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piratesfromspace · 4 months

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Just Like Old Times (Price x Reader + poly141)

Pairing: Reader x Price (& Reader x 141) Rated: Mature Word count: 2.9k Summary: A cottage in the snow. A Captain you knew in another life. His rugged and attractive men. Will you let them into your life? Note: This is a fic I wrote for @literatecowboy for the Secret Santa event organized by @bunnyreaper! I tried to make something soft and sweet and it's taking place during the winter, it's not smutty but if you like it, I can make a part 2 with some action 👀

EDIT: we have a PART 2!!

Content: ex-military!fem!reader, mention of food & alcohol, a little bit of angst but it’s mainly fluff, smoking, flirting, praise kink, sharing body heat

MASTERLIST // PART 2

It had been Laswell’s idea.

The team needs to be ready for snow conditions, do whatever you think is best. You have 3 weeks. And I’m talking extreme weather, Price, not a little trip to your local ski resort.

Those had been the instructions Kate had delivered to an unphased Price.

He knew it was only a matter of time before this kind of mission would be required from them. Of course, the men of the 141 have already trained in the cold of England, have seen and tested the winter gear. But Laswell is about to send them somewhere at the very East of Europe, and there is a small difference between surviving winter in London and surviving winter in places where the cold could kill you in minutes if you didn't have the proper equipment or knowledge. Over there, more than usual, tiny mistakes could have big consequences. And Price would rather not have his team freeze to death because of a lack of training.

It’s December and the month is cold already. But it’s nothing compared to the cold Soap feels when he steps out of the helicopter. It’s like Price has picked the coldest place he knows in America. He’s pretty sure they are somewhere in Wyoming or Montana, the only thing he can see are mountains all around them. Spruce and fir trees sprawl in dark patches contrasting with the stark white of the snow covering everything. He crosses the large glade to reach the tree line, as the helicopter takes off, sending the fresh snow flying in every direction. The sky is a light gray, and while the whole scene is stunning - makes his head spin with equal awe and wonder thinking about nature’s force and brutal beauty - it means there is no sun to warm his face.

“Come on soldiers, let’s move, we still have a two-hour hike to reach our B&B!”

“You mean someone will be there to make us breakfast Captain?” Soap chimes, unbridled joy coming through his voice at the prospect of warm home-made meals instead of MREs.

Price has a hard time hiding a smile as he starts walking on the thin winding path, only recognisable for those who know it’s there. ”There will be someone, but I’m not sure they will cook for you, Sergeant.”

Ghost lets out a dry chuckle and follows the steps of their Captain, leaving Soap and Gaz a bit puzzled.

❄️

The sun is already setting when you hear loud voices outside, and soon after a series of knocks on your door. You’re a little stressed when you rise from the floor in front of your fireplace to go open the door. You have agreed to shelter those 4 soldiers for 3 entire weeks only as a favor to Price. An old acquaintance who saved your life, a decade earlier, before you left the field to heal your wounds - body and mind. The large wood cabin had been your home for a few years already. You keep it open for women like you, in need of time away from the world, although it’s pretty rare they come during winter time when the road is blocked by snow. It’s an old building, but well-kept and you made it as cozy as possible, all warm natural tones, plush carpets on dark wood floors, dark gray stones in the bathrooms.

You welcome them with a soft smile, delighting in their surprise - seems like John had not told them he planned on using your cottage as a back-up base for this training expedition. John’s team members are not really what you expected: there is one Scott with a mohawk that seems simultaneously annoyed and happy to be there (he has terrific blue eyes), a young and calm brown-haired Brit (he’s really cute, like movie-star cute), and a behemoth with a literal skull mask (his size alone has your head spinning). You can’t complain about them though, as they are polite and friendly, praising your home - and for sure taking in the comfort and warmth one last time before heading off for days of rudimental camping in the icy woods. You don’t envy them, remembering that one mission you did in Siberia when you were still in active duty, that wasn’t really fun. They settle in their rooms easily and you all share a quick dinner you had cooked - except for the masked giant. The banter goes fast between them, especially after you offer them beers. You like being alone, but you have to admit they are fun to be around.

❄️

The living room is silent and dark, the only light coming from the fireplace across your couch. After dinner, you had trouble finding sleep in your room, so you went to read a bit in front of the fire. But you must have dozed off, because you wake up suddenly, gasping, arms flailing, sitting up immediately. Your frantic eyes, wide open, scan the room for the reason of your awakening, survival instinct going overdrive. Someone is standing in your living room, frozen in place on their way to the front door. It’s the behemoth with the skull mask - the scariest of them all, of course.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” he apologizes. In the darkness of the room, it looks like his jaw is not even moving beneath the dark fabric covering the lower half of his face, like the sound just pours out of him or like he’s speaking directly inside your head. He might actually, you’re not entirely convinced the giant is not some sort of supernatural being John brought back from a cursed battlefield. It’s unnerving to say the least.

“I’m sorry, it- it happens sometimes, I can’t help it, my instinct thought you were a threat…” you blurt out before realizing you may have offended him in some way by implying he’s not worthy of your trust. But instead of scoffing, he lets out a thoughtful hum, lowering his head to look at his boots, almost sheepish.

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” His voice is low, calm, and at the same time you can feel something else, sadness, maybe disappointment, in what or who, you’re not sure.

“Care for a smoke?” he offers after a beat of silence, nodding to the front door. You don’t smoke anymore, cut the nasty habit years ago. That’s why you don’t know what compels you to accept, but you’re not gonna be able to sleep now, so you follow him outside, grabbing your coat on the way.

You half expect him to smoke through the mask, but he pushes the fabric up enough to reveal a strong jaw covered in light stubble, and plush lips. So he’s human after all. The slick and heavy storm lighter looks ridiculously small in his giant hand when he lights his cigarette. He takes a deep puff before handing it to you.

“Sorry, last one.”

Your fingers graze his, and you bring it to your lips to drag a small puff that immediately makes you cough.

“You ok?” he rasps, humor tilting the corner of his mouth upwards.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, that’s all” you provide. He hums in approval at your explanation.

When you hand him the cigarette, you take a moment to look at his mouth, the way his throat works when he inhales, the way the silver smoke dances between his open lips and fades into the night sky. Something warms your gut when you realize his lips are set just where yours had been a few seconds ago.

You don’t know what’s more attractive, this or the fact he doesn’t try to make conversation for the sake of it. He doesn’t bother to explain why he couldn’t sleep and felt the need to smoke at 3 in the morning. He knows you understand. You are just glad to bask in the soft noises of nature at night - wind in the threes, the hooting of an owl. Fuck, you’ve been alone up there for too long to thirst on John’s colleagues just like this, just a few hours after their arrival. You shake your head, driving out the thought, and take the cigarette again from his fingers.

