.
Tom looked after it for a moment before shaking his head with a fond sigh.
"Love you too, sweetheart."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The Defence Against the Dark Arts exam had come and gone.
Tom had walked into the classroom certain he would ace it.
Then he'd read the very first question.
Describe the process by which an Inferius is created...
His quill hovered over the parchment.
Inferi.
Unfortunately, the word no longer reminded him of the textbook.
Instead...
"Sweetheart... sit somewhere else."
"No."
"You're attempting to compromise my exam performance."
"Is it working?"
"Unfortunately."
Tom closed his eyes for exactly three seconds.
Focus.
By the time he'd banished the memory, precious minutes had slipped away.
For the first time in years...
Tom Marvolo Riddle second-guessed himself.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Today was the day of the results.
Today was the day that decided who won the bet.
The corridor outside Professor Dippet's office buzzed with anxious chatter as students crowded around the notice board.
You stood beside Tom, trying-and failing-to hide your nerves.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"Not at all."
"You've been bouncing on your heels for the last two minutes."
"I have not."
"You have."
"...Maybe a little."
A murmur swept through the crowd as the results were pinned to the board.
"They're up!"
Students surged forward.
Tom gently took your hand before leading you through the crowd.
Your eyes skimmed down the parchment.
Transfiguration.
Charms.
Potions.
Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Overall Average.
Your breath caught.
Tom Marvolo Riddle — 98
And in front of your name...
98.1
Silence.
Tom stared at the parchment.
"...One mark."
You couldn't stop yourself from smiling.
"One very important mark."
"You distracted me."
"I distracted you."
"You sabotaged my revision."
"I gave you affection."
"You weaponised affection."
"I prefer to think of it as strategic planning."
Tom let out a long, resigned sigh.
"You planned the entire thing."
"You realised that the moment I walked into your dorm."
"I did."
"And yet..."
He looked at you.
"...And yet."
You grinned.
"So."
"So."
"I believe I won."
"You did."
"And according to the terms of our agreement..."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"...We're getting the kitten."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The tiny black kitten was even cuter than you remembered.
The moment the shopkeeper placed him on the floor, you crouched down with a smile.
"Hi, sweetheart."
The kitten looked at you.
You held out your hands expectantly.
He blinked.
Then...
...trotted straight past you.
"...Excuse me?"
The kitten marched directly over to Tom, who was standing with his arms folded and looking thoroughly unimpressed.
Without a second thought, the tiny ball of fluff climbed onto his polished shoes, scaled his robes with surprising determination, and curled up comfortably in his lap.
A tiny, contented purr filled the shop.
You stared.
Then burst into laughter.
Tom looked down at the kitten now happily kneading his robes.
"...Traitor."
The kitten blinked up at him.
You wiped a tear from your eye, still laughing.
"Looks like he chose you."
"I don't recall giving him permission."
The kitten answered by rubbing his head against Tom's hand.
Tom sighed.
"...Unbelievable."
Almost absentmindedly, his fingers reached up to scratch behind the kitten's ears.
The purring somehow grew even louder.
You smirked.
"So..."
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I do."
"Its name is Pickles."
Tom looked horrified.
"...Absolutely not."
"It's perfect."
"It's ridiculous."
"It's adorable."
"It's an affront to language."
The kitten yawned, stretched, and promptly fell asleep in Tom's arms.
You folded your arms with a satisfied smile.
"I think Pickles likes his name."
"He doesn't know his name."
"He has excellent taste."
Tom looked down at the sleeping kitten for a long moment before quietly adjusting his grip so the tiny creature wouldn't slip.
"...We're discussing the name later."
You grinned victoriously.
"You've already lost two arguments today, Tommy."
"I've noticed."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Over the next few weeks, an oddly specific rumour spread around Hogwarts.
Students had begun spotting Tom Riddle walking through the corridors with a tiny black kitten tucked beneath one arm.
Whenever anyone commented on it, his response never changed.
"It's not my cat."
The kitten would immediately begin purring.
"It simply follows me."
The kitten would climb onto his shoulder.
"I am temporarily holding it."
The kitten would fall asleep against his chest.
Tom would continue walking as though nothing unusual was happening, all while absentmindedly scratching behind its ears.
You merely smiled to yourself every time you saw it.
After all...
The kitten hadn't chosen you.
It had chosen Tom.
And Tom-much to his own annoyance-had absolutely no intention of giving it back.
————————————————————————
Tag list - @pbjts @bunnieeegohop @mooniez @ithinkaboutyouuu @yourstargirlyyy
Imagine Simon "Ghost" Riley who after retiring from TF 141, bought a decently sized apple orchard from an old man out in the country.
He wanted a change of pace, so moving to the country where the only town nearby was a one-room-schoolhouse type town seemed to be the perfect option.
What he didn't think to ask about when buying the Apple orchard was the customers that came with the ownership…
Specifically one customer... you.
You own the town's local bakery and your best selling (and personal favorite) baked goods are made with the apples form the orchard he purchased.
So it was to Simon's great suprise when you showed up the first day of picking season on his front poarch bright eyed and bushy tailed.
Somthing about "picking your order's worth" or whatever, he wasn't really listening.
He was more focused on you, he'd never really talked to anyone in town that he didn't need to talk to and that included the local bakery owner. He was obviously regretting that now, not having a better excuse for not introducing himself sooner other than he "didn't have time"… not a great look…
Either way you didn't seem to care, you were purely focused of filling your baskets with apples.
He of course offered to help (a not so subtle excuse to continue staring talking to you.
He learned quite a bit about you in the first day of picking season, how you inherited the bakery from your family, how you always ordered apples from this orchard because they were your favorite and always contributed financially, and…how you were single..
Honestly you weren't subtle about dropping that tidbit of information, but who can blame you? A big strong handsome and seemingly polite (unmarried?) man moves into your favorite apple orchard while also offering to help you harvest your order AND listens to your ramblings and awkward jokes as you work?? Why wouldn't you shoot tour shot?? Besides small towns like these rarely get types of men like him…
Hours pass and you say your goodbyes when you can no longer see 5 feet in front of you from the darkness.
On your way down his drive he comes to his senses and grabs one of his (military grade) flashlights to walk you back to your little eco truck and help you load all the apples into the bed of it.
He rambles through his goodbye, "see you tomorrow" is said one too many times, but it's okay you're just as socially awkward …
He walks back up to his house while you drive away, both thinking the same thing,
Thank the gods harvest season lasts several weeks…
hiii💕💕💕 for starters i just want to say I love your writing and I’m so looking forward to the next part in your seriesss💕
but anyways I remember you responded to an ask about whether graves gets jealous/possessive or not, and that got me wondering, since we know Philip is really popular with the ladies (especially the little league moms at baby’s baseball game👀) has reader ever gotten jealous as a result of this? How did Philip react to it?
hiii omg thank you 🥺💕 you're so sweet.
and honestly… yeah. not often, but it definitely happens.
