Unbeknownst to most, Phillip Graves is not the worst ex husband in the world.
Not the best, but the man is just shy of a B.
Theres not a doubt in his mind that he loved you, he still loves you. But sometimes love can be a little messy, adding a little too much over protectiveness with small hints of jealousy and maybe it just wasn’t the right time.
Co parenting isn’t a issue for him, doesn’t need to be asked twice about doctors visits, or the little graduation ceremony held at the end of the year for your one year old who hasn’t a clue what’s going on at day care. He’s recording the milestones and sending them to you when he’s not deployed, asking to hear the babies voice when he’s is— hell, the man is still paying your bills in the house he left for you and your baby even though you told him not to.
It’s when you bring a new man around, old habits don’t die soon. Phillip Graves doesn’t mind arguments in the parking lot at the meeting place, or sizing up the first guy you tried to bring around wip just couldn’t handle the intimidation from Graves, randomly popping up to your house with the key he still has to see if the ‘cameras still work’ or the ‘drain is clogging right’ just as you’re about to make out with the person you were dating.
The bastard.
Today’s no different, the southern man actually approved of the guy you’re seeing for once. Didn’t put up a fight, had a look in his blue eyes you just couldn’t read. A tension in his shoulders when he picked up your baby for his last couple of days before deploying, ‘oh, this might actually be the end of it.’
But after two months, all he wants to see if you and your kid. Hear the rabbles and babbles of your beautiful child you created while you smile and go through all the pics he’s missed out on. But today is quiet, babies down for a nap, Phillip can hear the rustling of laundry upstairs, the tv low to some show with 7 seasons. You’re pretty when his eyes land on you after making it upstairs, curls in two low ponytails, small hoops in your peircings, plain violet mid sleeve tee shirt that just compliments you so well, jeans that hug every curve on you just the way he likes. Mouth watering.
He gives the open door to your bedroom a knock. “Hey sweetheart.”
You try your bed to smile, but it’s meek, “Hi Graves, welcome back.”
Graves blue eyes wash over you, gh way you keep shifting on your feet, a little drained, “What’s wrong honey? You alright?”
You couldn’t hide it even if you tried, “Me at that guy I was dating broke up.”
He leans against the dresser, turning the volume lower on the tv, he takes it in, nodding, “Huh.” But now the question is, why would anyone on gods given earth want to break up with a prize like you? He feels his jaw lock, “Can you tell me what happened or was it just some bullshit.”
A bit of both.
You sigh, “He couldn’t fathom that I would put our child before him. And when I told him he should rethink it, he tried pinning it on me. That I could leave the baby with you—“ you take a frustrated deep breath out. Putting your energy into folding the pile of clothes on your bed. It shouldn’t be so heavy on your mind- but it’s gnawing at you. Irritated you that someone felt entitled like that, even if you’d only been dating him seriously for 4 months. Phillip would never think like that—
“I bet you’re happy it ended though right?” You try to laugh it off, eyes finally meeting his. And he’s got so much a soft look on his face when he looks at you, but it’s disgruntled, eyebrows knitted together, leaning against the dresser with his arms folded over his chest.
“Why would I ever want you t’be unhappy [+]?” Says it as if it’s a curse. The whole thing below him.
“Doesn’t matter that we’ve fought like cats ‘nd fuckin dogs, ‘nd broke my fuckin hard slidin me divorce papers— maybe I fuckin needed it t’ open my eyes.” And Graves slowly crosses the room towards you. “But I’ve always wanted what’s best for you and our kid, that aint ever gonna chance ‘long as I’m alive. You and the baby come first, doesn’t matter what’s going on. That includes making sure yer done right by even if it ain’t from me. I’ll knock the fuckin lights out that bastard or anybody else over you darlin, that clear?”
You nod, butterflies swarming in your stomach just as they’ve always have. Graves hand found itself low on your back, other hand lifting your chin.