❄️

The next morning, you wake up pretty early after a short night, only to find one of them - the pretty one, Gaz - is already fixing coffee in your kitchen like he belongs there. You honestly could get used to this. The thin long sleeves of his shirt are doing nothing to conceal the muscles underneath, rolling as he’s going about this mundane task of preparing breakfast. His kind eyes and soft voice when he asks for your choice of eggs makes your heart flutter with a yearning for this kind of intimate domesticity you had never really allowed yourself up until then. It’s kinda concerning, at this rate you’re gonna ask one - all? - of them to stay with you in your cottage instead of going back to whatever missions at the other end of the world.

The rest of the day is not making you change your mind. Price had asked if anything needed their help around the house, and you gave them the tedious task of moving the gigantic pile of wood logs stocked at the other end of your garden closer to the house. It would have taken you days to do it by yourself. But by lunch time, the pile had dwindled to a fifth of what it was thanks to the hard work of the four men. The two younger ones were down to their long-sleeve compression shirts despite the cold, sleeves rolled up their elbows, showing off strong forearms, various scars slashing across the discreet swirls of black ink from old tattoos. Some disappear under the black gloves they are all sporting. Sweat plasters the fabric of their shirts to their shoulders and chests. You can’t deny they look fucking good.

You had accepted Price’s demand without much after-thought, but now you couldn’t be more happy about it, ogling those four rugged men laboring away for you. Despite being older than his men, Price is far from looking bad. He’s built like a brick house, a healthy layer of fat covering muscles he’s been honing for two decades. Dark hair peaks from the open collar of his jacket, your eyes follow the line of the thin garment which is hugging his tapered waist, down to his thick thighs. Fuck. You remember what it was like to be close to him - literally and figuratively. He was your colleague, an equal, a couple years older than you but you shared the same rank. He was a mentor, a friend, a lover - only briefly, after that fateful mission where he saved your life on the field. You parted ways in good spirit after you announced that you wanted to retire, needed to get your head straight before committing to anything. Today, you ask yourself if maybe you could take this back from where you left it.

❄️

You want to train with us today, love? Just like old times.

Price had asked you the question the next morning and you had not been hard to convince. It was more about being able to look at them than to train your body, but they didn’t need to know that. Even if you keep a pretty healthy lifestyle, you can’t compete with elite soldiers, and by the fourth set of push-ups, your arms are giving out. You’re about to stop and reach for your water bottle, when Price notices.

“Come on, you can do five more, I’m sure!”

You groan in response, but you go back in position.

“Breathe, love. Back a little more straight. Elbows in. That’s it… Good.”

Price’s deep voice is calm as he’s encouraging you, gently correcting your posture.

“Don’t look down, chin up. Perfect, you’re doing good.” he goes on, and you cheeks warm under his praise, enough to make you forget the stinging cold. Your whole body is clenched with the effort, you’re letting out little cries with each push-up, your muscles are hurting, but you want nothing more than to make the captain proud.

“Just one more. Done! You did great darling, I’m impressed.”

He helps you get up on shaking legs and when you almost stumble, he secures you upright against his chest, keeps you there for two seconds more than he should for it to not look intentional. When you raise your head, you’re suddenly so close to his face, blue eyes staring down at you with a glint in them you can’t ignore. You reluctantly part before reaching for your water bottle again, playing coy.

The three others are not oblivious to the little game between you and Price. You notice how they exchange knowing looks and little smiles whenever you both interact. Worst, they also seem to pick up on your love for being praised and soon enough they take every excuse to whisper how good your aim still is during target training, or how smart you are for knowing everything about the local fauna during your afternoon hike. It never sounds like they’re mocking you though, never feels like it’s not genuine. It’s not fair, really. At this rate, you don’t know how you’re gonna survive living under the same roof with four attractive men for three entire weeks.

The answer to this torture of yours is revealed quickly. After a few days of acclimatization at your cottage, Price and his men are ready for a long expedition higher in the mountains, with just tents and even a short surviving-in-extreme-cold workshop. They will be gone for at least ten days. You watch them pack their gear and leave your place with a pinch in your heart you couldn’t expect when you first opened your door to them.

❄️

Days go by, pretty uneventful, until your heating system breaks down. It’s not the first time since you’re leaving up there, it’s not that scary but you’ll have to wait a few days for the repair team to come by. In the meantime, you resort to live and sleep in your living room, where the fireplace provides enough heat to keep you warm in the heart of the winter.

They come back the day after that, and when you see their silhouettes emerging from the treeline, just before the sun sets down, you can’t prevent your lips to form a smile so big it hurts your cheeks after a couple minutes standing in the biting cold.

The fondness in Price’s eyes is not dulled by the news your heater is out of order, nor is the relief on Soap’s and Gaz’s faces at the promise of a solid roof and comfy beds after days of rudimentary accommodations.

You all work to prepare some food, and to bring a couple mattresses with all the duvets you can find in front of the fireplace - the only sane solution for you all to sleep without suffering too much from the freezing temperatures. It reminds you of your years of service, when you sometimes had to share a single room with your whole squad - you’re not missing the stress and the harsh living conditions, but you’re definitely missing the camaraderie, the jokes and fits of laughter, the bodies of trusted people around you.

They leave you the couch - gentlemen that they are - the objectively most comfortable option, but once again you can’t find sleep. The piece of furniture is the farthest away from the fire, and you’re on your own, no one next to you to share body heat with you.

It’s only because I’m cold. That’s the poor excuse you give yourself - and the one you whisper to Price - when you step down from your couch to seek a place under the cover next to John. He’s sleeping next to Gaz; Soap and Ghost are sharing the other mattress. You slide yourself against him, immediately melting into his chest, the man radiating heat like it’s his only purpose in life. He doesn’t even have to ask you if it’s okay to hold you against him because you plaster yourself to him and nuzzle against his chest, old habits taking over your sleepy brain. A sense of safety and comfort envelopes you at the same time his warmth does. You forgot how good it felt to be in his embrace, to be tucked against his broad chest, surrounded by his smell - manly, ambery wood, and the rich spice of his cigars.

He chuckles silently as you settle at his side and let out a little content sigh. He missed that too, he won’t say it out loud, but having you like this, soft and pliant in his arms, it makes him wonder how he could be such a fool for not seeking you sooner. He suddenly wants to kiss you, to make you feel good, here and now, no matter the fact his men are sleeping just a few inches from you. Should he care? He’s not blind to the fact you spend a good amount of time leering at them since they’re here, and to the fact they are watching you back. He can not ignore the shameless flirting going on between all of you five actually. John has never really been in a situation like this, doesn’t know where this will lead him - where this could lead them. But he’s ready to follow you. He takes a deep breath before he talks.

