Protective!Gaz who loves his sweet, innocent girl so much
Protective!Gaz who immediately becomes defensive when his team learns about you
Protective!Gaz who looks like he's about ready to shoot Johnny for calling you a bonnie and asking if he's "getting it"
Protective!Gaz who comes home and immediately softens, emptying his mind of all of the brutality of his work
Protective!Gaz who bundles you up in his arms and squeezes you close in bed—the bed full of soft pink blankets, sheets, and pillows because he wants everything to be exactly how you want it
Protective!Gaz who calls you "bunny" and "angel" and "sweet girl" and "babydoll" because that's exactly what you are to him.
Protective!Gaz who covers your face with kisses and strokes your hair, taking full advantage of having such a perfect little thing to take care of
Protective!Gaz who knows that his teammates are too busy being brutes to ever understand your relationship and have something as perfect and gentle as this—and in all honesty, he doesn't want them to understand.
It is dark—but, well, you walk around in the dark all the time—and you don't live in the safest area—be honest, you're at absolutely no risk of getting abducted at your weight.
For god’s sake, your brain needs to quit it with these insecure thoughts and just accept this opportunity. How many times in your life will a military commander with a pretty voice and muscles big enough to take on your weight be this persistent in pursuing you?
Exactly.
You nod, but that lingering part of you is worried about having him so deep in your personal space. It feels too serious and vulnerable. Still, what harm could a puppy-eyed soldier bring to the dark walk up to your place?
Not a moment of hesitation passes before the driver’s door slams shut, and he almost forgets to lock the car. "See, if I had let you walk all the way home, it'd be this dark out while you're still out near my place. Sketchy stuff, darlin'," he mumbles as he finds his place at your side.
His arm hovers at your back, fingertips just barely brushing at the dip of your spine, like he wants to help and guide you even though he doesn’t have the first clue as to which door is yours.
The two of you begin to climb the stairs up to your level, and you’re only halfway up the first flight when you break the silence with an apology. You feel guilty for being so harsh towards him in the car, because he truthfully hasn’t done anything to deserve it.
And also the smell of his cologne is stuck in your nose. And the feeling of his eyes on you is making your heart race. And the ghost of his warm hand still lives on your thigh and it feels so, so good.
And maybe you’re sorta willing to give this a chance, even if it means you end up humiliating yourself.
If only you felt more confident in your ability to flirt right now. It’s a warm night and you’re walking up two flights of stairs—you’d bet money you don’t look your best.
“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Phillip easily replies. “I shoulda realized you weren’t into it—I'm usually a lot better about this stuff. I guess I just really didn’t wanna give up my chance with you.” His tone is almost self deprecating as he speaks. “I’ll stop botherin’ you, I swear it.”
Shit.
Have you really managed to be so insecure you fumbled a once in a life time opportunity to get with a man this hot?
You almost trip over the stairs but manage not to fall on your face. How can you backtrack all of this without sounding desperate? Stuttering over an explanation that it’s really not that serious and you actually don’t mind, you find yourself inviting him to have a beer at your place before he drives back—to pretty please let you make up for all of your previous defensive behavior.
The words tumble out before you can even fully realize what you’re saying, but you’re somewhat thankful of that fact. If you weren’t a complete blundering mess at the moment then you probably wouldn’t have had the confidence to ask something like that.
Your heart is racing faster than at any other point this night, and when he doesn’t immediately respond, you open your mouth to take it back.
“You sure, sugar? I don’t wanna impose any more than I already have.”
No, please, please, please.
You nod your head and chew on your lip.
“Hell, I’d love to.”
Oh, thank god.
When you make it to your door, Phillip stands close behind you, one hand braced on the doorframe. His shadow casts over you in the dim light of the hallway sconces, and you swear the gravity of this situation lands on you like a physical weight. His other hand reaches around you and pushes the door open once you’ve unlocked it like he’s eager. When he steps inside, he closes the door right behind him.
"Nice place you got here," he comments idly, glancing around at your arguably messy and bland living room. He’s gotta be lying just to be nice. You've seen his place—you know yours doesn’t compare.
You grab two beers from the fridge and hand one to him, dropping to lounge on the couch. Suddenly you regret your invitation for him to join you because what exactly was your plan here? He's sitting here looking like your most shameful fantasy and you're just sitting there with no idea of what to say or do. He has to be the one to save you and initiate a conversation.
"I know you already forgave me," he starts. You're already cringing in anticipation. He's really not gonna let this topic up. To be fair, you can't stop thinking about everything that's happened tonight either. "But I really want you to trust me; I want to give you a reason to trust me." A sigh passes his lips, and you shakily sip your beer as you watch the way he looks over you. His eyes linger on every little bit from head to toe. You don't even realize how you tug at your shirt or grab a pillow to hold over your lap. Those things are all already subconscious habits at this point.
His jaw clenches as he watches, and he notices. He glares at the pillow like its very presence is a particularly offensive personal attack on him. "Let me prove myself," he whispers as he looks back up at your face, eyes darkened. A beat passes and you don't respond, so he shifts a little bit closer. Your fingers curl tighter in the pillow.
"You're genuinely the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
A shift closer.
"From that first moment I saw you in my home, I just knew I would never be able to let you go."
Another.
"And I told all my buddies that I'd getcha; but you ain't that easy, are you?" He scoffs softly. "No, I looked forward to making a fool of myself if front of all my men every damn time because it meant I got to look at you. I'd make a fool of myself a thousand more times if it meant you keep throwin' me scraps."
He gently grabs your can from your hand with no resistance from you, and he sets both drinks aside. He would rather hold your face anyway. His palm cradles your jaw. Your eyes are wide with awe and nerves, and he swims in them. "A whole meal is better than scraps, though, and I'm a greedy man." He's so close now that his warm, beer-scented breath fans over your parted lips. His eyes are half lidded, and they're more focused on your lips than your eyes at this point.