“Good,” his thumb runs over you plump lips, planting a much needed one on them. Gentle, warm, Phillip pulls away, back of his knuckles rubbing up and down your back. “How ‘bout we take it easy, stay together as a family. Put on some Pixar movie, get all the snack ya like, cuddle up close. Just like we used t’, huh?”
You’re breathless, mind hazed over you can’t help but give him a, “yes.”
Almost as if the military man had planned, your babies cries fill your ears from the monitor and not too far down the hall.
Graves gives you that classic charming smile, “You finish this up, I’ll get the baby changed.”
It’s so easy for things to fall into place, easier when you force them too.
Maybe if Graves had known how perfect you’d fall back into his arms, he would’ve sent a stupid bastard who didn’t deserve you your way sooner.
a/n: graves is fvcked but he’s my fvcked up southern man.
You could blame it on the blistering sun or those early spring horomones. But you couldn't stop how your heart hammered behind your ribs when you saw your man stepping into the mudroom of your home.
His plaid shirt hung open, wirey chest hair poking out and dripping with sweat. Bits of grass clippings stuck to his quivering muscles as he wiped some of the sweat dripping off his brow. He glistened like an Adonis come to life for your viewing pleasure.
"Hey darlin', I thought maybe you'd come h-"
"Get your belt off." You drop the dish towel that's curled into your fist as you cross the length of the kitchen and drop to your knees. Burying your nose in the thatch of hair that trails below his waistband. Inhaling. Sweat, sun, musky. Sweet fucking Ambrosia.
"But baby-" He looks genuinely a little flabbergasted that you're practically frothing at the mouth to have his dick. But you're already halfway through with getting the zipper down with your teeth and he's already hard as a fucking rock anyways. He was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
--
"Nasty little thing." He purrs as he rams his dick down your throat, each rough grind of his hips has your nose pressing into those curls at his base. Each little whiff of that smell combined with the taste of him on your tongue practically has your eyes crossing and toes curling.
And when you gag? He holds you there longer, throat working around him as you look up at him through watery lashes.
"You wanted it so bad and now you're going to take it."
AN-I told ya'll on me @rawme-price post I've been thinking about sweaty men. Check out his fic here.
your kids asking the cod men (+konig and graves) about area 51
a/n: i know area 51 is in the US but this is just a fun crack fic
♡ john price (dad mode: engaged)
you’re washing dishes in the kitchen. wearing that robe he bought you. your youngest is drawing on the fridge whiteboard. your oldest, spoon in hand, squints up at him like a little detective.
“dad, do aliens live in area 51?”
price, sipping his tea, doesn’t miss a beat:
“they did. we evicted ’em in ‘98.”
you laugh softly. “john—”
“one of ’em tried to take your mum on a date,” he adds, folding the paper, eyes twinkling. “had to break four of his fingers. little green shit never came back.”
he winks at you. you roll your eyes. your kid is stunned.
and later? your child draws an alien with a broken hand and writes “DADDY GOT HIM” on the page.
♡ soap mactavish (unhinged uncle energy but dad edition)
he’s making pancakes in the kitchen. shirtless. your toddler’s sitting on the counter with pancake batter on their nose.
“daddy, do you have alien friends?”
“aye,” he says, flipping a pancake. “one of ‘em owed me five bucks. i never forget.”
you walk in mid-convo and he’s just saying:
“—and their hands are like spaghetti. weirdest handshake ever.”
you: “johnny.”
soap: “babe. he asked.”
later, your kid tries to shake your hand using only four floppy fingers.
♡ gaz (the realist but turns into a menace)
sitting on the sofa with a kid on each side. watching cartoons. sippy cup half-empty. suddenly:
“dad? what’s in area 51?”
he sighs. dramatic. long.
“tax fraud, mostly.”
you giggle from the kitchen. but then—he leans in real close to the kids, drops his voice:
“but one time, i saw a guy walk through a wall. he’s probably still there.”
you shout: “KYLE.”
he grins. the kids are silent for the next twenty minutes, watching the door.