“Just like old times?” He asks, voice low, chest vibrating with it under your palm.

Just like old times… The words echo in your head, echo in your heart. He gives you the opportunity to lead him - to lead them - wherever you wish.

“Just like old times.” You repeat back to him, before you capture his lips in a gentle kiss.

PART 2

#cod fanfiction #captain price x reader #polyamory #poly tf141 #poly 141 #price x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x soap #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #winter fics

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wttcsms · 1 year

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love cuts just like a knife (you make the knife feel so good) ; phillip graves

pairing phillip graves x f!reader word count 8.4k synopsis lover and victim are synonymous when it comes to those who fall into phillip graves’ trap. you learn this lesson a little bit too late. alternatively: an ambitious twenty-five year old graves will do anything for recognition and a promotion. even using you, a renowned general’s daughter, as a means to an end. collateral damage is insignificant when it comes to reaping the rewards of love and war, after all. content contains age gap (reader is 19, phillip is 25), manipulation, loss of virginity, possessive sex, possessive!phillip, lovers to enemies, naive + inexperienced!reader, mentions of pregnancy, power imbalance, breeding kink, minor depictions of violence + blood, literally heavily inspired by taylor swift’s “all too well (10 min version)” + “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve” </3

The four walls of this bathroom are closing in on you, you can’t breathe, and you’re certain that this most certainly is the end of the fucking world.

You try to focus on your breathing, but the sound of your heart banging against your chest invades your mind and makes you think your eardrums are going to burst from the inside out. You’re vaguely aware of the knocks against the bathroom door, but you can’t make out what the person on the other side is saying. The whole room is spinning, and you shut your eyes, forcing yourself to keep steady, to stay calm.

Your fingers curl around the countertop of the bathroom, back hunched over and your shaky arms being the only things helping you remain upright.

This can’t be happening.

You only tighten your grip, staring at your fingers before wanting to throw up when the light reflection from the promise ring on your finger catches your eyes.

You swear that in the glint from the thin band wrapped around your finger, you see flashes of what transpired these past few months. Secret smiles shared from across the room, being tangled up in hotel bedsheets, that damn smirk and boyish grin that sent you spiraling, that led to your’s — your whole entire family’s — demise.

It all comes back to you at too much of a rapid-fire pace for your already shattered mind to deal with properly. Instead, you’re practically ripping off the ring from your finger and chucking it somewhere in the bathroom. You hear the distinct sound of its landing, and from the corner of your eye, it still taunts you.

You shut your eyes again, childishly refusing to turn your head any further so you can conveniently ignore what the ring happened to land next to.

You don’t care much for violence.

Which is ironic; a renowned general’s only daughter being a pacifist? Sounds more like the setup for a joke.

But there’s nothing funny about the way his knuckles are smeared with dried blood, and the sincerity reflected in his blue eyes is too real to be just a joke. Dangling from in between his fingers is the unmistakable golden locket your mother gifted to you when you were only twelve — just months before her quick death. It’s your most prized possession.

And then it was stolen.

At least, you think it was stolen. You’re smart enough to know better than to throw wild accusations, especially whenever you’re on base and these young men surrounding you are training to be the best and brightest for the country. But still — you’re not careless enough to just misplace something so important. The only reason you took it off was because your father told you jewelry wouldn’t be allowed past a certain point. He had promised that the locker would be secure, and you didn’t have the heart to come running to him to tell him that the lockers evidently were not. After watching a fighter jet’s practice run (a supposed special treat for graduating top of your high school class — neverminding the fact that your father’s influence probably had something to do with it), the door to your locker had been swung open and left entirely empty.

You even had a sneaking suspicion as to who the culprit could have been. Jeremy Omelia has been a pain in your ass since summer break started, and you’ve been forced to spend most of your time either on the training base or following your dad around like some little puppy. He’s a new recruit, evident in the way he talks loudly and obnoxiously about how badly he wants to go to war. Your father, a highly respected general, mind you, isn’t shy about his distaste for fighting.

Avoid it at all costs.

Instead of hardening him, all the violence your father has beared witness to has left him rather soft. He shields you to the point where some of his fellow men jokingly discuss about you living in your own little bubble world. And they’re right.

You’ve never had the luxury of sneaking out or having movie dates and getting your father to allow you to go to a sleepover at a classmate’s was harder and less painful than pulling teeth. You get it; that he’s overbearing and overprotective for a good reason. But when the situation calls for you to stand your ground, you find yourself completely at the mercy of your opposition.

So when you first accused Jeremy of stealing your beloved necklace, it had been nothing short of a miserable, failed mission. Too overwhelmed and yet too unsure of yourself, you had practically stuttered through your accusation. It hadn’t helped that you chose to confront him in front of the rest of the new recruits, too. They would have mocked you and probably teased you with the type of cruelty only boys are capable of, but the status of your father shields you from it. Their laughter still rings in your ears, though.

And for the first time in your life, you felt the urge to punch someone in the face.

Again: you’re not a very violent person. Nor are you the type of person who jumps in and does stuff as irrational as that.

But staring up at the boy in front of you, locking eyes with him, and then allowing yours to wander from his bloody knuckles to the thin gold chain dangling in his large hands, you feel a sudden surge of satisfaction. Your father may tell you to avoid fighting at all costs, and you may have a distaste for violence, but a punch managed to solve all your problems.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, daring to take a step forward. Your fingers graze against the familiar, cold feeling of the gold of your necklace. “Thank you.” You repeat it again, staring up at him, trying to see if you know him at all.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he says, knowing that he’s lying right through his pearly white teeth. It’s a nasty habit of his — lying, that is. It’s probably inherited. That’s the excuse he tells himself anyway. As if unlearning bad behaviors from your family is impossible.

“I know he stole it! That jerk! I—” You pause, clearing your throat. Your cheeks feel warm, and you suddenly can’t look him in the eyes. “That jerk” is probably one of his bunkmates. Badmouthing the guy might do more harm than good, and since you haven’t necessarily regained possession of your necklace, you should shut up. Instead of finishing your onslaught of insults, you stretch out your palm, silently asking for your prized possession back.

“I know.” He says, after a minute of silence. “Omelia’s a dick. And an idiot. Y’know, I think he has a little crush on you.”

That makes you look at him again.

“That’s— I—” You need a second to process what you’re trying to tell him.

“That can’t be true,” is what you lamely settle for.

“Guys do weird shit to get a girl’s attention, y’know. ‘Specially for a pretty one.”