"Is this alright, sweet girl?" You nod and swallow thickly. "Good, then let me prove myself."
He ducks his head in a quick motion and your lips connect, his other hand moving to find your arm. You gasp softly—you don't even know why you're surprised, it was obvious what he was trying to do. Still, a part of you didn't really expect he'd actually go through with it.
You're caught off guard and your breath is trapped in your throat. He doesn't pull away, simply swallowing any little noises and breaths you try to steal during your kiss. His hand slides into your hair and cradles your head to pull you closer as he kisses you again, and again, and again.
Fuck, it feels so good.
You reach your hands out blindly to rest on his chest and he immediately hums in reaction, placing his own hand firmly over yours to encourage you. None of this feels real. His muscles are hard and solid beneath your hands, and you're looping your arms around his neck before you even process what you're doing.
"Please, baby," he mumbles against your lips, his tongue just barely darting out. "Believe me." His breaths come out in short, hot puffs, and his voice is lower and more drawn out than usual. He swallows down the taste of you on his tongue as he continues to devour you. "I need you to believe me."
He finally pulls back, only taking a breath to admire your flushed face and glossy lips before he's nuzzling into your neck. His arms wrap around you to clumsily hold you closer, and when he places a small kiss below your ear and you don't pull away, that's the only confirmation he needs. His lips part and he trails hot, wet kisses over the line of your neck. His tongue sweeps over the sweet skin, tasting the salt of your sweat and lingering perfume.
The soft little noises you make land right against his ear and each one spurs him on to kiss harder.
Now that he has you, he’s not letting go.
And now that he has you, he’s lost all control.
He gently nibbles at the spot where your neck and shoulder meet, and his arms tighten around you like he’s worried you might pull away at any moment. “You make every mission worth it,” he manages to say between kisses. “Every time I’m out there—with all the sweat, and dirt, and blood—I think about the fact that I gotta get back home so I can see your pretty face on my couch again.”
Phillip sounds drunk as he talks, and you know it’s not from the beer—you’re actually pretty sure he only managed to take one sip before deciding he’d rather drink you instead. You’re right there beside him, though. It feels like every kiss is melting your brain, dissolving away any apprehension or rational thought.
He lifts his head once more to press another kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to speak.
post-torture timeline, hospital setting, heavy religious symbolism, angst, slow-burn. TW: graphic descriptions of physical injuries and mental health struggles, canon-typical violence.
“Не красна изба углами, а красна пирогами.”
“A hut is not beautiful for its corners, but for its pies.”
-
Nikto thought he had finally been granted release. Through the muffle of the gauze wrapping his head, he was unable to make out more than a sound as sweet as the lullabies his mother once sang to him.
Heaven, he thought—nothing on Earth could replicate a sound like that. He’d never been a religious man—faith wasn’t something that mixed well with him—but here, with the soft glowing light in front of him and the hum of a gentle voice nearby, he can’t help but feel he was wrong.
He can't respond to any of the murmurs he hears. Even if he could, he wouldn’t know what he would say. The bandages under his chin had been ruthlessly tightened, restricting the motion of his jaw, which he was thankful for. If he could move his face, he’d feel it tear—even from a twitch, even from a blink.
By the time Nikto was found, his face was nothing more than raw meat—skin stripped from muscle until it could be questioned if he was even able to stay alive. The thought of the surgeries awaiting him in his near future isn’t an exciting thought, but is also hardly a thought at all for him. His brain had drifted far from his body.
That’s when he feels a warm presence on his arm, followed by some type of tapping and fidgeting. His fingers jerk—a small proof of life—quickly quelled by a discouraging touch.
“Stay still,” the angel sings. “You’ll only hurt yourself more.”
Who is Nikto to argue? He keeps his hand flat on the bed. When an angel commands you, you listen. A small click and some more tapping, and the warmth retreats.
“The doctors refused to tell me about you, y’know,” the voice continues. “Told me it’s none of my business.”
Good. She doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t want her to know.
His name would rot her teeth.
“I never get told anything, though—at least not by the doctors. Special cases like you are always so secretive, but soldiers talk. Oh, how they talk.”
Scissors snip through the bandages on his arm, exposing raw flesh to the cold air of the hospital. Damp cotton runs over the edges of his wound. “Your graft is taking well,” she sings again. “They say I can’t look at it right now, but if it were bad, I wouldn’t be the one treating you.”
So he had already gone through surgery. He’d hardly been awake for any of the past week. He knows the next time he sees himself, he’ll be unrecognizable. The damage was bad, it was obvious through the pain. Undoubtedly, doctors have become familiar with his body in a way he never will be.
A stiff silence follows before he hears her again.
“Are you scared?” She whispers, pausing almost as if to listen for his response. “Whenever I ask that, people like to say they aren’t. Maybe they don’t want to tell me. Maybe I should stop asking.”
His fingers tap again softly, a weak excuse for an effort to interact with her.
Was Nikto scared? When Nikto thinks of fear, he thinks of the rabid looks in the eyes of his captors when control had first slipped from his grasp. He thinks of how he learned his heart could pound so harshly he was worried it would break his ribs and of how a stuffy room can feel cold when your face is an open wound.
Fear was no longer an emotion, but a situation; a situation he hoped he’d never find himself in again.
“You better hope you can start talking soon. They’re keen on getting your psych evaluations going,” she finally mumbles once more. The wet cotton leaves his arm, and he feels her begin to rewrap the wound, attempting to move his arm as little as possible.
“They want you to keep working—said you’re really good at what you do. I think it’s cruel. I don’t see how what you do could possibly be worth it if this can come of it.”