♡ ghost (dad of silence, until he isn’t)
your kid is colouring next to him at the table. he’s drinking coffee in complete silence. you’re folding laundry.
“dad, are aliens real?”
he doesn’t answer at first.
then, softly:
“only met one. didn’t speak. just stared.”
your child: :o
“it blinked sideways,” he adds, sipping his mug. “still see it in my dreams.”
you: “simon.”
“what?” he shrugs. “builds character.”
your kid doesn’t sleep that night. neither does he. bonding.
♡ graves (suburban menace. king of dad lies.)
he’s mowing the lawn. your kid runs up with popsicle-stained hands yelling:
“dad, are aliens real?!”
he stops, takes off his sunglasses.
“kiddo, not only are they real—your mum was one.”
your child: screams
you from the porch: “phillip!”
“how else you think she got eyes like that?” he calls, grinning.
later, he lets your kid wear his sunglasses and says,
“you see any green guys? tell your old man. we’ll handle it.”
♡ könig (gentle giant, terrified)
you’re all sitting on the couch. popcorn. cartoons. one of your kids looks at him and whispers:
“papa… what’s in area 51?”
he stiffens. visibly. clutches the bowl.
“we… we are not allowed to speak about it,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “they made us sign… papers.”
you: “honey. you can tell them it’s just a base—”
“no,” he says, deadly serious. “they scan your teeth.”
your kid slowly covers their mouth.
later, you find tinfoil hats made out of cereal boxes in their room.
you shuffle into the kitchen barefoot, draggin’ your feet, wearin’ that soft pink nightgown with the lace trim that he definitely bought you. it barely covers your thighs, and your hair’s a mess, but you’re lookin’ at him like he’s the only man on earth who can give you what you really want.
“phillip,” you say, voice all breathy and sweet, leanin’ against the counter like you didn’t spend the whole night sendin’ him baby tiktoks with captions like “we’d be such cute parents omg”.
he doesn’t even look up from his coffee. just sips it slow and mutters, “lord have mercy. you startin’ this shit again?”
you pout immediately, fingers twistin’ in the hem of your nightgown. “i want a baby,” you whine, comin’ up behind him and wrappin’ your arms around his waist. “please, phillip. just one. a tiny one. they’re so cute and squishy—”
“you talkin’ about a baby or a loaf’a bread?” he scoffs, settin’ his mug down with a thud. “girl, you don’t even know how to spell pediatrician.”
“do too!” you snap, even though you absolutely don’t.
he turns around and lifts you right up onto the counter like you weigh nothin’, starin’ you down with that smug grin of his. “lemme get this straight. you want me to put a baby in you… when you still cry when the waffle burns in the toaster?”
you cross your arms. “i’m emotional.”
“you’re helpless,” he says, pokin’ your thigh. “but cute. real cute. you keep beggin’ like that, i might just give you another puppy.”
“i don’t want another puppy!” you huff, brows all furrowed. “i want your baby! i wanna waddle around in cute lil overalls and make you rub my feet!”
he laughs—really laughs—like you’re the funniest damn thing he’s ever seen. “jesus christ, baby. the only thing you should be waddlin’ in is a nice lacy bra, not a diaper bag.”
you slap his chest but you’re gigglin’ too, leanin’ into his touch when he brushes your hair out of your face.
“how ‘bout this,” he says, drawl slow and cruelly sweet. “you keep that puppy alive for one more month without tryin’ to feed it chocolate or paint its claws pink, then we’ll talk about you havin’ a kid.”
you blink. “wait—you fed it chocolate!”
“details,” he mutters, liftin’ you off the counter with one arm. “c’mon, sugar. let’s get you dressed ‘fore you flash the mailman again.”