(Things like getting their knuckles bloody and risking punishment and public humiliation. But, that’s neither here nor there.)

You want to blame your inexperience for being the reason why you react the way you do. You’re thankful that he’s only human and can’t hear the way your heart starts to beat at his comment. He says it so casually, as if it’s not a compliment. And maybe he doesn’t mean it in that way. Maybe it wasn’t a compliment towards you at all. Maybe he’s just being a completely normal guy, and he’s just making simple conversation, and you’re the weird one for practically gawking at him.

“I guess.” You reply back, feeling small as ever. “May I have my necklace back, now? Please?” You tack on the please at the last minute, hoping he’ll appreciate it, and the two of you can be done with this whole entire awkward situation.

“Depends. You gonna get it stolen from you again?”

You know he’s just teasing you, but you can’t think of anything smart to say back, so you just cross your arms, hoping your distaste for his comment will be made known. Instead of apologizing, he laughs.

“Turn around.” He tells you, and you do. Only out of curiosity, though. Only because he has a nice laugh. Only because he obviously went through great lengths to retrieve your necklace back for you, and he never acknowledged your thank you’s, so maybe doing what he says will make the two of you even.

The tips of his fingers brush against the nape of your neck, and you never realized just how sensitive you are. It takes everything in you to not jerk away from the movement, but it’s almost as if he’s shocked you. It’s silly to get overwhelmed from just the slightest touch, but you swallow hard as he manuevers around your hair to clasp the necklace around your neck.

“There.” He says, seemingly satisfied. “Now the next time someone takes it from you, at least you’ll have a solid look at ‘em yanking the chain around your neck so your accusation can have some credibility.”

You ignore his little teasing remark in favor of satiating your curiosity. “Who are you?”

“No one you need to worry too much about.”

You turn your head, ready to face him again and ask him for his name more firmly, but he’s already walking back from wherever he’s came from, leaving nothing but the memory of his face and the ghost of his touch lingering on the back of your neck.

Ambition is a curse.

Ambition is a bitch.

At least, that’s how Phillip Graves sees it. Ambition and the greed to do something more, to always have the best — sure, it motivates him to be the top of his class and to rise through the ranks faster than most. But it also ends up resulting in him doing some pretty questionable shit.

Things like beating up fellow recruits.

He doesn’t like fighting.

Or rather, he doesn’t like to be the first one to swing.

You see, it’s easier to justify when you do bad shit because it’s done out of retaliation. No one can blame you for being the bad guy if you were the victim first — right?

But no.

General McHenry is the closest thing Graves has to a father figure. His home life is something he chooses not to acknowledge, and when you’re too consumed with climbing the ladder, a lot of things get easier to move to the backseat, left to be abandoned and forgotten. His family being one of those abandoned, forgotten things.

The conversation still replays in his mind as Graves stomps on Omelia’s back.

“General [Surname] has been a pain in the fucking ass for as long as I can remember. The weak bastard’s always opposing the opportunity to strike, and he’s going to be the reason why our enemies are going to accuse us of being a bunch of pussies.”

Graves nods in agreement, even if he doesn’t truly agree. General McHenry’s been the one kind enough to take him under his wing, and so it’s better to just go with what he says and continue to benefit from the general’s sponsorship. Raw talent and simple ambition only gets you so far nowadays.

“You agree, dont’cha? ‘Course ya do.” McHenry grumbles, pacing around the room. “[Surname] refuses to man up and fuckin’ fight. It doesn’t help that he’s still viewed as a golden boy around here. He’s even got the fuckin’ president wrapped around his finger.”

Graves personally doesn’t have anything against General [Surname]. He seems like a nice enough guy. He’s a war hero, too.

Then again, so is McHenry.

“When I’m at the top of the fuckin’ foodchain, [Surname] and his entire family is going to regret crossing me. You understand, Graves?”

Graves nods. Lately, McHenry’s been going on little tangents like this, where he’s secretly plotting the downfall of this general. He goes along with it because he feels like he owes it to McHenry, and even if there’s only a sliver of a chance of taking down General [Surname], Graves will follow through for McHenry because the payoff will be fantastic.

He doesn’t actually anticipate McHenry coming up with a feasible plan.

“Fuck! What the fuck is your problem, Graves?!”

The howl of pain from Omelia snaps him back to his current reality. Staring down at the pitiful, crumpled form of Omelia, Graves can’t find it in himself to feel the slightest bit of remorse. Truth be told, Omelia’s had it coming since day one.

The pathetic idiot’s been eyeing General [Surname]’s daughter ever since you stepped foot on base. Everyone is aware of your presence, especially this year’s class. The famous general’s only daughter is going to be here all summer? And you just so happen to be the prettiest fucking thing most of these guys have ever laid eyes on? Trouble was bound to happen.

Graves just didn’t know that he was going to be one of the unlucky participants of it.

He sighs, crouching down before taking a hand to tug at the collar of Omelia’s shirt. The action forces Omelia to weakly lift his head, allowing him to look Graves in his gunmetal blue eyes.

“Where is it?” Graves doesn’t sound angry, which is shocking to poor Omelia considering the fact that he sure as hell punches like he is. The proof is in the constant stream of blood trickling out of his nose.

“Where’s what?” He’s not even feigning ignorance, which Graves can’t necessarily fault him for. He’s not really the type to wear his heart on his sleeve — would much rather prefer to pretend that he doesn’t even have one, thank you very much — but he’s on a bit of a time crunch right now. He knows your schedule. You’re going to be leaving the canteen pretty soon, and if he wants to catch you, he needs to speed things up.

He chooses to further take his irritation out on Omelia, punching the guy with his left fist this time. It’s not a particularly hard punch; he figures he’s already done enough damage, and by the time word gets around of his transgressions, Graves will hopefully already have McHenry pulling some strings to make sure his punishment isn’t too severe. Now, though, both of his hands are bloody. Blood is a bitch to wash away.

“Fuck!” Omelia yelps. “What the fuck are you even looking for?”

“Her necklace. The damn locket that she confronted you about for stealing. Where the hell is it?” With each sentence, Graves shakes the boy, forcing his limp body to jerk with each aggressive tug. Graves starts to feel a little bit guilty, before he remembers that technically, Omelia made you cry.

You’re cute, Graves finds himself thinking. Too cute to be crying over an idiot like him.

The guilt dissipates.

“That’s what all this shit is about? Over some stupid fu—”

Omelia’s complaints are interrupted by another one of his pained screams. Graves had punched him again, this time a bit harder.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit.” Graves growls. He switches gripping Omelia’s shirt in favor for curling his fingers into the locks of the boy’s hair. It’ll be easier to use that as a sort of leash; provides him the ability to more forcefully bash the idiot’s head into the pavement beneath his feet. Seemingly smart enough to sense the impending danger, Omelia quickly begins to shout.