Quiet footfalls sound against the linoleum floor before he feels the metal of the scissors again, now on his thigh. She doesn’t speak this time, and it makes Nikto wonder if everything she’s said thus far was all in his head. It had happened to him before, too, hearing an angel’s song.
Sometimes when Nikto was stuck in that room, feeling his own blood spray into his lungs or be swallowed down his throat, he’d hear whispers in his ears. The whispers would tell him to close his eyes and would croon until he was on the edge of sleep. Through the slits of his damaged eyelids he would see a light—a figure standing before him—and his eyes would shoot open. That’s when the voices would stop. A sudden, echoing silence would fall over the room.
It makes him feel sick.
He wants to talk. He wants to tell her to keep talking, but his vocal cords feel like they’ve been ripped out of his throat and haphazardly sewn back in. Any attempt to push air out his throat felt like dry gravel tumbling into his airways. All of the screaming he’d done may as well have rendered him mute.
His shoulders tense, then release with a shudder, letting out a low and strangled groan in place of any real words. He flinches as the hum reverberates in his chest.
The scissors pause, and he can feel a pair of eyes burn holes through the gauze and scratch at his lids. His hands ball up into fists momentarily before splaying flat on the sheets again. The scissors resume.
“I always wonder what patients were like before I met them,” she finally continues, her voice somehow even more relieving than just moments ago. “You could be a chatterbox for all I know.”
The missing patch of skin on his leg receives the same treatment, a cold, wet sensation tracing its shape.
“Or maybe you’ve always been quiet. I know a lot of people enjoy it–the quiet. You might be annoyed that I’m talking this much.”
His hands clench again, a groan of protest escaping his chest. He doesn’t know what he’d do without her talking. It had been so quiet in that room. So quiet that reality had split. So quiet that his mind would create people to fill the silence.
And even worse—they never left.
But she’s better than all of them. She doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t yell until echoes fill every crevice of the silence or send incoherent murmurs flying back and forth between his ears. She just talks. She absorbs the silence with her words and gives his brain something to grasp other than fragments of himself.
She’s the first thing he’s awake enough to hear in a week that isn’t yelling or panic, and, on top of it all, her songs heal his body.
Each word spreads across his skin and binds itself to the ragged seams in a way that puts his bandages to shame. It almost makes him glad he's restrained from speaking, like protection was cast upon her to shield her ears from the vermin that crawl out of his throat.
“They told me to talk to you because it would be good for your brain. I don’t know how to treat brains like I know how to treat injuries, but if your mind is anything like your skin, then talking to you is probably worth a shot.” A sigh floats through the air. “In a day or so, your facial bandages will be replaced with something less invasive. Maybe you’ll be able to talk back to me, then.”
And he’ll be able to see her.
And see himself.
He's suddenly embarrassed by the situation he finds himself in. He fell from grace, and a guardian followed him down. Now, ruined by the fall, she tends to what’s left. He can’t offer his face or his voice. He can't offer an identity of any use. He can’t even offer her a name. When a knife sliced Nikto’s palm, God melted the metal into a salve that could treat the wound his power was responsible for. Even in the cold, sterile air of the room, Nikto found a person. Not a soldier, but a person.
It had been so long since Nikto was surrounded by vessels of humanity–surrounded by true emotions that were present enough to be audible in an inanimate voice. She has the voice of someone who still daydreams when instructions seem to fade into nothing more than whispers from another room. Someone who looks out the window and still wonders what would happen if she stepped into the view. Someone whose words would still sound pretty even after she learns what it's like to scream without her lips.
He wants to watch her drink every drop of humanity he had bottled up in himself. She’ll choke at its soured taste, and he’ll be there to catch any drops that dribble down her chin. He’ll squeeze the bottle so hard it breaks and use the shards to cut a piece of her, fitting it into what others have stolen from his face.
This angel will grow his mind back into his body and twist its vines to reach his heart.
The release Nikto had been seeking existed closer than he had anticipated. It stood in the corner of each room he infiltrated and watched the scene of his capture. That same release is what would compel him to close his eyes when the damage grew greater. Nikto could even swear that the release he was seeking was the one to whisper into his ear. It stood before him and grabbed his shoulders to keep him steady when he was being crushed, and disappeared when he was selfish enough to open his eyes. It will be there when he dies, he’s sure of it, and perhaps then is when he’ll learn its origins.
But for now he knows its voice, and soon, its face.
A/N: I wrote this about a year ago now and posted it on ao3 (same user on there) where it actually got a pretty good amount of attention !! unfortunately after that I had the worlds worst writers block, so even tho I told people in the comments that id post chapter 2 soon, I ended up just being a massive liar. part 2 is somewhat written tho, so I'm hoping that posting this here will give me some motivation to keep writing this, because I lovedddd this idea when I first came up with it (nikto is my absolute fav). i lowkey just copy and pasted this and don’t feel like looking over it so i’m just crossing my fingers that the formatting is all good. hopefully u guys like it <3
𑣲 if you want to be added to the tag list for this fic/character then Imk in the comments <3
You should have just listened to your gut instinct. The first fifteen minutes of the drive is quite possibly the most tense, awkward, unpleasant experience you have ever had to sit through. Apparently, the same can’t be said for Graves, because every time you cast a glance over his way, he has a comfortable smile on his face and a relaxed looseness to his posture.
If it were up to you, this entire drive would be spent in complete silence. No teasing remarks from Graves, and no annoyed responses from you. He would simply drive you to your place and drop you off without a word.
But nothing is up to you when it comes to Graves, is it?
“Y’know, it’s a damn shame I didn’t get to see more of you tonight. You look real pretty—I mean, when do you not, huh?” He flashes a smile in your direction, and the most you care to give as a response is a hum.
“I guess I can’t complain too hard, though. I definitely ain’t losin’ out on any quality time with my favorite girl by the time this drive is done.” That comment makes you think; Just how committed to this bit is he? He just abandoned the party he was hosting, leaving a crowd of people to their own devices in his home just so he could give you a ride. It actually bothers you so much that you ask him.