It’s never really about not trusting him, because she does. it’s more like… she knows exactly how he comes across, and she’s watched people react to it in real time. she fell for it too 😭
So it’s less jealousy and more like “oh you’ve got a little too much confidence talking to my husband right now”
And Phillip? He thinks it’s a little funny at first. He’ll tease her about it every single time, without fail.
But the second someone actually crosses a line, he shuts it down immediately. No hesitation. That man knows who he's coming home to at night.
Loved this ask so much that I sprialed into a fic. Hope you like it!
The grocery store hums around you. Slicers buzzing, numbers being called, carts rattling past. Fluorescent lights washing everything out just enough to feel too bright, too loud.
You nod along while you order at the deli counter, but your attention keeps drifting.
Because he’s not next to you anymore. He’s across the store, over by produce.
Your son had started getting fussy halfway through shopping. Not full meltdown, just enough whining and squirming to tell you he was about to be. Phillip didn’t hesitate. Just reached in, scooped him up, settled him against his chest like it was instinct so you could finish in peace. .
Now he’s pacing slow, easy steps down around the fruit and vegetables, bouncing him lightly.
“Yeah? That so?” he murmurs, nodding like your son is telling him something important.
At eighteen months, your son babbles back in broken words and noises, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Phillip huffs a quiet laugh, shifts him higher, one hand steady at his back, the other tapping lightly at his side.
Your chest warms as you watch them chat.
The butcher calls for your order.
“Half a pound of the turkey please,” you say, distracted, already glancing back across the store with a steelier look in your eye.
Because now there’s a woman there.
Sidling up to your husband and baby.
“Oh my gosh,” she says, laughing softly, “you are just too cute. Look at you.”
Your son lights up instantly, babbling right back, already the chatterbox.
She tilts her head, playful, “Oh you’re trouble, aren’t you?”
Phillip smiles. Easy. Unbothered. A slow, absent chew of gum tucked in his cheek.
“Yep,” he says. “My little charmer.”
She pauses. Looks at him properly this time. And there it is.
That shift.
Her eyes flick over him, slower now, interest sharpening. Her tongue flicks over her lower lip, the smile redirecting to him.
“Like his daddy,” she repeats, softer. “I can tell.”
Her gaze lingers. “Handsome like him, too.”
Phillip’s mouth tips just slightly. He gives a brief nod.
“Thank you,” he says politely, as if commenting on the weather.
Simple. Not flirting. Not shutting it down either.
She laughs anyway, brighter now, a little more for him than the baby.
Your jaw tightens. Heat flickers low in your stomach in a way that irritates you.
Because it’s not that you don’t trust him. You do. It’s that you know exactly how he comes across. And you know exactly how people respond to him.
You stay where you are, watching the butcher slice your turkey. Across the store, she’s still there.
Still fucking talking.
And now she’s not even pretending it’s about your son.
From here, you can see it. His ring. Clear as day. Gold glinting under the fluorescent lights every time his hand shifts against your son’s back.
You scoff under your breath.
Because she either doesn’t see it.
Or she does.
And she has a fucking death wish.
“You make it look so easy,” she fawns, smiling up at him. “Like you’ve done this a hundred times.”
Phillip shifts your son when he squirms, bouncing him once without missing a beat.
“Something like that.”
She leans in a little more, voice softening.
“What about you, huh?” she coos to your son. “You daddy’s little man?”
Her hand lifts. Brushes his arm.
That’s it.
You're moving before you even realize it.
You step in close, shoulder brushing Phillip’s arm as you come up beside him. His arm reaches for your lower back automatically. Your son sees you immediately, face lighting up.
“Mama,” he babbles, reaching for you.
You take him without hesitation, settling him against your hip, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. Your fingers fuss with the strap of his little overalls, smoothing them down like you need something to do with your shaking hands.
“Hi, Baby.” You murmur to him cheerfully, putting on a show.
Her scent hits you now that you’re close.
Sweet. Thick. Overwhelming.
Headache-inducing.
Phillip doesn’t hesitate, his palm solid on your lower back, “This is my wife.”
You feel it land. Watch it hit. Her expression flickers, just for a second.
The woman’s smile tightens, putting on a show of her own, “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi,” you return, calm.
“Well,” she says, recovering, “your son is just adorable.”
You glance at her, brief, “I know.”
There’s a small bite to it. Just enough. The slightest taste of venom.
She gets the message. Phillip does too, his brows tightening briefly as his jaw stills.
She nods a little too quickly, murmurs something about needing to keep shopping, and she’s gone.
You adjust your hold on your son, brushing your thumb over his cheek like you’re not thinking about it. Like you don’t care. You give him one more kiss and set him back into the cart, clicking the seatbelt as you head to the checkout.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“So…she seemed friendly,” you mutter, not looking at him.
He glances over, already grabbing the next item from the cart.
“We were just talking.”
“Mmm,” you hum, dragging the next barcode across the scanner slower than necessary. “Seemed a little too friendly.”
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, giving you a disbelieving look.
You tilt your head just enough to glance at him, voice shifting, lighter, mocking.
“Oh my gosh, you’re such a good daddy,” you say under your breath, pitching it higher. “You’re such a pro!”
He lets out a short, incredulous scoff, shaking his head. His hand finds your lower back again, thumb rubbing soothing circles.
“Easy, Mrs. Graves.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s still heat in it.
“God, you even smell like her.”
That gets his attention. He tilts his head back in confusion, “What?”
You look at him fully now.
“That perfume? It’s like a cheap lingerie counter,” you say, sharper now.
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head and bagging more of the groceries.
“Didn’t know I married a bloodhound.”
“I didn’t have to be one,” you shoot back. “It’s clinging to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You bag another item a little harder than necessary.
He watches you, then tugs your son from the cart, balancing him on his hip as his small fist rubs his tired eyes with a whimper.
“You were jealous.”
You don’t even look up.
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“Don’t start.” You warn.
He says nothing, just steps over and presses a lingering kiss to your temple with your son sandwiched between the two of you.
“Alright, honey,” He says gently.
You put your hands on your hips. He lifts a brow.
“When we get home,” you add, like you’ve decided something, “you’re putting all of these away. Then you’re showering.”
He nods, accepting his fate, blue eyes amused.
“And I’m washing that damn shirt,” you finish.
There’s a beat.
Then his mouth curves, just slightly.
“Yes ma’am.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite left in it.
“I mean it.”