“It’s in my fucking left pocket! Left pocket, left pocket!”

Graves keeps his grip tight and unyielding as he uses his free hand to rummage in said pocket. Sure enough, Omelia had enough sense to not lie.

He releases Omelia unceremoniously, clutching the dainty necklace and keeping it safely secured in the calloused palm of his hand.

His parting words — more like a warning — leaves Omelia wondering just who the fuck are you to Graves.

The next time you make her cry, I’ll break every fucking bone in your body for every tear she spills.

Eighteen years old. Freshly graduated from high school. More college acceptances than you know what to do with. General [Surname]’s only child. His precious little princess. His only immediate family, and after the untimely death of your mother, his biggest weakness.

General McHenry is teaching Graves on how to exploit weaknesses.

“Good job,” McHenry says, laughing before clapping Graves on the back of his shoulder. “You sure can put on a performance, son.”

Son. Huh. It has a bit of a nice ring to it, he supposes.

“Y’know, I thought I wouldn’t be able to stick out my neck for ya, but you must’ve done some Oscar-worthy acting, boy. You should’ve seen the look on that girl’s face when she begged her daddy not to let ‘em punish you too harshly. Looks like you’re smarter than you look.”

Yeah, sure. It’s a bit of a backhanded compliment, but Graves will settle for it. He just has to deal with this shit for a while longer, and soon, he’ll never have to settle for anything ever again.

At first, General McHenry thought it was a bit of a bullshit idea. The general’s daughter is much too protected by the likes of her father and his closest allies to be touched by the likes of any outsiders. The best way to have him in the palm of their hands is to hit you with it, but that provides to be a bit of a challenge. No direct attack on you will go unpunished.

Graves suggests playing the long game.

He’s read your file, and it doesn’t take a psych degree to read you to filth. You’re nothing more than a pretty girl who’s been spoiled and sheltered by her father all her life. You’re eighteen and about to begin the start of your life, and you probably feel as if you’ve never done anything exciting. Even if you act like a stickler for rules or you’re scared to face the consequences of disobeying your father, with the right words and the right timing, Graves bets planting the seeds of rebellion in your naive, little brain will be a simple task. He’s certain you’ve never had a boyfriend, never even been given the chance to go out on a date — the slightest bit of affection will have you eating out the palm of his hands. The same hands he’s going to use to force your father into the ground, allowing him and McHenry to do whatever the fuck they want.

Naturally, no good deed goes unpunished. Graves still has to scrub the bathrooms with a toothbrush for the next two nights, but it’s a small price to pay. If you truly caused a commotion and swayed your own father to change his stance all for a guy you don’t even know the name of, he’s certain in the next few months, he’ll have you craving his last name and the privilege of bearing his children.

Which isn’t such a bad thing. You’re pretty, he’ll give you that. The prettiest girl he’s ever seen, too.

“What do you plan on doing next?” McHenry asks, grinning. Graves smiles back.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it all figured out.”

Word spreads around quickly in places like these. While you saw the evidence all over his knuckles, hearing what actually transpired leaves you a bit breathless — shocked, but not necessarily because of the violence of it all. Shocked because it had all been done in your honor.

It’s only been two days since the incident, but the feeling of your locket pressed against your skin seems to burn. It serves as a constant reminder of the boy who fought to get it back for you, and suddenly, this necklace has two special memories behind it. You never want to take it off again.

You catch snippets of the recruits whispering to each other, but it’s hard to hear the full story whenever they look up and notice you’re nearby. No one has outright approached you about your connection to this whole fight, and it’s not until dinnertime that you finally get all the details.

“What’s this I hear about between you and Graves?”

“Me and who?” You continue twisting your pasta around your fork, perfectly content with eating in silence and daydreaming about the boy who retrieved your necklace for you. You’ve been texting your closest friends from high school about all the drama, questioning them on what it means. The general consensus? That boy’s got it bad for you. The thought makes you way too happy.

“Phillip Graves.” Your father says.

You shrug, still not sure who he’s talking about.

“Young lady, do not play the fool with me. According to Omelia, he’s the one who left him bloody and bruised outside the back of the gym.”

So, two things you now know for certain: Omelia is a necklace thief, and the boy you’re thinking about is named Phillip Graves. This is becoming a truly enlightening conversation.

“Oh. Well, I didn’t know his name.”

“You don’t know his name, and yet, he’s starting brawls over you?”

“Well, dad, when you put it like that—”

“[Name], what Graves did was a very inappropriate thing to do. Honorable men should never raise their fists against their own fellow soldiers, especially over disputes that could have easily been solved with a simple conversation.”

“Dad, you don’t seriously think that he’s the bad guy in the situation! He’s the one who defended me—”

“I’m just saying, sweetheart, that he used unnecessary force—”

“Omelia is such a jerk! You weren’t there that day. He totally humiliated me in front of everyone in the canteen whenever I tried to make ‘simple conversation’. He wouldn’t listen at all.”

“There’s going to be a meeting to discuss what Graves has done. I personally believe that he should be punished in accordance to what’s written down for men who act as rashly and harshly as he did.”

“Dad!” You gasp, dropping your fork entirely. It makes a tiny sound as it hits the porcelain of your plate, but you ignore the clanging noise. “Don’t you think that’s unfair?”

“Omelia has a broken nose, [Name].”

“Omelia stole the last piece of mom I have left. He would have never given it back if his nose wasn’t broken.”

Looking back, maybe the violence was harsh and uncalled for. A punch might have sufficed. The brutality he’s capable of is simply excusable in your untainted mind. You reason that all soldiers must be capable of going through great lengths to protect and defend others. Isn’t that what he was doing? Protecting and defending you?

“If you vote to have him punished horribly, I won’t forgive you.”

Even if your bottom lip is trembling and your hands are shaking, your father can see that there’s some conviction behind your words. He’s never been one to deny you, his only daughter, and perhaps Graves is just young and brash.

“Fine.” Your father says, appeasing you.

The clink of his fork tapping against his own plate sounds a bit too much like the first domino of his downfall.

“You never told me your name,” you’re standing with your arms crossed against your chest. The sunlight coming through one of the large windows hits your necklace, making it shine. He takes in your entire form, memorizing the shape and silhouette of your body. You’re a sight for sore eyes, at least.

“I’ve got a feeling you already know it, though.” He watches the way you fight down a smile at his remark. He bets you have a pretty smile.

You pull out the seat that’s across from him.