His brows furrow a little, like he hadn’t considered any of it. “Oh, that?” Graves shrugs dismissively. “Well, I really do all of those things just for my boys. They can celebrate with the party, but I also wanna be able to celebrate how I want. This? I’m doing this purely for myself.”
With a clench of your jaw and a faint wrinkle of your nose, you turn your head to look out the window again. Graves looks your way again, expecting to see your face looking back at his, but your irritation with him is evident by the way you seem to try and angle yourself away from him as much as possible. It causes his confidence to waver as he looks back out at the road.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles after a beat, clearing his throat. “Really—I don’t want you upset with me. It ain’t gentlemanly of me to be all pushy with you like this.”
Gentlemanly? Is anything Graves does supposed to be gentlemanly?
You reply with something huffy—something along the lines of oh, yeah, real gentleman you are. Quipping that his posse isn’t even in the car to give him the reaction and attention he’s so clearly craving, you feel yourself growing more and more defensive each moment. His presence alone is typically enough to turn you prickly. That being said, you don't feel nearly as self assured as you did when those words left your mouth.
It feels strangely vulnerable to admit to him that you're aware of what he's doing. It feels like admitting your own weakness—admitting that you were never strong enough to stand up against him before, and instead just sat there and took it. Images of people laughing at your interactions flash through your mind and coil your muscles tighter.
Any semblance of strength you had in your argument is chopped down by his expression, though.
“What?” he immediately replies, sharp and low, yet something like offense and hurt is woven in. “I mean, yeah, I guess I sure as hell am thankful there ain’t more people here—I’d rather have you all to myself.” It’s like even when he’s the one being serious he still feels the need to try and defuse the situation with flirting. “Lemme get this straight: you think that I’m bein’ sweet on you for other people’s attention and entertainment?”
Graves’ hands grip the wheel tighter as he stares ahead at the road, only illuminated by his headlights at this point. His jaw is set and there’s a swirling in his eyes as they squint, like the concept alone is dizzying. All you can do is agree with his question.
"I mean...if I'm being entirely honest—”
And here comes the confession. Here is the sweet admission of guilt.
"I'm a lil' hurt you think I'd do sumthin' like that; and I'm admittedly even more hurt that I made you feel that way." He looks at you with a searing intensity. "Seriously, it was never my intention."
What?
He looks back at the road as you're left completely confused.
Taking a few moments to carefully consider his words, Graves lifts a hand to rub it over his mouth, biting his cheek too hard to be comfortable. “They ain’t laughing at you,” he suddenly says shortly. “My friends—it’s not you they’re laughing at; they’re laughing at me.” After a pause, he glances over at you with confusion. “What could they be laughing at you for?” The only response you’re willing to give at the moment is turning the question back on him.
His response is immediate. “Hah…what isn’t there to laugh about? My friends know how stupid I am for you, baby. Obviously they’re gon’ laugh at how much of a fool I’m makin’ of myself every time I talk to you.” You think your head might just explode at what you’re hearing. The entire reality and relationship you’ve built around Graves in the time that you’ve known him has completely shattered.
Still, something in your brain refuses to believe it. If he has lied for this long, why wouldn’t he be lying now? So, as is consistent with your behavior, your response to him is sharp and defensive, loudly proclaiming that your tired of his act, and that you don’t appreciate being teased just so he can feed his ego. You’re confident in yourself (no you aren’t) and if he can’t appreciate that, then he’s perhaps the most self absorbed and self conscious man you’ve ever met.
His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens with a small sputtering sound, only to close again.
"M'sorry—I really am." That's all he says, and it sounds like it's all he's planning on saying for the rest of the ride.
Somehow you feel like you're the asshole in this situation now.
He sounds so soft and defeated. He sounds like he cares, and, God, how you just wish someone would care.
Right before the threshold of where it would be strange for you to respond after such a long bout of silence, you quietly thank him. Despite how hard you try to distract yourself with looking out the window—at how the shadowed trees and dusty dirt road slowly transition into highways and flashing city lights—you find your eyes are annoyingly drawn in his direction.
That guilt from earlier begins to creep up again. He's never been rude. He's never been offensive. And now, something in you is beginning to second guess your previously firm belief that he's some mastermind with a cruel plan to humiliate you.
Your gaze lingers on him for longer than you intended, observing his solemn expression and the way he seemingly refuses to allow himself to look at you now, despite how eagerly he typically finds any excuse to look at you. Stoplights are full of awkward silence and averted looks rather than teases and stolen glances. The car ride is turning out to be so much worse than you ever could have predicted, and it's only about halfway done at this point.
Enough time passed that you simmered in your feelings, and the grip he seemed to have on your eyes finally begins to waver. Slowly you begin to look between the window, to him, to your lap, and then to him again, painfully restless. Unfortunately for you, his eyes finally flicker to yours again right as you look at him, and a punchy, frustrated sigh huffs from his nose. You quickly look away again before you can catch any other reaction on his part, but its already too late.
You cast a sideways glance at him, just enough to see that he's looking back at the road again, and then you look back out the window. There's no coming back after this. You can seriously never go to one of these "morale boosting parties" ever again. The worst part is you can't even tell your friend why the topic is suddenly so awkward for you.
Oh, even worse, what if Graves tells your friend about all of this. What if they already know? If Graves is being truthful, then it seems you're the only one who's stupidly been blind to this situation the entire time, despite being involved in it. If Graves isn't being truthful, though, then that's more pathetic. What if your friend has known about this teasing this entire time? What if everyone else is in on it?
What if you've always just been a circus clown for his parties?