“Don’t I know it.” He reaches for the last of the bags, taking over without another word, your son balanced in one arm.
“Come on, Mama,” Phillip says, “Before you bite someone’s head off.”
“She started it,” you mutter.
-
The house is quiet now, your son finally down for his much needed nap, the soft static of the baby monitor resting in your hand.
And then you see him.
Halfway down the hall, already pulling his shirt over his head.
“Shower,” you remind him, pointing down the hall.
He glances over, shirt halfway off, that crooked little smile already forming.
“Yes ma’am.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
He drops the shirt somewhere behind him carelessly, now fully shirtless in just his jeans, turning toward you like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Yeah?” he says, stepping closer. “Still a little jealous, Darlin’?”
“I was not jealous.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “I wasn’t.”
“You left the deli early.”
“I was done ordering.”
He hums, stepping closer, slow and deliberate.
“Left your turkey behind.” He affirms quietly.
You blink.
“…I did not.”
“You did,” he says, way too satisfied.
You hesitate, then huff. “Whatever.”
That makes him laugh. Low. Easy.
He reaches for you then, hand settling at your hip, pulling you just a little closer.
“I’m married,” he says, softer now, “Happily. To my best friend.”
You glance up at him, still a little grumbly. “I know.”
There’s a beat. Then his eyes flick down to the monitor in your hand.
And something shifts.
Subtle. Intentional.
Before you can react, he snatches it.
“Phillip-”
He steps back just enough to keep it out of reach, thumb already turning the volume up slightly.
“Relax,” he says, glancing down at it, listening for a second. “He’s out.”
“I am not in the mood for your games. Give it back.” You hold your hand out firmly.
He doesn’t. He just looks at you. That same look.
The one that always means trouble.
“C’mon,” he says, quieter now. “Take a shower with your husband.”
You stare at him. You shake your head and scoff.
“Phillip, you’re being ridiculous,” you say, but there’s no real bite left in it.
He smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“Yeah,” he says. “You like it though.”
“I do not.”
“That so?”
You groan in frustration, “Give it back.”
You swipe for the monitor again. He lifts it just out of reach, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s enjoying this. He beams, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Say please, gorgeous.”
You stare at him.
“Phillip, I swear to God-”
He laughs, finally handing it back, but he doesn’t step away. He reaches out and slides his arm around your lower back, pulling you flush to his bare chest. Your eyes flick to the black ink scrawled on his left pec before tracing up to his blue eyes.
“C’mon,” he murmurs again, softer now. “We’ll keep it on. Volume up. You’ll hear him.”
Then he leans in.
“Unless you’re still mad at me.”
You scoff. “I’m not mad at you.”
“Jealous, then.”
“I was not jealous.”
“Mhm.”
You shove lightly at his bare chest, smiling spreading across your face reluctantly.
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t stop smiling.
“C’mon,” he says one more time, hand sliding a little firmer at your hip. “Fifteen minutes.”
You roll your eyes. But you’re already stepping with him.
You get out of the shower an hour later, much less irritated.
imagine wife still being called “ms. graves” after the divorce—during a custody hearing something yada yada idk—they both stiffen because damn its expensive to change that last name. i think phillip might think about the fact ex-wife still bears his name
angwul, you are once again putting your finger directly into the bruise and I love you for it.
Because yes.
Yes.
Even after the divorce, there would be moments where you are still Ms. Graves.
Not Mrs. Graves anymore. That distinction matters, legally and socially and in all the ways that make Phillip’s jaw tighten if he thinks about it too long.
But Ms. Graves?
That one still happens.
At the dentist’s office. At your son’s school. On paperwork. On emails from teachers who do not know the whole story and receptionists who have no reason to think twice before saying it out loud.
Graves.
His name.
Your name, too, whether either of you knows what to do with that anymore.
And I think it would hit hardest somewhere awful and ordinary.
A custody hearing.
Not some dramatic courtroom showdown. Nothing cinematic. No raised voices. No slamming doors. No tearful confession in the rain.
Just a family court building that smells like old coffee, printer toner, and somebody’s too-sweet perfume. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Bad carpet worn flat in the walking paths. Plastic chairs lined against beige walls. A vending machine humming in the corner like it has survived every divorce in the county and expects to survive yours too.
You are sitting a few seats away from him with a folder in your lap.
Phillip notices everything about you because he is trying very hard not to look like he is noticing anything at all.
You are dressed carefully, but not too carefully. Nice blouse. Trousers. Flats instead of heels, probably because you had to do school drop-off that morning before coming here, and the thought lands in his chest with a weight he is not prepared for.
Your hair is neat, but one piece keeps slipping near your cheek. Your mouth is set in that composed line he knows too well, the one that means you are trying not to feel anything until you absolutely have to. Every few seconds, your thumb smooths the edge of the folder against your knee.
Over and over.
A tiny, nervous motion.
He remembers when that used to be his cue.
A hand over yours. His thumb pressing once into your palm. A low murmur near your ear.
I got you, Darlin'.
Now he keeps his hands to himself.
Phillip is in a suit because of course he is.
Dark jacket. Crisp shirt. Watch at his wrist. Hair neat. Expression controlled. The kind of calm that makes other men sit up straighter and lawyers choose their words more carefully.
He looks composed.
He is not.
He has been reading the same paragraph of the custody agreement for ten minutes and absorbing none of it. His attorney said something to him a moment ago, some practical thing about holiday rotation or pickup windows, and Phillip nodded like he heard.
He did not.
His attention keeps catching on stupid things instead.
The corner of your folder, softened from being handled too much.
The earrings you are wearing. Small gold hoops. He bought them for you three Christmases ago because you said you wanted something simple you could wear every day, and he had acted like he just happened to remember. Like he had not spent two weeks checking jewelry websites between meetings, irritated with himself for caring so much about getting it right.
The way you still cross one ankle behind the other when you are nervous.
The fact that you do not look at him.
That is probably for the best.
Then the clerk opens the door and calls, “Ms. Graves?”
Both of you stiffen.
It is small.
Almost nothing.
Your shoulders lift by a fraction. His pen stops moving against the page.
But Phillip feels it like the room has gone quiet around that name.
His eyes lift before he can stop them.
Yours do too.
For one awful second, you look at each other.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Not long enough for it to become a moment either of you could be accused of having. Your attorney is already gathering her folder. His is adjusting his glasses. The clerk is checking the file in her hands, bored and efficient.
But Phillip hears it again in his head.
Ms. Graves.
Not Darlin'.
Not sweetheart.
Not baby.
Not his wife.
But still Graves.