“I didn’t know you read.” You say. You’ve been plotting running into him for the past week now, and you know that he frequents the library every day for at least an hour. You’re not sure what he likes to read, but you doubt brushing up on the hockey romances on your Kindle will provide much conversation. You downloaded The Art of War and only made it past the first three pages before deciding that you’ll just manipulate the conversation into something not about books.

“You think about my literacy levels on your freetime, honey?”

All common sense evaporates the moment he calls you honey.

He teases you every time he talks to you (which, then again, isn’t very much), and so you’re certain there’s nothing genuine behind the pet name, but it still makes you undeniably giddy. No one’s ever called you something so sweet before.

Trying to appear unfazed and not as flustered as you feel, you eloquently reply back, “Um— I— No.”

He laughs, the same nice laugh that you can’t stop thinking about. It almost makes up for the fact that he’s most certainly laughing at you.

“Don’t feel bad. I think about you during my freetime, too.”

He can’t just go around saying stuff like that! It’s unfair! It’s… No one goes around saying stuff like that!

“What? Nothing to say to me now?” He’s grinning at you, book in his hand long-forgotten. You notice that it’s not mean, though, which makes you relax just the slightest.

“You shouldn’t joke about things like that.” You tell him. “People might take you seriously.”

“Well, they should. I am serious.”

And for a split second, he thinks he’s being a bit cruel. Mean, at the very least. The way you’re looking at him makes it plainly obvious that you’ve never been flirted with a day in your life.

The hopeful gleam in your bright eyes makes him believe his own lie, just for a brief moment.

It could be worse, he reasons with himself. There are worse people to pretend to fall in love with, after all.

You’ve never been gifted flowers before.

Maybe Phillip knows this. Maybe the insane amount of bouquets he’s gifting you is to make up for all that lost time. Maybe he’s just one of those people who believe in going big or going home.

Maybe he likes you as much as you like him.

You know how your father feels about dating. He’s a rather traditional man. Believes in the whole entire “ask him for permission before taking his little girl away from him” type of shit. Graves is thorough with his research, and even gathered the courage to ask your father for the chance to take you on a date.

It had been a risk—

—one that almost didn’t pay off.

He thinks his ears are still ringing from the shouts of your father. He’s heard reports that he’s a stoic man, for the most part, and isn’t one for conflict when there’s an option that avoids it. But he’s also a reasonable man, and so, Graves can’t necessarily fault him for the rant he went on.

You’re six years older than her! The hell are you doing trying to take her on a date?

He eventually calmed down, of course. Graves took the brunt of the screams pretty well, gave a whole long lecture on how he would never harm a hair on your precious head. He didn’t anticipate on liking you so much, and believe him, he’s been trying to fight down the feelings he’s harboring for you, but he knows he’ll regret not at least trying.

Your father is soft on you. You must talk about Graves more than he realizes it, because General [Surname] gives him his permission a lot easier than he planned on.

He almost feels bad for the way he’s playing your family like a fool.

Then he remembers the power he’ll receive once all is said and done, and he can almost ignore the lingering feelings of guilt.

He forgets everything when you walk through the doors of the library, surprised at the sight greeting you.

He’s made sure that everyone on base knows to avoid the library at all costs tonight, and he even retrieved the key from the librarian on hand after slipping him a twenty and whispering a quick threat about what will happen if he isn’t left alone in this building. Dealing with the closest florist available and strategically arranging all the bouquets to the point where the whole front entrance of the library is covered in red roses. The spines of the books, the front desks, every table — none of them are visible due to the sheer amount of flowers obscuring them from view.

“I don’t–? What?” You take in the scenery before looking at him. He’s got a large bouquet in his hand and a proud smile on his face, like he’s pleased with your reaction. You think this is a good thing.

“Told ya I was serious. Now you believe me?”

There are weeks that go by without the two of you ever even talking. Most days, you’re lucky enough to be walking past him on the base, and for a fleeting moment, he’ll shoot you a smile that’s so quick, you blink and he’s already long gone. You convince yourself that there’s a meaning to all of this, though. That distance must truly make the heart grow fonder, because why else are you collecting all the scraps you’re given and convincing yourself that they’re the only things keeping you full?

(It’s hard to face reality when you find yourself falling in love with the image of his back turned, walking away from you.)

And in your mind, you’re right. You’re pleased to find out that you’re not just some silly little teenage girl, falling in love with the first person who will give her the time of day. After all, this isn’t necessarily your first time experiencing what it’s like to be crushed on.

It is your first time being wowed by someone so much older and therefore unattainable.

It’s addicting — his attention. He can only gift you his affections so few and far between; every time you find yourself on the receiving end of it, you get dizzy from excitement and joy. This is someone who likes you. Someone who likes you so much, he does grand gestures like this to properly court you.

It’s not your fault, is what you’ll tell yourself in the future. Anyone would have fallen for his tricks.

Anyone would have fallen for him.

Being with Phillip is exciting. Your friends from school tell you it’s simply because he’s your first boyfriend — the word still makes you smile every time you think about it — but you know in your heart that it’s because it’s him that makes it exciting.

You like the way he teases you, not to mock you or to bully you, but because that’s just how he shows his affection. You like the way he’s better than all of your friends’ boyfriends because unlike them, Phillip is actually a man. He’s older, making him more knowledgeable about a lot of things. You like the way he never makes you lift a single finger; you think you’re almost forgetting how to do basic things, like opening doors and pulling out chairs and even putting on your seatbelt yourself. But he makes up for it by teaching you things.

Things like spreading your legs for him when he tells you to, even when you’re not expecting him to.

“Phillip, I—” You forget what you’re about to tell him the moment the moan escapes from your lipglossed lips. It’s your nineteenth birthday. Dad’s away on a mission. Phillip tells you he had to pull some strings to not get sent away, either, and the lengths he’ll go to keep you happy makes your heart flutter.

The two of you get into his fancy sports car, and he drives upstate to a quaint little bed and breakfast that he knows you’ve been doing research on. The two of you were supposed to be heading out for dinner right about now, but when you finished getting ready, something in your beloved boyfriend seemed to change.

Now you’re not having a birthday dinner.

Gripping the sheets and gasping as the cool air hits your bottom half because of the way Phillip flipped the skirt of your dress, you realize that at least one of you will be eating tonight.

“Phillip, we—we don’t have time to be doing this.” You weakly protest, no true conviction behind your words.

Before him, you would have never imagined how good one person can make you feel with just the tips of their fingers or strategic movements with their mouths. Now the flood of pleasurable memories travels from your mind to in between your thighs as you remember just what exactly Phillip Graves is capable of.