I was online shopping for a new anklet and got an idea:)
cw: cuteness aggression; smut; established romantic relationship; wee bit of foot fetish/feet
Simon “Ghost” Riley
You sit on the edge of the bed after your everything shower, lotioning your legs slowly. Simon leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching like he always does, because the domesticity of it grounds and calms him.
When you reach your ankle, the new rose-gold chain glints—delicate links with a tiny skull charm and a little heart dangling beside it. He goes perfectly still, like an apex predator zeroing in on his next meal.
You glance up and a slow smirk spreads on your lips. “Like it, babe?”
Simon scoffs quietly as if the answer is obvious, crosses the room in three strides, drops to his knees without a word, and wraps one large hand around your calf. He lifts your foot to his mouth, presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle right above the chain, then traces the metal with his tongue.
The cool rose-gold warms against your skin as he growls low, “Bought yourself somethin’ pretty to show off for me, yeah?” His other hand is already sliding up your thigh, pushing the towel apart while you giggle with giddiness.
“Fuckin’ lovely.”
By the time he has you flat on your back, he’s sucking marks around the anklet, muttering filthy praise about how gorgeous your thick legs look like this, all adorned with jewelry and taken care of. Simon fucks you slow and reverently, eyes locked on the way the little skull charm jingles with every deep thrust.
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
You’re in the kitchen, humming a tune while making a snack for yourself and him, when Johnny comes in from the garage, still greasy from tinkering with his truck.
You’re wearing shorts for once because it’s warm inside the house despite winter warring outside, and the silver anklet with its tiny star and moon charms catches the light as you shift your weight.
Johnny stops dead, toolbox clattering to the floor. “Fuckin’ hell, hen.”
Next thing you know he’s on you—grubby hands on your hips, spinning you, lifting you onto the counter as you yelp. He drops to a crouch, mouth hot against your calf, kissing up to the anklet like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
“Johnny!”
“Look at this wee beauty,” he groans, teeth grazing the chain as your protest dissolves into flustered giggles. “Makes yer legs look even more edible.”
“Jesus Christ, Johnny—” you bemoan in fond exasperation while he spreads your thighs wide to bury his face between them, licking over the seam of your cotton shorts until the fabric is soaked with his saliva and your own slick before he yanks it down your thick legs, panties included.
“Not in front of the bloody sandwiches!” you squeal, but our thighs part wider for him, and Johnny eats you out right there on the kitchen counter, groaning and slurping into your cunt until you’re shaking, keeping one greasy hand wrapped around your ankle, thumb rubbing over the charms like he can’t get enough.
John Price
You’re curled on the couch beside him watching some documentary he picked. You’ve kicked off your warm slippers; legs stretched across his lap.
The new gold anklet—simple chain with a tiny compass charm—gleams against your skin when you flex your foot and wiggle your painted toes absently. Price’s hand stills on your thigh. His gaze drops, then darkens instantly.
“When did you get that, love?” he asks, his voice a rough murmur while his calloused thumb drags over the charm.
“Yesterday,” you answer with a cheeky smile as you clock that look in his eyes. “Used your credit card like you told me to.”
John lifts your leg gently, brings your foot to his mouth, and kisses the inside of your ankle right where the chain rests with a low groan. The gold warms against his lips, his coarse beard rasps against your supple skin.
“Christ, you’re trying to kill me, sweetheart.”
And he spends the next twenty minutes worshipping your legs—slow kisses up your calf, teeth scraping the soft flesh of your thigh—until he’s hard and aching against his pants. Then he pulls you into his lap, slides your panties aside, and sinks into you in one smooth thrust, hands locked around your ankles so the little compass jingles softly with every roll of his hips.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
You’re getting ready for bed, sitting at the vanity and fixing your bonnet in your robe, when Kyle walks past in his boxers, stops, and does a double take.
You’ve crossed your bare legs, and the delicate silver anklet with its tiny butterfly charms catches the lamplight.