Still wearing the name he gave you when he thought forever was something he could sign his way into and then maintain by sheer force of will. Still carrying it on your license, your mail, your bank statements, your son’s school forms. Still answering to it in public like it does not cost you anything.
He knows why you kept it.
Of course he knows.
It is expensive to change a name. Tedious. Exhausting. Driver’s license, social security card, bank accounts, credit cards, insurance, medical records, your son’s emergency contact forms, every stupid login and account and subscription that had quietly absorbed you into his life one letter at a time.
G-R-A-V-E-S
And then there is your son.
That is the reason Phillip lets himself think about most.
Same last name at school. Same last name at doctor’s appointments. Same last name on permission slips, cubbies, little league rosters, the label inside the jacket he always forgets at daycare.
Practical.
That is all it is.
Phillip knows that.
Knowing it does not stop the ugly, selfish ache that opens under his ribs when you stand.
Because for half a second, in that miserable little hallway, some clerk calls you Ms. Graves and his body reacts like the world has forgotten you are divorced.
Like the name still means what it used to mean.
Like you might turn toward him out of habit and wait for his hand at your lower back.
You do not.
You gather your folder, rise from your chair, and walk toward the door all by yourself.
Phillip follows a few steps behind.
That hurts too.
There was a time when he would have stood first. When his hand would have found the small of your back without thought. When people would have looked at the two of you and known exactly what you were to each other.
Now he keeps his hands in his pockets.
In the hearing room, they seat you at separate tables.
Another small cruelty.
You sit with your attorney. Phillip sits with his. There are papers between you. Schedules. Weekends. Holidays. Exchanges. The neat legal dissection of a life that used to happen in one house, around one dinner table, under one roof.
The judge glances down at the file.
“Ms. Graves, you are requesting clarification on holiday rotation?”
There it is again.
Phillip’s pen stills.
You answer clearly. Steadily. Better than him, honestly.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Ms. Graves.
His eyes drop to your left hand.
No ring.
Of course there is no ring.
He knows that. He watched you take it off. He remembers the sound it made when you set it on the kitchen counter. Small, delicate, final. He remembers staring at it after you left the room like it might explain to him how a man could own half the world and still lose the only home he actually wanted.
No ring.
But the name stayed.
That is the thing that gets him.
The ring came off. The house changed. The bed emptied. The lawyers divided everything into what belonged to who. Furniture. Accounts. Holidays. Pickup times. The antique hutch your mother loved. The truck he refused to sell because your son liked riding in it.
And somehow, his name remained.
Not because you wanted him.
Not because you were holding on.
Not because you could not let go.
Because life is inconvenient. Because motherhood is paperwork. Because changing it would cost money and time and energy you did not have after surviving the marriage, the separation, the move, the grief, the exhaustion of becoming someone’s ex-wife while still being someone’s mother.
Phillip knows all of that.
Still, when the judge says it again, he has to look down at the table.
Ms. Graves.
He hates how much he likes hearing it.
He hates himself more for liking it here, of all places.
In a custody hearing.
With you sitting across from him, tired and guarded and too damn far away.
The hearing is not dramatic. Maybe that is worse.
No one shouts. No one says anything cruel. You are both painfully civil, which is its own kind of heartbreak. You discuss your son’s schedule like two professionals trying not to bleed on the paperwork.
Thanksgiving.
Christmas Eve.
Christmas morning.
Spring break.
The little pieces of a child’s year split into columns and conditions.
Phillip agrees to the holiday adjustment.
Your attorney seems surprised.
You look surprised too.
He does not look at you when he says, “That works for me.”
Because it does.
Because it is what is best for his son.
Because it is what you asked for.
Because some habits are harder to kill than others, and giving you what you need still feels like muscle memory.
Afterward, in the hallway, there is an awkward moment where the lawyers step aside and suddenly there is nothing between you but air.
You hold your folder against your chest.
Phillip reluctantly puts his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching for you.
“You didn’t have to agree to that,” you say.
His mouth curves faintly. “Hello to you too.”
You sigh, but there is no real heat in it. “Phillip.”
“I know.” He nods once. “It made sense.”
“It helps with daycare spring break.”
“I figured.”
You look down at the folder, thumb rubbing over the corner.
A silence opens.
Not empty.
Full.
Then you say, quieter, “Thank you.”
He wants to say, Anything for you.
He does not.
That would be unfair.
That would be too honest.
So he says, “Anything for him.”
Your face shifts.
Just slightly.
You both know what he did there.
You both know what he did not say.
The clerk passes behind you with another file in hand.
“Ms. Graves?” she says, not really looking up. “You can check out at the front desk.”
You nod. “Thank you.”
Phillip watches it happen.
Watches you answer to his name without looking at him.
That might be the worst part.
You are used to it now.
It is not a flinch every time. Not for you. It is practical. Ordinary. The name on the file. The name on your ID. The name attached to the little boy you both love more than either of you know how to say without getting mean or quiet.
But Phillip is not used to it.
Not really.
He wonders if you ever thought about changing it back.
He wonders if you looked up the process late one night after your son went to bed. He can picture it too clearly. You sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, a cold mug of tea forgotten beside you. The state website pulled up. Forms. Fees. Instructions. A list of agencies you would have to contact one by one.
He wonders if you saw all of it and closed the tab with a tired little sigh, palms digging into your eyes like they always did when you were overwhelmed.
He wonders if there was a moment where you hovered over the question and thought, Do I want to stop being Graves?
He wonders if the answer hurt.
He hopes it did.
Then he hates himself for hoping that.
You start to walk away, then stop.
Not fully turning around. Just pausing with your shoulder angled toward him.
“For what it’s worth,” you say, voice careful, “I kept it mostly because of him.”
Phillip’s chest tightens.
Mostly.
That word is a loaded gun.
He should not touch it.
He does anyway.
“Mostly?”
You look back at him then.
There is something tired in your face. Tired and honest and sad enough that it shuts him up before he can make a joke.
“It was my name for a long time too,” you say.
Phillip forgets how to breathe for a second.
You give him the smallest, saddest smile.
Then you leave.
He stands there in the hallway long after you are gone, hands still in his pockets, jaw tight, staring at the place where you had been.
People move around him.
A woman in scrubs walks past with a toddler on her hip. A lawyer laughs too loudly near the elevators. Somewhere down the hall, a printer jams and someone curses under their breath. Life keeps going in all its ugly, ordinary ways.
Phillip stays still.
Ms. Graves.
Not his wife.
Not anymore.
But not untouched by him either.
That is the part that ruins him a little.
The world moved on. The marriage ended. The ring came off.
But somewhere on paper, in the dull machinery of everyday life, you are still carrying proof that you once belonged to each other.
And Phillip Graves, selfish bastard that he is, cannot decide if that comforts him or kills him.