“Fuck, baby, you’re already so soaked. I haven’t even done anything yet.” He murmurs, ignoring you entirely. He licks his lips, pressing quick, wet kisses against your inner thighs.

“Phillip, wh—what about dinner?” You fight the urge to instinctively buck your hips, but it gets harder to think reasonable thoughts whenever you feel him tugging at the waistband of your panties.

“You should’ve thought about that before wearing this slutty little dress. Were you trying to get the whole restaurant to fuck you with their eyes?” He practically spits out the sentences, and you’re momentarily shocked.

“I didn’t think it was…slutty.” You say, voice sounding as small as you feel. He can feel you practically shrinking away from him, and he mutters out a swear.

He doesn’t mean it. Doesn’t mean to be harsh with you; he knows you’re a sweet girl. He knows you would never have bad intentions.

But he’s not sweet. And he never has good intentions unless he’s the one benefitting.

And he can tell McHenry and even himself that this is all just a ploy to take down your father, but the moment he knew he had you wrapped around his finger was the same moment he realized that if he’s not the one protecting you from the dangers of men like him — maybe even men worse than him — then who will? It’s not like father dearest, for all his overbearing efforts, is doing that great of a job. Look at how easily Graves slipped through those defenses.

He’s doing right by you, is what he tells himself as he strips you of your panties, leaving you in just your pretty pink sundress. Men are wolves. They’ll take one look at you and eat you alive.

At least he has the decency and heart to make it a good time for you.

He presses a kiss against your clit, and you almost forgive him for his cruel words. Phillip makes everything so easy, including forgetting about any of his minor transgressions.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nod, even though you’re sure that he can’t even see the movement. He’s too busy with his head buried in between your thighs, kissing all over you, sucking hickeys on your thighs before his mouth meets right where you truly need him. You can’t even remember what he’s apologizing for the moment you feel him lapping up your juices before plunging his tongue inside your needy cunt as if it’s his right to do so.

Your hands find purchase in the thick locks of his hair rather than the bedsheets. Phillip has been doing this lately — eating you out, that is. The first time he had done it, you nearly cried from the sheer embarrassment of having someone so close to a part of you that is so intimate. You suppose, though, that if it had to be anyone, at least it’s him.

You always want it to be him.

You wonder if all men are like this. If all men plunge so deeply into the wet depths of their girlfriend’s pussy. Your walls flutter around his tongue, and the tip of nose seems to brush against your clit every so often, only adding to the overwhelming stimulation. Maybe it’s because you’ve never done this before him, or maybe it’s because he has a stronger effect on you than he should have, or maybe it’s because you’re just a sensitive girl — maybe it’s all of the fucking above. No matter the reason, all you know is that the pleasure Phillip is capable of handing out is nothing short of overwhelming.

You gasp and mewl out his name, letting out breathy moans of curse words — such filthy words have never left your mouth before he tainted you — and you keep tugging at his hair. He pulls away, your weak grip doing nothing to keep where you want him. Before you can complain, he immediately replaces his tongue with two fingers, scisscoring them inside of you, trying to stretch you out.

“Such a tight, little pussy.” He breathes out, chin wet with your slick and eyes darkened with lust. “Wonder if my pretty, little girlfriend can make me proud.”

“Huh?” Your pleasure-addled mind makes it hard for you to keep up with what he’s saying, and he only chuckles darkly at your clear confusion. He’s only been eating your sweet pussy for a few minutes, and you’re already too fucked out to even make conversation.

Cute. You’re too cute.

Fuck — he wants to keep you by his side forever. Even after his little con is over, and he gets the position he wants.

“You know what I wanna give you for your birthday, baby?” He’s still slowly thrusting his fingers in and out of your tight hole, and he relishes in the feeling of your walls contracting and squeezing against him. He decides to add in a third finger, which makes you gasp. He takes that opportunity to press his lips against yours, forcing his tongue inside your mouth and giving you a sloppy kiss. You think you can taste a hint of yourself on his tongue, and the dirtiness of it all makes you moan into his mouth. Everything right now is so filthy. You don’t know why you’re enjoying it so much.

“I wanna give you something special.” His voice is rough with lust, and the feeling of him curling his fingers in your tight cunt makes everything so hard to keep track of. All you can focus on is the heat coiling in your belly, and your eyes are glazed, barely able to look at him straight. “I want to give your little pussy something you deserve. I’m going to fuck my cum in you, and then when we go out to dinner, everyone is going to be able to see your wellbred pussy. How does that sound, hm? You want it? You want me filling your cunt with cum for the first time?”

If you had been in your right state of mind, you would have had the decency to be embarrassed at the way you cum all over his fingers, his words bringing you right to the edge.

“Oh? I think my baby likes the sound of that, huh? Just turned nineteen and already such a slut for me.” He’s still lazily thrusting his fingers in your cunt, and your walls are still spasming from the orgasm. “But you only act like this just for me, right?”

You nod too eagerly. “Yes, yes, yes. Only you. Only your slut, only want your cock, your cum.”

He’s already unzipping his pants, tugging down his briefs, freeing his cock from its confines. He removes his fingers from your wet hole, and your cum and juices act as lube as he uses it to wet his cock. In the back of his mind, even he’s aware of how far he’s taking this.

There’s no coming back from this — he knows this. But he’s still going to do it.

“You trust me, baby?” His eyes search yours for any hint of hesitation. He knows that he’s taken advantage of your naivety already; if you tell him to stop, he will. He expects to see nothing pure in your eyes, certain that he’s your ruination, only to have his heart skip a beat when he realizes that there’s only love and reverence in them. You’ve fallen for him, and he has no idea why he feels the way he does. Swallowing hard, he ignores his uneasy feelings in favor of giving into the one he knows he can actually control: lust.

You nod your head, eager to please him. His rough hands are gripping both your legs, easily exposing yourself to him, and you should feel incredibly vulnerable, but all you really feel is safe. It’s Phillip, after all. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.

“Good girl.” His eyes travel down your body, stopping once to admire the amount of marks he’s left on your soft skin, and then stopping again the moment he sees his prize. Your pretty pussy is slick with arousal, tiny hole clenching around nothing. You want him; it’s clear as day. And he’ll give it to you, give you everything; any part of him that he can afford to give is yours for the taking.

What he’s doing is unforgivable.

He doesn’t want forgiveness, though.

His hands grip your waist as he sheaths himself into your virgin cunt, your previous orgasm allowing the movement to be slick. It’s far more gentle than Phillip would treat anyone else, but it’s merciless all the same. There is no room for resistance, and all you can do is moan out in pain and pleasure as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate his length and girth.

You thought your first time would be romantic. A room full of roses, at least, like when he first asked you out.