The car is full of the red glow from a stoplight and you're too distracted with your spiraling thoughts to even fully remember that you're currently sat in Graves' car. A muffled rustling of fabric can be heard to your left, but you don't think twice about it, and subconsciously keep your arm tighter against your side when you realize his arm is now resting on the center console.
A beat passes. Another shift. His warm skin is touching yours again. You shrink yourself, again.
When you feel that somehow his arm still manages to touch you, it's enough to derail your train of thought. It's physically impossible to make yourself any smaller. Your thighs are sore from keeping your legs pressed together, your body is hot from keeping your arms crossed, and your back aches from the awkward angle your tilting at to create extra distance between the two of you.
A hand lands on your knee.
His skin is rough and callous, and his hand holds weight to it, though you can tell that he's attempting to be careful and gentle in the way he touches you. A deep, unwelcome warmth blooms in your lower belly at the feeling, and despite knowing better, you look at him again.
There's an intense, trained focus to the way he watches the road. His jaw is tight and nostrils are flared, like every ounce of energy is being used on both not acknowledging what's happening, and praying that you won't just jump out of the car right now. The red light catches the beads of sweat on his hairline, and if you watch his chest close enough, you can see that his breaths are fast and shallow.
When you look away again, it's only a few moments before he moves once more. Like he's attempting not to scare off a skittish animal, his hand carefully applies more pressure, sliding just an inch higher up to your lower thigh. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine and spreads goosebumps over your arms. It feels like your body already knows what your brain refuses to accept.
Your thighs relax slightly, allowing them to just barely part and he doesn't hesitate to take advantage, sliding his hand just barely higher once more. The tips of his fingers just barely graze your inner thigh, and your breath catches in your throat.
When you shift in your seat, his hand tightens over your flesh like he's worried you'd somehow manage to runaway despite being trapped right next to him in the confines of the car. You swallow thickly and squeeze your eyes shut, both trying to focus on the feeling of his wandering hand, and also focus on keeping any semblance of reason in your thoughts.
You don't dare look at him at the next stoplight, but you don't have to look at him to feel the burning of his eyes on your face. A quiet whisper of your name leaves his mouth, low and gravelly. Still, you don't look, and don't attempt to remove his hand. The light turns green, and he continues driving.
Time seems to pass much quicker than the beginning of the drive. The weight of his hand carries every convincing argument he failed to make when proving his innocence, and your lack of rejection is the only confirmation he needs that he's not completely in the doghouse.
The car almost becomes its own bubble separate from the rest of the world, shielding you from the prying eyes of colleagues and friends. He doesn't have to perform. You can both be vulnerable. Whatever interactions you've shared and opinions you have formed in the past don't have to exist here.
Before you know it, you see how the buildings around you become increasingly familiar, and it its not long before he turns onto your street. Part of you could not be more relieved that the end to this fever dream is in sight, yet the other floods with disappointment.
Part of you knows that this won't lead to anything. You'll thank him, exit his car, and go up to your place. His hand won't be on your thigh anymore, and his gaze won't be on your face. You'll go to your bedroom and sit on your bed for god knows how long mulling over the car ride: what you should've said, what you could've done differently, what he's thinking.
Now that you think about it, you're pretty sure you don't even have Graves' number. The next time you'll see him will be at one of his parties probably months from now, and both of you will pretend that none of this ever happened; that is, if you can even build up the courage to go to his house again.
He pulls up to your apartment, stopping as close to the entrance as he can manage. The way he puts the car in park and turns down the radio gives you the impression that he has the intention to talk to you now—to have some sort of uncomfortable heart to heart—but you could not be less interested in exploring that avenue.
By the time he turns to look at you, you're already frantically clambering out of his car and awkwardly thanking him for the help, his hand falling and landing on the warm leather of your seat. The night air feels especially cool on your hot skin, and the streetlamp seems to perfectly illuminate the red, flushed hue of your face.
When he doesn't immediately respond, you mumble something about promising to pay him back for the gas money, and turn to begin to making your way over to the stairs. With your back shielding you from his view, you cringe and scrunch your face, already beginning to freakout over the events of the night. You're only stopped by the sudden sound of your name being called out in that deep drawl.
When you turn around, you find the drivers side of Graves' car open and him stood right outside of it. His car is off and there's a certain needy desperation to the way he watches you.
A/N: I'm not dead !! omg i totally didn't mean for over TWO MONTHS to pass between this and the last chapter. hopefully u guys haven't forgotten about this fic lol. i was supposed to get a laptop and thought "ok, I'll just wait to write the next chapter when i have a laptop," bc I hate writing longer stuff on my phone, but then i didn't get a laptop. it was too late tho. my brain was already stuck in "I'm not writing this again until I get a laptop" mode, and then that ended up taking two extra months. Also I didn't like proofread or edit this chapter at all so it's lowkey not the greatest. TLDR I'm dumb. i hope u guys liked it tho!! all of the love u guys have given to this fic means sooooooo much <333
~ “Walk? Darlin’—baby—a sweet thing like you can’t just go out walkin’ in the dark; especially not with that outfit, and especially not without a phone.” ~
You just stare at Graves for a minute, bewildered at his suggestion. Being stuck in a car with Graves for an hour? That’s quite possibly your worst nightmare. He seriously just suggested you willingly subject yourself to living your worst nightmare.
The thought alone is claustrophobic: a small space completely filled by Graves’ presence—his smell, his interests, his everything. It’s as intimate as being inside of someone’s bedroom, as far as you’re concerned. Never have you considered yourself so close with Graves that you could spend more than five minutes alone with him, and even then, those five minutes would be extremely awkward and annoying.
With a scoff and a shake of your head, you begin to walk off—not back to the party, but off the porch of his house and towards the road. You say that if it’s him driving or no ride at all, then you might as well just walk.
That’s probably the first time you’ve seen Graves genuinely surprised by something. He squeezed his eyes shut and give a small shake of his head before he’s quickly following you.