We all know Graves is protective of reader. How would he react if reader wasn’t home by the time they should be and he couldn’t reach their phone? Like a scenario where their car broke down and they don’t have any signal. What would he do then?
This is SUCH a good question because this is one of those situations where you really see how Phillip is wired.
He doesn’t panic. He gets quiet.
Because for Phillip, it’s never just “you're late.” It’s information. Or rather, the lack of it.
And he doesn’t like that.
-
Phillip doesn’t notice the time all at once.
It settles in gradually, the way things always do with him. A detail that doesn’t quite fit, sitting at the edge of his awareness until it sharpens enough that he can’t ignore it anymore.
He’s in his office when it happens, one hand braced against the desk, the other loosely holding his phone while something work-related sits open in front of him, unread. The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
Not wrong, not yet. Just… still in a way that doesn’t quite sit right.
His eyes flick to the clock.
8:17pm.
His thumb stills.
You said you were running out.
He remembers that clearly. Not because it mattered at the time, but because he logs things. The way you paused in the doorway, keys already in your hand, rain tapping lightly against the windows behind you.
“Back in a bit. Gonna go pick up a bottle of wine for dinner.”
He’d nodded without looking up, humming in appreciation at the kiss you pressed to his temple as you walked out.
That was an hour and a half ago.
His jaw shifts slightly. The store is fifteen minutes out. Twenty, if you take your time. Even with the storm-
Thunder rolls low outside, closer now, the sound carrying through the walls.
You should be back.
His phone is already in his hand.
Call.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
That’s where it changes. Not panic. Something quieter.
Sharper.
He ends the call, staring at the screen for half a second before dialing again.
Straight to voicemail.
His gaze lifts slowly, unfocusing just slightly as his mind starts to work.
You always take the same route. Main road. The turn past the trees. That stretch gets spotty when the weather’s bad.
But even then, you’d reach out. You’d text. You’d call.
This is nothing.
He doesn’t like that.
He stands. The chair slides back softly behind him, controlled, but there’s something tighter in the movement now.
Wallet.
Slid into his back pocket from the desk drawer.
Keys.
He grabs them off the wall hook without looking.
Then he pauses.
Just briefly.
His eyes flick toward the hall.
The decision is already made before he moves.
He stops at the locked cabinet along the back wall. It blends in if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Clean. Out of the way. Secured.
His hand moves automatically.
Code beeping. Handle turn. Open.
Everything in order. He grabs what he's looking for quickly and easily, muscle memory taking over.
The cabinet closes. Locks.
By the time he turns back toward the door, there’s no hesitation left in him.
-
The storm hits harder outside.
Goddamn Texas and it's fucking monsoon season.
Rain comes down in heavy sheets, wind pushing it sideways across the driveway as he steps out, the cold cutting through immediately.
The truck starts on the first turn, engine rumbling low beneath him as he pulls out onto the road.
His phone lands in the console, your name still pulled up on the screen.
He calls again anyway, the phone ringing over the speakers of the truck.
Voicemail immediately, your sweet voice cheerfully asking him to leave you a message.
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t call again. No point. Instead, he watches.
The road. The shoulders. Every shape that doesn’t belong.
Rain distorts everything, headlights stretching across the wet pavement, visibility dropping with every mile. The wipers drag back and forth in a steady rhythm that never quite clears enough.
He runs it through his head without thinking.
Where you would’ve gone. Where you might’ve turned. Where you could be.
Not guessing. Narrowing. Eliminating.
Thunder cracks overhead, sharp enough this time that it rattles through the frame of the truck.
His jaw sets.
You don’t like storms like this.
That thought lands harder than it should.
He exhales once, slow, forcing it down, forcing himself back into focus.
Then-
A flicker. Faint. Uneven.
Hazard lights.
His attention locks immediately, the rest of the road falling away as he slows, pulling in behind the car hard enough that mud kicks under his tires.
Headlights flood the scene.
Driver’s door open.
And you-
Standing just off the shoulder, soaked through, arms pulled in tight against your body, phone in your hand like it’s doing anything out here.
Shivering.
But alive.
Phillip exhales. It’s quiet, but it’s the first real release he’s had since he left the house.
The truck door opens hard, engine still running. Slams shut behind him.
Rain hits him immediately, running down his jacket as he crosses the distance in a few long strides.
“Phillip!” you start, turning toward him, eyes lighting up in relief.
He doesn’t let you finish. His hands are on you first.
One at your upper arm, the other at your side, pulling you in just enough to steady you as his eyes move over you quickly, taking everything in at once.
“Sweetheart,” his voice is lower than usual, rougher at the edges, “you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, already a little defensive, “Phillip, relax, it’s just my car-”
He doesn’t let go. Not yet.
His gaze moves over your face again, slower this time. Rain dripping down your cheeks, your hair plastered to your skin, your hands cold under his.
“You’re soaked,” he mutters, pushing your hair off your forehead.
“I know, it’s raining,” you snap lightly, teeth chattering just enough to give you away.
That’s when he pulls you in.
Close. Solid.
One arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other pressing firm between your shoulder blades as he tucks you against his chest for just a second longer than necessary.
You still. Because you feel it.
The shift.
The tension leaving him in a way he can’t quite hide.
“…you’re alright,” he murmurs, quieter now, more to himself than you. Thunder rolls over your head, making you jump. Well, as much as you can with him crushing you to his rain saturated chest. You feel the weight of something structured beneath his jacket when your hand presses against his chest.
“I said I’m fine,” you mumble against him, softer this time.
He exhales once, then forces himself to step back, hands lingering for a second before dropping.
“Get in the truck.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Get in,” he repeats, already turning toward your car, scanning it quickly through the rain.
“Phillip, I’m not getting in the truck, I’m fine,” you push back, crossing your arms tighter around yourself despite the way you’re shivering. “Let me help you, it’s my car-”
He stops. Turns back. Looks at you.
Rain running down your face. Your shoulders pulled in tight from the cold. The way you’re trying to stand your ground anyway.
“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low, controlled. “You’re cold. Get in the truck, honey.”
“I’m fine,” you insist again, stubborn.
“Truck. Now.”
There it is. The slip. The command.
“Excuse me, Commander Graves,” Your eyes narrow immediately. “You’re not giving me orders right now.”
It lands exactly where it’s supposed to.
His jaw tightens. Not at you.
At himself.
For a second, it looks like he might double down. You can see it in the way his shoulders square, the way his gaze sharpens. His mouth opens to push back again, then closes quickly.
He exhales. Hard.
Reels it back in. He wipes some of the rain off of his face before he replies.
