Phillip Graves

Phillip Graves was a lot of things, he was a soldier, a leader, and a symbol of smug efficiency to all who served under him at Shadow Company. He was their commander after all. But even men like Graves had their limits.

Sometimes the weight became unbearable.

For someone in his position, relief wasn’t as simple as a drink or a smoke. They helped—yes—but they weren’t enough. No, the things that truly eased his mind were hidden behind closed doors of remote locations. Graves had a craving that demanded sating. Even If only for a fleeting moment, he needed to be at someone else’s will. But how could someone as high-profile as him find an outlet? How could he seek solace in something so against to the image he projected?

Against all odds, he had found someone. Someone who knew exactly what he needed. That someone was you.

You were demanding, unrelenting even, a force to be reckoned with in your own right. When Graves came to you, he knew he’d be pushed far beyond his comfort zone. You’d strip him of the control he clung to so tightly. And afterward? The exhaustion that followed was the kind that made him feel himself again—grounded, focused. It was the kind of fatigue that wiped everything clean, giving him back the clarity he so desperately needed to succeed, to get his head back in the game.

He hated how much he craved it. How addicted he had become.

Graves couldn’t help but feel a burning shame at what went on behind closed doors. If his men knew... he could already imagine the whispers spreading through the ranks. Shadow Company would never let him live it down.

The mission had been a disaster, barely salvaged by quick thinking and sheer aggression. Graves had become snappier than usual, the tension evident in his posture. He could feel the glances and whispers his men exchanged behind his back—exasperated, and worse, pitying. They said he needed to be reined in, knocked down a peg.

They were right.

Alone in his quarters, Graves leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath. He reached for his second phone—the one no one else knew about—and dialed the number he could recite in his sleep. His heart hammered in his chest as he listened to the rings, the anticipation making his fingers tremble ever so slightly. It didn’t matter how many times he did this; the nerves never went away.

Click. The line connected, and a familiar voice greeted him.

"I... ah... could we...?" Graves stammered, his words catching in his throat. How could a man who commanded so many feel so weak in this moment? Why was it still so damn hard to ask for what he needed?

A low chuckle drifted through the phone, cutting off his fumbling.

"Please," Graves added quickly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I need... I need this tonight. I need you."

The answer came swiftly, without hesitation. Same place, same time.

When he finally stood to leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to acknowledge what he was really running from—the crushing weight of always being in control, of never showing weakness.

But soon, he wouldn’t have to run anymore. You’d see to that. And when it was all over, he’d be back to being the unflinching commander his men expected.

At least until the weight became too much again.

~.~

That was how he ended up in this remote motel again, stripped down to nothing but his boxers, kneeling before you like a man praying for absolution. You, on the other hand, sat above him on the bed, still fully clothed—A power imbalance that was just the start on what would become a very long night.

He knelt between your thighs, his frame dwarfed by the way your legs caged him in, there was a weird comfort in this closeness. His breathing slowed, deepening with each passing second as his gaze traveled from the floor to you. His eyes were wide and pleading as he whispered, “Please... take care of me.”

His voice trembled ever so slightly, a hint of vulnerability slipping through. Even with all the times he had knelt before you like this, the need to ask, to beg for care, lingered. It wasn’t that he doubted you. But some fragile part of him needed the reassurance that you understood. And you understood so well.

You leaned forward slightly, one hand threading through his hair, the other resting on your knee as you looked down at him. Your touch was deceptively gentle. Of course you'd take care of him, you told him, voice low and steady, every word slowly sinking into him. Of course. He exhaled, finally letting go of the last of his reservations. His shoulders softened, the tension leaking out as he slipped into the role that was becoming more familiar every time.

In this room, he wasn’t Graves, commander of Shadow Company. He wasn’t the hardened soldier who barked orders and led men into battle. Here he was nothing more than Phillip. Your Phillip. Someone eager to please and desperate to obey.

He rested his head against your thigh, nuzzling into the warmth of it, his eyes glazing over with a hazy, contented look. A low whine escaping his lips as you murmured soft words of praise. Good boy, you would call him; pretty boy, if he was especially good for you.

His smile grew wider, the corners of his lips twitching upward in that hazy, dreamy way that signaled he was already halfway to slipping under. Every time you called him that, he felt something inside him loosen, until there was nothing left but a docile, obedient puppy eager to follow your lead.

The nervousness that had clung to him was replaced by a singular need: to serve, to please, to be exactly what you wanted. Right now, he wasn’t thinking ahead, calculating his next step or bracing for an attack. He was fully present in the moment, focused entirely on you, on your touch, your voice, the way you held him in the palm of your hand. And you knew it too. He was yours to mold, yours to break and put back together again. And he welcomed it.

The night would be long and you would push him past his limits, he was sure of it. But beneath it all, there was that trust, that you would never truly break him beyond repair. You’d push him to the edge, dangle him over the abyss, but you’d always pull him back before he fell too far.

“Please... don’t let me go too far,” he murmured, a touch of anxiety creeping in, though it was quickly soothed by the way you tightened your grip in his hair.

You tilted his head up to meet your gaze, baring his throat in the process. The way he looked at you—those eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in expectation—was pure submission.

“I’ll do whatever you want... Just tell me...” he breathed, his voice shaky with anticipation, desperate for your direction.

Finally, the fingers of your other hand brushed lightly along his throat. He tensed at the contact, breath hitching, but still didn’t move. The touch was soft, almost tender. Leaning down, your breath ghosted over his ear as you whispered those words: He was going to wish he’d never asked for this.

The words sent a jolt through him—fear and excitement merging into something potent that made his pulse race. Before he could process it, your hand closed around his throat, grip firm but not painful, a reminder of just how easily you could control him. He swallowed hard, struggling to hold onto the trust that had been so certain just moments ago.

And as the tension built, teetering on the edge of something darker and more intense, Graves couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that tonight would be different—that this time, the lines might blur beyond what he was used to.

“Just... don’t break me,” he whispered, the vulnerability in his voice betraying the depth of his need, the quiet plea hanging in the air as he surrendered himself completely to you.

This time, he might not be able to come back as easily as he hoped.