“Walk? Darlin’—baby—a sweet thing like you can’t just go out walkin’ in the dark; especially not with that outfit, and especially not without a phone.” He’s somewhat amused by your stunt, but his warnings also seem to be genuine. “You don’t know what kinda creeps are out here. These backroads around my place ain’t something a bird should have to walk through.”
Honestly, of all of the things you’re dreading that could possibly come from this long walk, your thighs chafing is top of the list at the moment.
Do you live about an hour drive away? Yes. Is it completely unrealistic for you to make the walk all the way to your apartment? Also yes. Are you still planning on keeping this bit up until he either gives you your phone back or you somehow make it home? Oh, absolutely.
Your eyes catch the setting sun on the horizon before they stubbornly go back to the road ahead. Graves is right—it’s not safe—but he’s literally the one who put you in this situation, and there is an incredibly simple way for him to fix it. In fact, you tell him exactly that, and even hold out your hand without looking his direction for him to place your phone back in it.
Instead, you’re unexpectedly yanked to a stop, body halted with such suddenness that you stumble back in his direction. His warm grip firmly holds your hand and he stands rooted to the ground.
“Seriously. I ain’t gonna let you walk another step.”
You can’t help but be a little stunned as you shoot a glare at him, then his hand, then at him again. His grip is almost white-knuckled around you, but it’s clear that he’s avoiding hurting you at all.
There’s no viable option but to quickly recover, though—the last thing you want is to let him notice the fact that him holding your hand suddenly makes you feel even warmer than before, and causes a jolt in your stomach, and…and…
Shut up.
A whiny “let go of me” and a tug, tug, tug of your hand protests his grip, but he remains unmoving. He stares at you with a sort of hardness, like his determination in this task is final. The more you fight it, the tighter he holds.
“I got a real nice car; it’ll get you home quick.” He chuckles quietly to himself. “And, I mean, what would it say about me as a commander if I just let you wander off by yourself? I could let you go, but, well, then I’d have a liability on my hands. I can’t let it go on my track record that I allowed one of my own guests to get in danger under my watch.”
After a moment too long of hoping that your unconvinced expression will change, he lets out a small sigh, and his eyes soften. “Please?” His grip loosens slightly, like if you really wanted to go, then he would let you. “Listen, I ain’t tryin’ nothin’. I swear on my old man, I just wanna get you home safe. You ain’t gotta spend all that money on a ride when I can do it for free, yeah?”
You suck on your teeth as the tension between you is forcibly broken. This is the first time you’ve been this close to him, and also the first time you’ve ever been able to get this good of a look at him.
And what a mistake that is.
His icy blue eyes are intense yet tender as they bore into yours, refusing to let up on any contact. There’s an almost boyish quality to his expression that sweetens the otherwise rugged look on his face. The way he carries himself is determined and confident with an intimidating amount of maturity.
And, ultimately—as annoying as he may be—Graves is reliable and trustworthy. You may not be the greatest fan of him, but your friend always has nothing but good things to say about him, not only as a boss, but as a man in general.
“Here, you can have your phone. Hell, you can slap me and call me an asshole—I ain’t gonna stop ya. Just know that I only have the best of intentions.” He takes your phone out of his pocket with his free hand and holds it out for you to take, loosening his grip on your hand even more. It feels partly like a challenge, though; like he wants to see if you’d really turn him down.
Despite everything—despite his actions, and your opinion on him, and the absurdity of the situation—you sigh and look down in surrender, taking your phone from him but agreeing to his help.
“Perfect, perfect,” graves immediately responds, his hand letting go of yours so it can drop to the small of your back. “C’mon, car is this way.” He begins to walk and his hand urges you to follow beside him, guiding you back towards his house and around to a detached garage at its side. A dirty old pickup truck sits outside on the driveway, and you begin to make your way toward it, but his hand pulls you back.
Inside the garage sits another truck, this one large and shiny. It towers over you and is clearly a show truck rather than a work truck. This, however, is still not the vehicle he takes you to. Behind the truck is a sleek, black car, well kept and pretty to look at. It’s one of those sports car types—not flashy or made for races, but definitely expensive and powerful. Of course Graves is the type of man to have an unnecessary amount of cars, and expensive ones at that.
Graves walks you over to the passenger side door and unlocks it with a beep-beep, opening it for you and taking your hand in his again. “Here, baby,” he murmurs as he helps you inside, closing the door once you’re settled. He circles the car and climbs into the drivers seat, taking a moment to get everything perfect. The air conditioning is on, old school country quietly spills from the speakers, and he’s got the directions to your apartment on his dashboard display. “Mess with the seat settings all you want; I don’t want you to be all cramped up in here.”
The inside of Graves’ car is exactly what you would expect. Clean. Unscathed. Reeks of black ice and leather. You fiddle with the buttons on the side of your seat, awkwardly pressing each of them to see what they change. It isn’t until your seat is pushed almost all the way back that you cross your arms and press your legs together, subconsciously attempting to take up as little space in the car as possible.
How dumb is it that you even have to overthink things as inconsequential as how you sit in a car? You don’t want to add fuel to the list of things Graves surely notices about your weight, and he would definitely notice that you would be much more comfortable if you allowed yourself to spread out.
At least that’s what your brain tells you.
“I promise you won’t regret this, sugarplum,” Graves assures, flashing a bright smile your way. You don’t bother giving a verbal response, simply forcing a straight, tight lipped smile before you turn your head to look out the window. With that, Graves pulls out of the garage and starts the journey to your place.