He’s behind you in seconds, hands on your shoulders, mouth at your ear. “Now when did you start wearing that?”
You flash a cheeky smile at his reflection. “Thought it was cute.”
“Cute,” Kyle repeats with a snort, like the word personally offends him. He spins your chair, kneels, and lifts your foot into his lap. His thumb traces the chain, then the curve of your ankle, then higher. “You’ve no idea what this does to me, do you?”
You’re very aware that he has a thing for your feet, and the anklet pushes him straight over the edge.
“Oh, I have a little hunch, Garrick,” you snicker while Kyle kisses every manicured toe, gently licks along the smooth arch of your bejeweled foot, then works his way up your calf while his free hand slips between your thighs, finding your pussy bare.
“Need you, baby. Please,” he groans helplessly, peppering kisses along the inside of your plush thigh like you’re the queen and he’s the devoted subject.
However, by the time he’s got you maneuvered on the bed, Kyle fucks you with your legs thrown over his broad shoulders, folding you in half with his hazel eyes fixed on the way the butterflies flutter and dangle so prettily against your skin with every thrust, telling you breathlessly how perfect your thick, soft legs look wrapped in silver.
Nikolai
You’re in the hangar next to his cabin in the mountains, barefoot on the cold concrete, helping him sort through a crate of smuggled parts.
The new gold anklet—thick chain that resembles the one he wears around his neck—shifts against your skin as you bend and stretch.
Nikolai notices, pauses mid-reach, dark eyes narrowing. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his handsome face.
“Milaya moya,” he drawls, voice thick with his accent, “what is this little thing you hide from me?”
“What do you even mean?” you reply with a soft huff, still rummaging and shifting on your feet as the cold starts biting your skin.
He drops the wrench with a clang, crosses the space between you, and lifts your leg without warning, hooking it over his hip while you yelp then giggle.
“This,” Nikolai growls. His rough palm slides up your calf, thumb pressing the chain so the metal bites just enough to make you gasp next. “Gold suits you,” he murmurs, leaning down to drag his teeth along the links. “Makes me want to mark you with something even prettier.”
“Oh… that—” You squirm in his grip as he handles you so effortlessly; his eyes flick up to meet yours. “Da, that.”
You end up braced against the side of his helo, legs spread wide and standing on your tiptoes, his cock buried deep from behind while one mammoth hand of his stays wrapped around your throat, gentle and grounding.
“Next time, you’ll wear one with my name on it,” he growls against your nape, groaning shamelessly in between thrusts while your nails scrape against metal.
Alejandro Vargas
You’re barefoot in the kitchen of the ranch house, reaching for a glass on the top shelf. The late sunlight catches the new gold anklet—thin chain with a tiny sun charm and a little seashell dangling beside it.
Alejandro freezes in the doorway, duffel still over his shoulder from the drive home, the collar of his fatigues clinging to his sweaty neck. His dark chocolate eyes lock on your ankle, then slowly travel up the curve of your calf, the soft thickness of your thigh under the pale blue sundress.
“Ay, mi vida,” he breathes, his voice turning rough at the edge. “¿Cuándo compraste eso?” He drops the bag with a thud, crosses the room in two strides, and sinks to his knees right there on the tile like he’ll start praying any second.
“Today,” you answer, smiling down while you rake your fingers through his messy, raven locks. “Bought it as a little treat for myself… and you.”
He chuckles, eyes glinting mischievously while his strong, gloved hands slide up your legs, thumbs tracing the chain gently. He presses open-mouthed kisses along your ankle, teeth grazing the gold until the metal warms against your skin.
“Looks so damn pretty on you,” Alejandro growls, already pushing the dress higher before disappearing under the flowy skirt, his next words muffled as he presses his face against your clothed cunt: “Makes me want to ruin the rest of you.”
“Alejandro!”
You gasp audibly, hands grappling to grip the edge of the kitchen counter for support while he’s too busy mouthing at the thin cotton of your panties.