But it’s Phillip. As long as it’s him, you’re happy.

“Fuck, baby.” He groans out, voice sounding raspy as he watches your tiny hole taking his dick like it’s supposed to. You feel full, filled to the fucking brim, and the foreign feeling of it all has you confused and overwhelmed. There’s a slight sting, and you think you should wait for the pain to subside, but he’s already shallowly thrusting, and you choose to shut up.

Phillip knows best. Phillip would have waited if you were supposed to wait.

“Forgot how good virgin pussy feels.” His touch is possessive as his hands travels all over your body, exploring areas he’s already well acquainted with before gripping your hips once more. His thrusts are starting to get more aggressive, but you find that the pleasure outweighs the pain. All you can feel is Phillip.

For a second, you wonder how many girls he’s been with before. Then he leans down to give you a kiss, and you forget what you were worried about.

“Don’t worry too much, baby. Just relax, and let me fill your pussy. Then, I’ll take you out to your birthday dinner. How does that sound?”

Nice. It sounds nice. Actually, you wonder why you even cared about something as silly as a birthday celebration. Isn’t this good enough?

“Should I make you go out with no panties? You’re squeezing me so tightly, I bet your cunt can hold my cum all night.” He kisses your forehead, the action far too sweet, juxtaposing the rough thrusts of his hips slapping against yours. “Or maybe I’ve loosened you up too much, and it’ll just drip all over your thighs and onto the floor. Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

You moan, imagining the filthy scenario in your head. Everyone would see; how humiliating. How exhilarating.

“At least everyone would know that you’re. Fucking. Mine.” He starts to punctuate every word with an especially rough thrust, and you can only moan as you lie there, taking it all. Taking everything he’ll give to you, and turning it into something sacred.

“I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours!” You cry out, and you prove it. You’ve proved it by the slight blood painting his cock from when he took your virginity, and you prove it a step further by cumming all over his cock. This is the first time you’ve ever came on it; Phillip vows to make sure it’s not the last.

Even if it jeopardizes his own personal mission.

“Atta girl.” He groans out, practically hammering into you at this point. You’re fucked boneless, left to just serve as a cocksleeve as he chases after his own pleasure. Phillip is surprisingly meticulous. He’s usually better at keeping himself composed, never one to give in to instinctual, animalistic pleasure.

In the back of his mind, he knows the risk, has even calculated it. He’s never done something as stupid and reckless as fucking a girl raw.

But no girl has ever been as sweet as you, as trusting as you. It’s the lust talking as he imagines you as the mother of his children. You’d be kind and patient, teach them to be better. They wouldn’t become fuckups like him if you’re there to raise them.

He can see it. He’s always been good at envisioning his future. Coming home to you barefoot and carrying his kids isn’t so bad. It’d be nice. He’d build you your dream house, make sure you always stay bred and dripping with his cum, keep you safe.

All of these thoughts only serve to bring him to the edge, and he makes sure he’s as deep in you as possible as his warm cum shoots inside. He refuses to pull out, and you don’t tell him to. Why would you? You feel closer to him than ever, and he’s kissing your forehead now, cooing that you’ve been such a good girl for him.

You’re tired. You felt like you’ve barely done anything, and yet your eyes are droopy and your vision is getting blurred. You still find the strength to mumble it out, though.

I love you.

He freezes up immediately, but when he looks down at you, you’re already fast asleep.

He’s got you hook, line, and fucking sinker.

So why doesn’t he feel like celebrating?

“Dad, what’s going on?” Your confusion is evident on your face. Your father has his hands pinned to his back, and there are men in scary uniforms yelling at you, and you’re frozen in place. “Dad, tell them that this is a mistake!”

“I’m going to be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to me.” Your dad’s words of reassurance do little to console you; it’s kind of hard to believe what he’s saying whenever he’s quite literally getting arrested by men who are supposed to respect him.

You’ve just gotten back from a date with Phillip. He had seemed a bit off, but you brushed aside his odd behavior as a result of his nervousness. After all, he ended up presenting you with a promise ring. You don’t think he’s ever given someone something so precious and important.

Your good mood obviously disappeared the moment you walked through your front door.

“You’re innocent. You know nothing. They’re going to make sure that you stay in a safe place while I’m gone, okay? Just do what they tell you, and wait for me to get back—”

“Dad, I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” The desperation and anxiety in your voice makes him frown, but there’s nothing he can do as the officers drag him out of the house. Despite your screams of protest, they don’t stop, and even you know hitting an officer would only make things worse. It’s not as if you could have done any real damage anyway.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

The worst part is, you don’t even know what he’s apologizing for.

They’re calling your father a traitor. And by extension, you are one, too. A child is but a reflection of their parents, after all.

Your mother was an enemy spy, and your father knew. Even worse, he protected her. Broke his own moral code, broke the rules of his training, destroyed everything — all for her. The proof was hidden inside his own office, and you don’t even know how someone could have broken in to obtain such incriminating evidence.

Now everyone is treating you like a criminal, down to giving you only one phone call. Naturally, the only person you can think to phone is Phillip. He’ll understand. He’ll calm you down, explain everything to you because that’s just what he does. He’ll know what to do. He’ll get you out of this mess.

You bite down on your lip, impatiently waiting for him to pick up. Usually, he picks up after the second ring, but the dial tone goes on for what seems like ages until you hit the automated voicemail message. You frown, wondering if he’s been sent away. You try again for good measure, but he doesn’t pick up the second time, either. You’re about redial and try for a third time before the woman supervising you snatches the phone away.

“It’s supposed to be one call, remember?”

You don’t talk back, afraid to make things worse, but you don’t think it’s fair. Phillip didn’t even pick up for it to count as a phone call.

You try again and again. Every time they make you move to a different safehouse, you waste that one phone call opportunity on him, daring to hope that he’ll pick up.

After a month, the dial tone haunts you in your sleep.

Hindsight truly is 20/20. When you’re free from the haze of first loves and rebellion, when the smoke of lust has dissipated from the air, when you’re given nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company, that’s when everything starts coming together.

That’s when you can see a traitor for what they are, not what they tell you to view them as.

On the way to the next safehouse, they had to stop at a gas station. You had to learn to be sneaky these days, and the old you would have felt incredibly guilty at the idea of stealing a pregnancy test, but you refuse to ask your handler for one. Pride is the cause — or maybe shame is more accurate.

Whatever the reason is, you find yourself locked up in a gas station bathroom, your worst fears confirmed.

#phillip graves x reader #modern warfare 2 #smut #graves x reader #cod x reader #angst #fluff #one shot #lemon #wttcsms winter writing week

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