His hands come up, pressing together briefly in front of him, rain dripping from his sleeves as he tips his head just slightly.
“Darlin’…” his voice drops, softer now, rough in a different way, “please.”
That’s new.
“Just humor me, alright?” he adds, quieter. “Get in the truck for me? Please?”
There’s a beat. You look at him.
Really look.
And it clicks.
This isn’t him being bossy. This isn’t him trying to control you. He was worried.
Actually worried.
Your shoulders drop just slightly.
“…fine,” you mutter, softer now, turning toward the truck.
“Thank you,” he says under his breath.
And when you pass him-
His hand slides across your lower back, warm even through the rain, lingering just a second longer than it needs to.
Grounding. Reassuring. For him as much as you. Your eyes flick down to his chest and squint at his jacket, brain churning.
“…did you bring a gun?” you ask, eyebrows lifting.
He doesn’t even blink, popping the hood on your car.
“You were missin’.”
You stare at him.
“My car broke down, Phillip.”
“Didn’t know that,” he shoots back easily, like that answers everything.
You let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “You are insane.”
“Mhm,” he hums, finally stepping back and steering you toward the truck again with a light hand at your back. “If I wasn’t, you’d still be out here drownin’ all alone, Gorgeous.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, climbing up into the passenger seat.
The door shuts with a heavy thud, cutting off most of the storm. Heat’s already blowing, warm air hitting your freezing skin as you sit there dripping onto the seat, trying to catch your breath.
A second later, Phillip’s door opens and slams shut again as he climbs in, bringing the rain with him. He runs a hand back through his hair, water shaking loose before he settles into the seat, already reaching to crank the heat higher without looking at you.
You glance over at him.
He doesn’t say anything. Just checks you again. Quieter this time.
You shake your head, exhaling softly. “…unbelievable.”
“That’s what you love about me,” he says, like it’s already settled.
You don’t answer that.
Instead, you peel your soaked sleeve away from your skin with a grimace. “My car literally just died. That’s it.”
“Mhm,” he hums again, reaching behind him without looking and grabbing a towel from the backseat before tossing it into your lap. “Dry off before you soak through the whole damn truck.”
You catch it, shooting him a look. “God forbid.”
“Exactly,” he replies, already reaching for the door again. “That heated seat cost more than that damn junker you've been drivin'.” He gestures frustratedly at your vehicle as it rots in the rain.
“Phillip-”
He’s already out in the rain again.
You stare after him for a second, then huff softly, shaking your head as you start drying your face.
“…asshole,” you mutter again, quieter this time.
Outside, he doesn’t respond, but when he circles back toward your car, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And for the first time since he left the house he looks like he’s not bracing for something to go wrong.
Noo but we all know Graves clocks everything. And I mean EVERYTHING reader tries to keep from him. Imagine how worked up he would get thinking they‘re keeping a bad secret and reader is just trying to surprise him with a trip or vacation. I think that tension would end horribly and he‘d feel so bad about it afterwards, but during he‘d be going full operative trying to find „intel“ about what they are doing behind his back🙈🙈 i love miscommunication trope sometimes
Oh, this ask is so good for him because, yeah, he absolutely clocks everything, but the problem is that he does not always clock it correctly 😭I’m a full believer that he really struggles with putting the paranoia aside to relax.
Like, Phillip notices the shift immediately.
You think you are being subtle. You are not.
You are suddenly taking calls in the other room. Closing your laptop when he walks by. Getting weird about your calendar. Smiling at your phone and then going completely neutral when he asks what’s funny.
And to a normal man, maybe that’s nothing.
To Phillip Graves?
That is a pattern.
And once he notices a pattern, he cannot leave it alone.
Dog with a bone.
He tells himself he is not snooping. He is not spiraling. He is not being unreasonable.
He is just… gathering information.
Which is somehow worse.
Because in his head, he is being calm about it. Controlled. Strategic.
Meanwhile, you are just trying to plan a surprise trip without him ruining it by being himself.
He starts small. Watches where your attention goes. Notices when you move your phone face down. Tracks the little pauses in conversation where you almost say something and then stop.
And the worst part is, he does not even ask directly at first. He just starts circling.
“Busy today?”
You don’t look up from your phone fast enough. “Not really.”
“Mhm.”
You glance at him. “What?”
“Nothin’.”
But it is not nothing. It is never nothing with him.
He leans against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that quiet, unreadable expression that makes your skin prickle.
“Been on your phone a lot.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“Just noticed.”
“You notice everything.”
His mouth twitches, but it does not quite turn into a smile. “Usually a good thing.”
“Usually annoying.”
“Can be.”
And then he lets it go.
Except he absolutely does not let it go.
Because later, when he sees a confirmation email flash across your screen and you shut the laptop a little too fast, something in him sharpens.
Not anger. Not yet. Concern dressed up as control.
“What was that?”
You look up, too casual. “What was what?”
His jaw shifts slightly.
That answer tells him more than the email did.
You know it too, because you immediately look annoyed with yourself.
“Phillip.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what, Sweetheart?”
“That thing where you act like you’re not interrogating me.”
He huffs, almost amused, but his eyes stay fixed on you. “I asked one question.”
“You asked it like you already had evidence.”
That gets him quiet.
Because he does.
Not real evidence. Not anything that actually proves anything. Just pieces. Little ones. The kind his brain has already started arranging into something ugly before you even know there is a problem.
Gut instinct from years of doing what he does.
You close the laptop fully now, which is the worst possible thing you could have done.
His eyes flick down to it. Then back to you.
“Something you wanna tell me?”
Your stomach drops, because you realize too late that he is not teasing anymore.
He thinks something is wrong.
Actually wrong.
And for half a second, you consider just telling him. Ruining the surprise. Ending this before it gets weird.
But you are stubborn.
And he is being ridiculous.
So you lift your chin boldly and say, “No.”
That is where it starts going badly.
Because Phillip can handle a lot of things. Danger. Distance. Silence. Complicated logistics. People lying to his face with a loaded gun in their hand.
But you hiding something from him?
That gets under his skin in a completely different way.
His expression closes off.
Slowly.
Enough that you feel it happen.
“Alright,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “Alright?”
He nods once. “Alright.”
But his voice has gone too even.
Too flat.
And suddenly you are annoyed too, because this was supposed to be nice. You have been trying to plan something good for him. Something easy. Something where he does not have to be Commander Graves or CEO or the man who always has everything handled.
Just Phillip.
Your Phillip.
And now he is standing in your kitchen looking at you like you are a threat assessment.
So, naturally, you snap.
“You know, not everything is a covert operation.”
His eyes lift back to yours. He tilts his head and folds his arms.
A beat.
Then, very calmly, “Didn’t say it was.”