Rodolfo Parra
You’re curled on the couch, reading, when Rudy enters through the open sliding doors facing the backyard, still dusty from training recruits all day.
You stretch your legs across his lap when he sits with a tired groan, and the delicate silver anklet—a simple chain with a tiny heart and a little cross charm—glints against your skin.
His breath audibly catches. You glance up from your book, blinking slowly as you watch and feel his hand on your calf, one thumb brushing the chain like it’s fragile before he lifts your leg to take a closer look.
“Hermosa… when did you start wearing this?” His voice is soft, almost reverent.
“I found it in my jewelry box today,” you answer, closing the book without bothering to remember the page. “Thought it might be cute. Is it too much?”
“Too much?” His pupils blow as he lifts your foot, kisses the inside of your ankle right over the anklet, then higher, slow and deliberate, while your breath keeps hitching and your cheeks begin to burn.
The metal cools then warms naturally under his lips and sweet attention.
“Come here, cariño. Let me love you.”
And you end up straddling your husband on the couch, dress pushed up to your waist, his hands cradling your thick thighs while he rocks up into you. Every slow thrust makes the anklet chime softly against his wrist while keeps whispering “tan perfecta, mi amor” against your neck until you’re both trembling and sated.
Phillip Graves
You’re lounging by the pool at the ranch house your husband bought for you in Texas, legs dangling in the cool water, when Phillip steps out in swim trunks and aviator sunglasses.
The new rose-gold anklet—delicate links with a tiny lone star and a little horseshoe—catches the sun as you kick and splash lazily. He stops mid-stride, shades sliding down his nose as he tips them dramatically.
“Well, damn, darlin’.” He’s in the water before you can blink, strong hands on your hips pulling you to the very edge.
“What?” you ask languidly (because you know it gets him hot and bothered every time), adjusting your own sunglasses with the tip of your manicured finger. “Watch it. I just put on some tanning oil.”
Phillips grins dangerously, flashing pearly white teeth as he gropes and massages your calves. Water drips off him as he stands between your plush thighs, mouth already on your ankle as he lifts it, sucking the wet chain between his teeth and tugging playfully.
“Buying yourself pretty things that make your legs look this edible oughta be illegal, honey,” he drawls smugly in between kisses.
“Ugh, shut up, you silly man.” You tut, nudging your toes against his buff pecs, though it merely makes him groan aloud, blue eyes twinkling behind tinted glasses. “Make me.”
Phillip eats you out right there on the pool deck, water lapping at your calves; his merciless tongue greedy and shameless as ever as he devours his pretty wife. When he finally fucks you, it’s hard and fast against the lounger, one hand always gripping your ankle like he owns the jewelry and the woman wearing it.
König
You’re lounging on the large, custom-made bed, scrolling through your phone, when König ducks through the doorway, fresh from the gym.
You lift one leg to reach your foot and scratch an itch, and the sturdy silver anklet—a thicker chain to survive his handling, with a tiny crown charm—flashes against your moisturized skin. König visibly freezes at the sight, hood still half-on, big baby blues wide behind the T-shirt mask.
“Gott im Himmel,” he mutters, his voice slightly muffled. He’s across the room in a heartbeat, faster than anyone might expect, massive frame folding to his knees. Careful hands—always so incredibly careful with you—lift your foot like it’s precious.
You’re already smiling behind your screen when he presses his masked mouth to the chain, then yanks the fabric up just enough to kiss the skin underneath.
“So goddamn beautiful on you, Schatz,” he rumbles, his Austrian accent thick. “Makes me want to make a mess and keep you in bed forever.”
König has obvious foot worship tendencies, and the anklet sends him into overdrive.
“Can… I?” he asks tentatively, cock visibly straining against his grey sweats. And you roll your eyes with fond exasperation before resting your foot on his meaty thigh encouragingly. “Sure, baby. Go ahead.”