A/N: this is lowkey a filler chapter but idc bc this is my fanfic and I’m gonna write and post wtv I want >:3 sorry this took so long to write, school has been keeping me BUSY lately (=_=;) I’m so happy that u guys seem to like it so far tho !! I was fully ready for this fic to flop.. i feel like i like my writing until i post it for the public to see and then suddenly i have to overthink every single word or else ill be forced into the stocks and the fandom will throw tomatoes at me
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Simon was never the artsy type of kid. He liked to draw when he was little on occasion—short comics, dinosaurs, soldiers, what have you—but all of that ended when he started coming into his teens. It’s not that he didn’t like drawing anymore, but that he found that he fundamentally lacked any imaginative qualities. The idea of just drawing something from his brain seemed so arbitrary and pointless. Moreover, there was nothing in his head to begin with—nothing worth immortalizing on paper, at least. He suspects his creativity died after his brain developed enough to cause any sort of childhood innocence that blinded him from his life’s reality to slip away.
What Simon spent a lot of time doing, though, was looking. There wasn’t a moment where Simon wasn’t absurdly aware of his surroundings, scanning people, objects, and animals; their shape, proximity, and size. He always knew exactly what he was seeing.
Like the neighbor’s black cat who came to his windowsill to distract him from his homework.
Simon reaches out his hand to stroke over the cats head, to which it tilts leans up into the touch with a chirp.
“What’re you doin’ here, hm?” Simon mumbles softly, thumb rubbing between the cat’s eyes. “You know anything about maths? I think I might be hopeless.” The cat meows and steps onto Simon’s paper so it can rub its face against his chin, causing him to let out a small huff of laughter. He looks down, and the cat’s little nose bumps his as he holds the sides of its face gently.
“You have very pretty eyes, y’know that?” He whispers. “Very round—too big for your head.”
The cat flops onto its side as Simon pets down its back. Reluctantly, his free hand reaches for his pencil again, fidgeting with it. Black smudges cover his fingertips, leaving prints all over the paper. God, does he wish he hadn’t lost his pencil. He found this one on the floor at school and it’s such a pain to use, streaking his paper with charcoal at every little touch.
The pencil is such a pain to work with, and the homework is so difficult, and the cat is so cute…
Slowly, Simon’s fingers begin to sketch a circle, then another, then some more. While annoying for scrawling equations, the smudgy quality of the pencil is perfect for shading shapes without much effort. Only a few minutes pass before there’s a pair of large, curious eyes peering up at him from the paper—eyes too large for the fuzzy head they live on. Simon stares back, eyes narrowed. “What do you think?” He asks, patting the cat’s side. “Hopefully I captured your likeness.” He rests his chin in his hand, leaving faint smears of charcoal on his cheek. The cat lifts its head to peer at the drawing, lifting a paw to gently tap at it.
The break from all of this thinking and work was actually nice. He grabs another paper and places it in front of him, twiddling the pencil for a few moments before he has an idea to translate onto paper. As it turns out, his years of watching the things around him has made it so he knows where to draw lines, what shapes to use, and what shadows to deepen. Complex sights can be broken down into tiny pieces and then built up to their true beauty; and it’s easy if you’ve looked at them for long enough.
That’s how he ends up with his mother’s face before him.
It’s not perfect, but the resemblance is enough to make him pause. It’s how he sees her. Simon glances to the clock on his desk—an hour and a half has passed. Had he really been drawing for that long? The cat has long since fallen asleep on top of his homework. With the moon starting to shine from his window, Simon carefully folds his drawing and tucks it into his pocket.
As it turns out, drawing is a way for Simon to surround himself with the things he loves, even when he’s away from them.
You’re an art teacher and TF141 comes in for a paint and sip
~
Price puts a lot of time and attention into his landscape. He has the art skills of someone who clearly wants their painting to look good, but hasn’t had the hours of practice and understanding it takes to bring it to life. Most of his experience in drawing comes from charts and maps as he plans out missions—the concept of drawing for personal enjoyment is something he’s only began to explore recently as his career has begun to wind down and he needs to find calming things to fill the time.
Gaz embraces the fact that he has no idea what he’s doing. He deviated from your tutorial from practically the first step because “it’ll look better my way, trust me” (don’t worry, he’s kidding). Half way through your tutorial, he realized that his painting would look nothing like it’s supposed to—even if he followed every step—so he gave up on the landscape altogether. A small, stick figure group stands on the top of his mountain, each one a member of his team. One of the other mountains has managed to turn into an active volcano spitting lava, and unnaturally neon flowers cover the grass below. He still claims that his is the best with a grin.
Soap has the best landscape by far. Like, it’s good. He’s uncharacteristically quiet for the first half of the session, only until Gaz leans over and a sudden eruption of jealous and proud comments interrupt his work. Soap has taken the time to add in details that go beyond your beginner friendly tutorial, creating something that could be proudly hung on the walls of his place rather than hidden somewhere in a garage or closet. Clearly, no one has seen the masterpieces that accompany his journal entries.
Ghost takes a quiet pride in how his painting turned out. Other than some charcoal sketches as a teen, he has never really had his own personal experiences with making art—until somewhat recently, that is, when his therapist recommended art therapy. In his limited downtime, Ghost usually tries to draw something that reflects his mood, and his painting is no exception. The woodsy scene isn’t perfect, but clearly has some emotions projected onto it. It looks a little more like some woods he’s had to camp out in for a mission than the pretty scene you demonstrated.
Inevitably, every time there’s a big success in your best friend’s job, his boss hosts one of these “get togethers,” or “parties,” or whatever you call a rowdy group of hyped up soldiers and their plus ones together in a house. It had never occurred to you how many people your friend worked with until you saw the way these things became full blown functions. Your friend always asks you to come with him because “I literally just risked my life to save your ass in ways you can’t even begin to comprehend—the least you can do is celebrate it with me.”
So, of course, like a good friend, you accompany your lonely little soldier boy to his boss’ events. It’s not the parties themselves that you hate, per se—it’s good food and good company and good music. The house is on a lovely estate that carries that fresh air smell you can’t get in the city. The thing you hate is the man behind the parties.