“You’re acting like it is.”
“I’m acting like you’re hiding something from me.”
“I am hiding something from you.”
That lands.
Wrong.
You see it the second it does.
His face changes. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. But you know him. You know the way his jaw stills, the way his shoulders settle back, the way his eyes go cold when something gets filed away under problem.
Your own stomach twists.
“Phillip.”
He gives you a tight little nod, like he has all the information he needs.
“Got it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I think I do.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“Then explain.”
You exhale sharply, looking away, frustrated enough now that your own emotions are tangled up with the secret you were trying to keep. “I can’t.”
His mouth presses into a thin line.
And there it is.
The worst possible answer.
You can see the thoughts move behind his eyes. See him building something out of all the wrong pieces.
The hidden calls.
The closed laptop.
The calendar.
The smile you tried to hide.
The confirmation email.
Your refusal to explain.
By the time he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“What kind of secret are we talkin’ about?”
Your head snaps back toward him. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
You laugh once, humorless and disbelieving. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m crazy for noticing.”
“You are not crazy for noticing. You are crazy for whatever conclusion you just jumped to.”
He steps closer then. Not crowding, exactly, but close enough that the air changes.
“Then correct me.”
You stare at him, heart pounding now for an entirely different reason.
Because he is hurt. That is the worst part.
He is angry, yes. Defensive. Getting sharper by the second. But under it, he is hurt in a way he would rather swap out his gum for broken glass than admit.
“You really think I would do something to hurt you?” you ask, quieter now.
That stops him. Not fully. But enough.
His eyes flick over your face once, like he is checking the question for a trap.
“I think people keep secrets for a reason.”
“Yeah,” you say, your voice rising again despite yourself. “Sometimes because they’re trying to do something nice for someone who cannot let anything be normal for five goddamn seconds.”
Silence.
His brows draw together slightly, his arms unfolding.
“…what?”
You breathe out hard through your nose, then turn, grabbing your laptop off the table.
“Forget it.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Nope.”
You open it with more force than necessary, click through your email, and turn the screen toward him, setting it on the table.
The confirmation page is still there.
Flights.
Hotel.
A stupidly nice resort you spent weeks researching because you knew he would never plan something like this for himself for no reason. A few days away. No work. No meetings. No contracts. Just sun, water, and the chance to see if he remembered how to relax without treating it like an assignment.
Phillip stares at the screen.
For once, he says nothing. Absolutely nothing.
You cross your arms, watching the realization hit him piece by piece.
The tightness leaves his face first.
Then the cold.
Then the anger.
And finally, something worse takes its place.
Guilt.
“Shit,” he says quietly.
You let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Shit.”
His eyes lift to yours slowly.
You are still angry. He can see that. Hurt too, probably. Embarrassed, which only makes you angrier, because you had been excited about this. You had pictured his reaction a dozen different ways, and none of them involved him looking at you like he was trying to decide if you had betrayed him.
His voice drops.
“Darlin’…”
“Don’t.”
He stops immediately.
Good.
You close the laptop and hold it against your chest like it can still protect whatever is left of the surprise.
“I was trying to do something nice for you.”
“I know.”
“No, you didn’t.”
His jaw tightens at that, but not defensively this time.
Because you are right. He did not know.
He assumed.
He assessed.
He turned you into a situation before he let you be a person. And now he has to stand there with that.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
It comes out simple.
No excuse. No explanation. Just the words.
You stare at him for a second, arms still folded.
Then you let out a slow breath through your nose.
“You went full interrogation over a vacation.”
His jaw shifts.
A beat.
Then his eyes flick down briefly, like he knows he has absolutely no defense.
“Yeah.”
“Good work, Phillip.”
His mouth twitches at your dry tone.
“I messed that up.”
“Bad.”
“Real bad,” he agrees, serious as anything.
You shake your head, still annoyed, but the sharpest edge of it is already starting to dull. Because that is the thing about Phillip. He can stand there looking guilty and smug at the same time, somehow, like even his regret has posture.
“And you ruined the surprise,” you add.
“I did.”
“You did.”
He nods once, solemn. “Terrible work on my part.”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t get cute.”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to.”
“You’re always trying to.”
That gets him. Just a little. The corner of his mouth pulls before he can stop it, and it only makes you glare harder.
He lifts one hand slightly, like he’s surrendering. “In my defense, secrets and my line of work don’t exactly go together, Honey.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Did my American Airlines confirmation trigger your MARSOC special ops black site, whatever, bullshit training?”
His brows lift. “Was Delta, not American Airlines.”
“Not the point.”
“Just sayin’.”
“Phillip.”
He presses his mouth shut, but the smile is still there, tucked at the corner like he’s trying to behave and failing.
You set the laptop on the counter beside you before he can inspect anything else and ruin whatever is left of this. “You’re impossible.”
“Mhm,” he hums, taking one careful step closer. “And yet…”
“Do not.”
He stops, but only technically. Close enough now that the air changes. Close enough that his hands come up slowly, giving you every chance to swat him away before they settle at your waist.
You don’t.
Unfortunately.
His palms are warm through your shirt, familiar in a way that makes your annoyance very inconvenient.
“So,” he says carefully, eyes flicking to the laptop, then back to you. “Vacation, hmm?”
You give him a flat look. “Not interrogating?”
“Not interrogating,” he promises. “Asking. ”
“You’re on thin ice.”
His mouth curves. “Always.”
“Especially right now.”
“I’m aware.” His thumbs move once at your waist. Slow. Testing. “So… vacation.”
“Yes.”
“We talkin’ beach?”
“Mhm.”
“Tequila?”
“By the bottle.”
“Sun?”
“Of course, Phillip.”
His eyes drag over your face, warm and amused now, that earlier tension finally easing into something softer. More him.
A beat.
Then, lower, with entirely too much interest,
“We talkin’ you in a bikini?”
You stare at him.
The smile on his face grows by half an inch.
“Not anymore, asshole.”
His head tips back slightly and he groans miserably like you’ve wounded him. “You’re killin’ me here, Sweetheart.”
“You interrogated me over plane tickets.”
“And I apologized.”
“Yeah, and you can forget about helping with my sunscreen now.”
“Now hold on,” he says, suddenly very serious. “Let’s not make emotional decisions. No one needs to get hurt here.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and his whole face changes when he hears it.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
His hands settle a little more securely at your waist, like he knows he’s been forgiven halfway and he’s smart enough not to push for the rest too fast.
“You’re insane,” you mutter.
“Maybe,” he says, softer now, leaning just a little closer. “But apparently you’re takin’ me on vacation anyway.”
he surely has a daddy kink, right? i feel like it just makes sense. i also saw a post about how he'd def call you "young lady" and now i can't stop thinking about it..................................................