A visible shudder wrecks through him while he whimpers and fumbles to free his fat length, already flushed and weeping pre from its slit. And König spends ages kissing and massaging your feet and calves with one hand while stroking his cock with the other; fucking into his big fist until he paints your foot and delicate anklet with his load before licking it all clean under your gentle praise afterwards.
Keegan P. Russ
You’re sprawled on the couch in one of his old and worn-out Marine Corps hoodies and not much else, curvy legs stretched out leisurely, watching that one guilty pleasure Reality TV show of yours while eating popcorn.
The new matte black anklet—tactical-looking chain with a tiny skull and a little dog tag charm—catches the soft lamplight when you wiggle your toes to keep your feet from falling asleep.
Keegan, walking past and cracking a cold beer open, nearly stumbles. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, setting the can down hard on the coffee table as you glance up at him curiously. You’re ready to defend the show stubbornly, but he’s on you in seconds, tackling and pinning you on the couch beneath him while you squeal in surprise; long fingers tracing the black metal like it’s classified intel.
“Tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me again, baby?” His voice is lower now, rougher, and playfully accusing.
“What the fuck are you ta—AH!” He lifts your leg over his shoulder, mouth hot against your ankle, teeth scraping the chain before he bites your Achilles tendon. “Good enough to fuckin’ eat,” he growls. “Fuckin’ flexible, too, huh.”
That’s enough to knock the last bit of air from your lungs and make your pussy drip, and you watch his glacier blue eyes darken as soon as he catches onto that. His plump lips split into a shit-eating grin before he rocks his hips against yours.
“You’re such an asshole,” you whine, squirming helplessly.
“Tit for tat, baby,” Keegan murmurs, dipping his head to mouth and kiss along your neck; one large hand keeping a firm grip around that bejeweled ankle of yours.
the pads of his fingers traced delicate patterns on your side, hands gently feeling the smooth skin. you leaned into his embrace and moved one of your hands to tangle in his hair, your fingers beginning to massage his scalp. he hummed quietly and leaned into your touch while his eyes fluttered shut
"feels good," he murmured, gently squeezing your side with his fingers. your gaze slid over his content expression, and you moved down to press a sweet, lasting kiss to his forehead. his soft hum of satisfaction urged you to continue. you moved your slow, tender kisses from his forehead to his nose, his cheeks, his chin, making sure to kiss and caress his entire face, until you pressed a final, lingering kiss to his lips before gently pulling away
once he noticed that your lips lost contact, his eyes lazily opened and met yours, and your breath caught in your throat at how he looked at you. "come back," he mumbled softly, moving one of his hands from your waist to cup your jaw in the process. he brought your face closer to his and ran his thumb along your cheek. you sighed and looked back at him, a subtle smile on your lips before you let him do it
he positioned himself above you and soon had you pinned beneath him on the bed, legs spread as he leaned in, crushing his mouth against yours. his body pressed against yours, still holding your jaw as he kissed you. his crotch met your thigh, moving slowly against it. you let out a soft moan as he moved his hips forward against your cunt, eyes shut when he slipped his tongue to tangle with yours. he moved slowly, feeling himself grow hard
he broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your mouths as he leaned in toward your neck, nuzzling his head against you. his teeth grazed the skin, still grinding into you with pressure, the outline of his cock straining against his pants. he sucked on your skin, a quiet whine escaping your lips. you felt him increase the pressure of his movements, his bulge shifting just right against you. you pulled him in, legs wrapping around his hips, making him press even closer
Mhmm Graves manipulating reader into liking him after he arranged a marriage with their father, one of his investors, because they were sooo pretty. Slimy older man Graves that lays his southern charm on thick and basically keeps his partner beneath him, but they kinda like it
You were furious. Graves could tell, but he didn't pay much mind to it as he all but drags you to the center of the dance floor. "Let go of me!" You his angrily when he pulls you tight against his chest.