It’s not like you’re a wallflower or anything, but you don’t go out of your way to be the life of the party. You talk to your friend. You talk to your friend’s friends. You talk to the other women there. But your friend’s boss? He talks to you.
Well, to the whole room, really. Seriously, it has to be his personal goal to draw attention to you in any way possible.
Phillip Graves: the handsomest devil in disguise who will stop at nothing to embarrass you.
The first time it happened, you tried to brush it off. You were sat with a handful of people when Graves walked up with a smile on his face and a beer can in hand. He greeted some people before his eyes landed on you. Something, something, “I ain’t ever seen you here ‘fore,” something, something, “who ya here with?” something, something, “y’all together, or do y’know yer too good for him?” something, something, “good girl. He’s a helluva soldier, but you’re a helluva woman.”
It feels like he’s speaking to the crowd rather than you, and the chuckles that came from the surrounding people made you cringe.
Ordinarily, any other woman would be ecstatic at having some man who is built like a centerfold model and smells like a cologne outside of your tax bracket making flirtatious comments to them. You, however, have only ever been flirted with in the context of three situations: pranks, jokes, and dares. A pretty boy flirting with you? That’s a trap.
He always smiles wider at the audience’s reaction to his little performance. His eyes shimmer with something as he stares at you and basks in your humiliation.
And he has done it at every party.
Every party seems to be worse than the last, too. His friends instinctively look over the moment he approaches you, ready for the show.
Despite how hard you try—the hours of hair and makeup and outfit planning that you hope distract the party goers enough that they won’t notice your weight, because maybe if you have a pretty face it’ll make up for your inexcusable body—all of that work fails you. The hot, Texas heat melts through your painted face, frizzes your hair to an untamable poof, and makes you sweat through your clothes.
Despite everything, after a night at Graves’, you can always be confident you look your worst; which is exactly what makes his showy display all the more humorous.
Luckily for you, you’ve done a pretty good job at avoiding Graves tonight. Blending into the crowd the minute you spot him, excusing yourself to the bathroom a suspicious amount of times, and now, stepping out on the back porch away from the crowd.
Well, that’s more because your bra feels like a swamp than anything having to do with Graves, if you’re being honest.
You pick at the fabric of your shirt, attempting to pinch it away from the way it’s clinging to your torso. The skirt hugging your hips get the same treatment and is met with even less success as you futilely try to pull it back into being a skirt rather than the large belt it’s ridden up into being.
Why’d you think it was a good idea to wear something tight?
God, if it weren’t for the fact that your friend was your ride here, you would already be on your way home. You’re so done with this night, and-
“Whatcha doin’ out here, pretty girl?”
Ugh.
You turn your head to look towards that all too familiar voice. Graves saunters over to you with a charming grin as he blatantly looks you up and down, stopping so close to you that you choose to take a step back and establish some semblance of personal space.
How did you not hear the door opening?
“The only reason I do any of this is for morale boosting, and my morale ain’t boosted unless you’re in that room with me.”
You clear your throat awkwardly and explain that you were thinking about just heading home—you’ve had too much to drink and a ride is already on its way to pick you up. It’s all lies, but it might as well be true with the way this night is going.
“Leavin’ so soon?” he exclaims, clearly displeased at that idea. His eyes track your hands as you pull out your phone and discreetly attempt to order a ride without him noticing. You’re sure your friend will understand if you have to leave early, right? You had a thing for work that you totally forgot about and needed to leave immediately for without saying goodbye…or something.
“That just ain’t right. We can’t have that, can we?” You turn away slightly, not responding other than a short glare shot up in his direction.
You can’t help but feel rude sometimes. Graves has never actually said anything cruel to you—not about your appearance, or personality, or especially your weight. It’s the fact that he’s so overwhelmingly sweet and flirty that makes you sure he’s got this whole humiliation ritual strategically planned out. This is crueler than if he were to just make fun of you.
“C’mon, hun, cancel your ride.”
When you refuse to respond or comply, Graves has no option but to use alternative methods.
Graves’ hand slowly reaches out, and before you realize what he’s doing, he gently yet swiftly takes the phone from your grasp and pockets it.
Immediately, you let out an accusatory “hey!” and wrestle with him a little to try and get it back. You tell him that he’s a thief, that you’re tired and desperate, that he’s no less annoying than a middle school boy.
It pisses you off even more to see that all of your complaints and efforts to grab your phone only make him smile wider—that’s what finally causes you to surrender.
“Nuh uh. If you’re gonna go home, ya gotta at least let me drive ya.”
Metalhead!König who has to hype himself up with music in his car before going out in public (he plays it so loud everyone outside can hear it with perfect clarity, even though the windows are up. He’s completely oblivious to this fact).
Metalhead!König who loves corpse paint because it’s a semi socially acceptable way to hide his face and also deters people from talking to him.
Metalhead!König who can’t find anyone in his niche since he only got into the scene from sneaking older, secondhand music when he was younger, and is yet to find a newer, popular band who measures up because he’s too pretentious.
Metalhead!König who doesn’t know how to talk to you. His friend told him to burn a CD as a gift for you, but he doesn’t want to scare you off with his music taste.
Metalhead!König who spends hours looking up the music you like and unfortunately confirms that, yes, you’d probably think he poses a threat to himself and/or others if he showed you the type of stuff he likes (he still doesn’t understand why people seem to hate metal so much. It’s not “Satan’s music,” it’s just good).
Metalhead!König who stole found one of your hair ties and refuses to use anything else to tie his hair back while he’s practicing drums. If it’s not in his hair, it’s digging into his wrist.
Metalhead!König who dreaded buzzing his hair for work because the only time a girl has ever complimented him was when you said his long hair was pretty.
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