When I tell you I could get so in the WEEDS writing about Phillip's kinks.
I reeallllyy had to rein myself in for this one because hevean only knows I could write fic after fic after fic about my thoughts on this.
A Daddy Kink? Oh, absolutely.
But with Phillip, I don’t think “Daddy” is just about the word.
It is about what the word does to him.
Phillip likes titles. Commander. Sir. Daddy. Husband. Father. Those words put him in place. They tell him who he is in the room, what kind of authority he has, what kind of claim he gets to make.
So before kids?
Yeah.
“Daddy” is pure cocky authority kink for him.
It is the same part of his brain that likes being called Commander Graves. The same part of him that likes giving orders and watching people obey. Except now it is you saying it, breathless and flustered, handing him control with your own mouth.
And he would be so smug about it.
You’re mouthing off, pushing him, acting real brave for someone standing that close, and he just tilts his head.
“Careful, young lady.”
And you hate how fast it works.
Hate that your mouth shuts before you can stop it. Hate that your breath catches. Hate that your whole attitude stumbles for one stupid second.
Phillip sees it.
Of course he does.
His eyes drop. Just once.
Then they come back to your face, slow and mean and pleased.
“Oh,” he says, voice low. “That’s what we’re doin’?”
Awful man.
Terrible man.
Because now he knows.
And once Phillip Graves knows something works, you are finished.
I think he is very much a say my name man. He wants you present. He wants you looking at him. He wants all that attitude stripped down until the only thing left in your mouth is him.
“Say it, darlin’. Let me hear it.”
“Look at me.”
“Who’s got you?”
“Who do you belong to right now?”
And yes.
Absolutely.
“Who’s your daddy?”
Not in a goofy way. Not in a corny way. In that low, controlled, too-cocky Phillip voice where he already knows the answer and just wants to make you give it to him.
That is the part he likes.
The admission.
The fact that you can be stubborn and mouthy all you want, but eventually he can get you soft enough, flustered enough, desperate enough, that you say it.
And the worst part?
It gets to him too.
You can see it. The way his eyes go darker when he finally hears it. The way his mouth parts for half a second before the smugness slides back into place. Like hearing you hand him that title hits somewhere lower than he expected, and now he has to make that your problem.
And Commander Graves?
That is its own fucking issue.
Because that one is cleaner on the surface. Polished. Professional. Respectable.
Which somehow makes it dirtier.
I can absolutely see his secretary calling out sick and you filling in for the day. Nothing serious. Just answering phones, organizing papers, sitting outside his office in a skirt and heels like you are not fully aware of what you are doing to him.
And Phillip tries to be normal about it.
He really does.
For about twenty minutes.
Then you walk into his office with a folder tucked against your chest, all eyelashes and floral perfume, sweet and helpful, and say:
“Commander Graves?”
His pen stops moving.
That is it.
Just one little pause.
For one second, Phillip does not look at you.
He looks at the paper like it has personally betrayed him.
Then his eyes lift.
Slow.
Sharp.
He takes in the heels first. Then your legs. The skirt. The folder held against your chest. The innocent little expression on your face like you are not playing with fire in his office while he is trying to run a company.
“Need somethin’, sweetheart?”
And you smile like butter would not melt.
“Just your signature, sir.”
There.
That one gets him.
You can see it in the way his jaw shifts. The way his hand tightens around the pen. The way his eyes flick to the office door and back to you like he is doing math he already knows the answer to.
That door is getting locked eventually.
Maybe not right away, because Phillip has restraint when he wants to.
And honestly?
He likes the waiting.
He likes watching you sit outside his office pretending to behave while he knows exactly what that title sounded like in your mouth. Likes having to school his own hand away from his belt buckle when he catches sight of you through the glass, sitting at that desk in your skirt and heels, working so hard for his company like you are not doing every bit of it on purpose.
But eventually, the intercom clicks on.
“Come here a minute, darlin’.”
And when you step inside, he is leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, expression calm in that way that should immediately make you nervous.
He does not say anything at first.
Just looks at you.
Then he nods toward the door.
“Lock it.”
So yes.
Daddy. Commander. Sir.
It is all the same family for him.
Authority. Control. Permission. Proof that you know exactly who he is and still want him anyway.
But after he becomes an actual father?
The Daddy thing changes.
Not disappears.
Changes.
Because now “Daddy” is not just something you call him when he has you pinned down and flustered. Now there is a baby in the house calling him that with sticky hands and sleepy eyes and his whole little chest.
Now it is real.
Now it has weight.
Before kids, Daddy means:
I’m in charge.
After kids, Daddy means:
I made you Mama.
And unfortunately for everyone involved, that would go straight to Phillip’s head.
Because Phillip’s breeding kink is not just “I want to get you pregnant” in some shallow way.
It is proof.
Evidence.
Consequence.
It is the fact that your body carried something that came from both of you. The fact that there is a little person in the world because you loved each other hard enough to make life.
And Phillip Graves would be absolutely unbearable with evidence.
The baby is proof.
Your body is proof.
The way you answer to Mama now is proof.
The little voice calling him Daddy from down the hall is proof.
Proof that he had you.
Proof that you let him.
Proof that you chose him so completely that both of your lives changed shape around it.
He would see you holding the baby on your hip, tired and soft and giving him attitude over your shoulder, and it would hit him low and hard all over again.
That is his wife.
That is his baby.
That is the woman who let him love her so hard it became a person.
And God help you if he decides he wants to do it again.
Because now when you call him Daddy in bed, it is not just a game anymore.
It is a reminder.
A threat, almost.
A promise.
He is thinking about another baby.
Another little voice.
Another piece of proof.
He is thinking about his hand spread low over your stomach and the first time your body took him seriously enough to make him a father.
It is not just:
“Who’s your daddy?”
It is:
“You remember what happened last time you called me that?”
And he says it with his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and too fucking pleased with himself because he knows you remember too.
Because there is a baby sleeping down the hall who happened last time.
Because he knows exactly what he gave you.
Because he knows exactly what you gave him.
That, to me, is where the kink gets hotter.
Because it stops being only about control and starts being about consequence.
Phillip is a results man. He likes proof. He likes outcomes. He likes being able to point at something and know he made it happen.
So of course breeding would get under his skin.
It is the most physical, undeniable version of all of that.
His name in your mouth.
His baby in your arms.
His whole life suddenly walking around outside his body because the two of you could not keep your hands off each other.
Before kids, he likes the title because it gives him power.
After kids, he likes it because he is Daddy.
Because you made him one.
Because every time he hears it, some greedy, possessive part of him remembers that he got to make you Mama too.
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