"What? Can't dance with my bride?" He smirks down at you, hand tight on your hip to keep you close. "You can fuss all you want, sweetheart. It's a done deal."
"I'll make your life hell." You vow as he twirls you, the slightly sheer dress he chose for the reception billowing around your legs. "You're a godless, filty man. You have me half naked in front of all these guests... I'm nothing but meat to you."
"Ah, don't say that, sweetheart." He coos as he dips you low to the ground. You yelp, gripping his shoulder tight, which makes him grin wickedly down at you. "You're also the reason your Daddy's business can keep running. Such a pretty thing for me." He whispers as he nuzzles his nose against your neck. He raises you up from the dip as the song ends, the crowd of people you didn't know clapping and cheering their support.
"I hate you."
"That's okay, darling. I'll treat you real nice."
Phillip believed the only thing a woman should do is rest. The housekeeper he hired kept things clean, his cook prepared all his meals, and he had landscapers for anything outside. He made sure you quit your job. It was insulting for you to work when he could provide everything you could ever need.
"You are not taking my fucking car!" You snarl, diving after the keys held in Graves hand. He dangles them over his head, grinning down at you as he jingles them in the air. "Give. That. Back."
"If you need to go somewhere, you can call the driver. It's not safe for a lady to drive around on her own." He explains softly, like he was talking a child down from a tantrum.
"I've been driving for years! No accidents, no tickets, don't bullshit me!" You shove his chest hard, getting angrier when he barely budges. "Give me back my keys!"
"I already sold the car, sweetheart. It's not like the keys would get you anywhere." He chuckles as he drops them onto the floor. You froze, not even bothering to grab the keys off the floor.
"You didn't... You fucking sold it!?"
"What have I told you about that foul mouth, sweetheart?" He sighs as he strokes your hair away from your face. "Yes, I sold it. Don't worry, I took that stash of money you had in the trunk and put it towards some clothes for when we travel! You needed something for winter."
Tears flood your eyes, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear what he was saying. You should have known that Graves would find the money. It was stupid to keep it there, and now it was gone.
"Oh, hey, hey... don't cry, darling!" He thumbs a few tears away from your face. "What, is it because I said we're going to the mountains? We can pick something else." He assures with that same gentle tone. "Oh, poor thing." He coos as he guides you into his chest, grinning when you melt into him.
It didn't take long for Phillip to make you comfortable. Everything you wanted, you got. Except your freedom, of course. He couldn't let you have that. "I've got you that new mixer, darling. Do you need help setting up your little bakery tomorrow?" He murmurs as he wraps his arms around your waist.
The money always went back into ingredients, or your new favorite skincare that Phillip insisted on. "No, baby, I'll be fine." You assure, turning and giving him a kiss. "Did you order me that new dress? For the ball?"
"It's already on the way." He chuckles, giving your bottom a squeeze. "I'll be in my study if you need me." You knew he wanted you to need him. He expected you to need him, to wander into his office and crawl under his desk for his cock. He didn't care about what you needed to finish before opening. He just cared about his own needs.
You let him fuck you over the desk while the dough rises, and finish baking all your cookies before going to bed. The morning before you opened the small front porch bakery was the best. Silent and peaceful as you baked the last of your treats, decorated everything, and packaged it to go. You went through two cups of coffee by the time you opened. The line down the sidewalk made you smile, ready to interact with anyone who wasn't Phillip or his team.
People who saw you outside of him.
"Hello, love, four of the cinnamon rolls, please." The bearded man was charming, a worn fishing hat on his head though you doubted he had time for it.
"Coming right up." You hum as you shuffle a few boxes aside. You find a four pack, setting them on the counter and taking the fifty dollar bill from his hands.
"Let me get your change -"
"No, love. You keep it." He assures as he pats the table. "I'll be back next week, alright?" You chuckle nervously as you pocket the bill, awkwardly waving him goodbye as the next customer walks up.
