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lucy-sky · 5 days ago

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First of all awwww a fic for me?? 🥹🥹🥹🥹 This is so sweet of you, Amaya! ❤️🤗 *holding it close to my heart*

Second - yes, I love Brax, he's also really special for me (in a different way than Swaino, but yeah... You know 😏), and love how YOU write him ❤️ The setting of the story is so good, once again it's like watching a little movie! And of course it's super hot 🔥🔥🔥 Thank you so much for writing this! Love you!! 💖💖💖

dangerous games

Braxton x F!Reader

Summary: Braxton takes a new contract. You. He's not sure if it's a trap or not, but he tracks you down and nothing turns out like he expected.

CW: 18+, complicated relationships, kind of enemies to lovers, angst, smut, bj, crack, ridiculous banter, hitmen, canon-typical violence.

Word Count: 4.2k

— Links: AO3

— This a birthday gift for my dearest Lucy (@lucy-sky) I haven't written anything for you in a while, but I hope you like this. I went with Braxton cause I know you love him as much as I do, and it's kind of his year truly, so have fun! And have a great day 💜💜💜

There are still traces of gunpowder and blood on his hand when his thumb quickly taps on the screen, accepting the contract before thinking about it twice; before anyone can swap it up from him.

The message doesn't come from the usual channels. It comes through his burner phone. The one linked to the Reaper's network that operates through the dark web’s back alleys. There’s no vetting. No safety nets or guarantees. But the price tends to be double for the risk. Sometimes tripled depending on how elusive the target is, which is a good incentive.

Braxton half joined for the thrill of it. And partly for the glory and money. Every year, the network hosts a Reaper's game, where the crowned winner with the most kills takes home a hefty sum put together by the sponsors. That kind of reward could make any man lay down his weapon for good. That’s what last year’s winner did. As soon as it was done, no one ever saw him again.

He came close enough to taste it on the last one when he ended up second. Or first loser, as he would say.

Since then, he's upped his game.

Big time.

He never says no to a contract or takes time off.

Always on the move.

Always on the haunt.

His phone is always close by, waiting for it to ring.

He's trained for this and by the end of August he's accumulated more bodies at his back than he can count. He doesn't need to check the ranking. There's no use. But he knows he's at least in the top five. He needs to kick it up a notch to beat the other four.

However, this new contract… He hasn't taken it for the kill count. No. He's come close to shooting the face—yours—on his screen many times but only out of annoyance. He could never pull the trigger on you. Though this time… he might have to.

There’s an advantage to this particular target. It’s that he knows all your aliases. You have a rotation of them, but always fall back to your favorites. Facts like those are not on your file. Your real name isn’t in there either. Or any more details than you being an inside trader, which it’s completely inaccurate as well. Besides a blurry picture of you inside a car, there’s no real information about you in the contract to point to your location. But Braxton doesn’t need any more of what he’s given.

He knows you better than he’d like to admit and if his memory is right, it’d tell him you’d be sipping Mai Tais in Bali as you do every year. Like clockwork.

After accepting the challenge, he takes the first available flight and a day later he finds himself landing in Bali.

He doesn’t need to ask around. He’s tracked all your known aliases beforehand, hacking into hotel networks, rentals, Airbnb’s… And he got a match.

Lucia Diamandis. — That was the one you were using when he first met you in Venice almost ten years ago. You weren't a killer back then. Your main career involved hacking. He'd say you were the most talented he's ever worked with, but he wouldn't give you the satisfaction of admitting that. The relationship tiptoed between the lines, and on more than one occasion he found himself tangled with you in different beds. All over the world. You kept finding ways to be in each other's vicinity. Things took a turn a couple of years ago when you cut all contact.

When Braxton steps off the plane, the air feels heavy enough to drink. Thick heat clings to his skin before he even clears customs.

A cab ride later, he’s standing in an open-air lobby. Ceiling fans turn slow and lazy overhead. There’s a couple checking in at the desk. Two men, armed with security, waiting behind that same couple that have no problem displaying their affection in front of the receptionist.

Nobody looks at him twice. He's just another tourist. The Hawaiian shirt—blue with pink flamingos— and the pair of light khakis make him invisible.

The hotel’s one of those special escapes that sells privacy as its main luxury. There are walls of greenery, pristine pools, spas, incredible views, private beach access, and a highly competent staff that offers him a free cocktail while he waits to be checked in.

He takes off his aviators and winks at the efficient server, while he collects the drink from a tray, “thank you, sweetheart.”

When it's his turn, he checks in using a fake ID—Brian Wells. Brand new. Untraceable. He’s off the network’s radar now. Just temporarily until he deals with you. For all they know, he’s back in Los Angeles, taking a weekend off.

He’s escorted to a bungalow. A bellboy carries his leather bag while they move past the smell of salt, sunscreen, and frangipani. The sound of the ocean feels soothing and for a second he can imagine himself just walking down the beach at sunset every day, maybe in the company of a dog, or a woman, or both. That’d be a life he’d settle for if he could.

The bungalow is tucked away in what it feels like a small village near the beach. Everything is neatly perfect inside. From the polished wood, to the top of the line appliances, to the expensive texture of the curtains. The air is scented faintly with sandalwood incense. On the dining table, a welcoming basket awaits. It's filled with an assortment of fruit he can't name, and adorned with flowers. He recognizes the mango, but the rest might as well be from another planet. A small bottle of Arak sits beside the basket, clear as vodka, a promising burn he'd save for later, for when this is over.

He tips the bellboy, waits for the footsteps to fade down the path, then closes the door and kneels by his bag. The zipper creaks as he opens it to pull out the small box hidden under a pair of jeans, marked with an image of a zeppelin on the lid. To anyone else, it’s a collector’s puzzle, one of those mind-bending toys you buy in airport gift shops.

To Braxton, it’s something else. It’s the only way he could smuggle a weapon without setting off any alarms. Brax spills the metal pieces onto the table, the clink of steel loud in the quiet space. He’s practiced for hours on how to put it together and set it apart before taking off. He does it by heart now. The intricate pieces are assembled without effort. He slides each piece to the next until the shape stops resembling a zeppelin and becomes a gun. It takes him less than twenty minutes. There’s always room for improvement but given that he had limited time to practice he’s done a pretty solid job.

The ammo is a different story. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to find a way to make it past security with it, but he did. He thought of swallowing them or putting them in a different hole of his body, but then he saw his bag. His most trusted ally that’s been all over the world with him. He zeroed in on the four studs at the bottom that keep the leather from ever touching the floor directly. He had to dig those studded feet out and carve some room for the bullets.

No one checked twice at the airport. It was surprising considering the amount of security there was. But he didn’t leave anything to chance either, he made sure his contact working on TSA was there so he could easily board in without trouble.

Now he pries those bullets out with a knife. They're polished and clean. He turns them in his fingers before sliding them into place. That’s four too many bullets, but there’s no need to be careless now. For all he knows, this could be a trap too. He’s considered this option. You wouldn’t do that to him, he believes, but who knows. The last time he saw you, you were shooting your way out of Zurich and almost put a bullet in his brain pan. It came just two inches short of his head, but maybe you spared him on purpose.

With the weapon ready, he tucks it at the back of his pants. Makes sure the shirt is loose enough to hide it before slipping out of the bungalow.

There's a paved path trailing different areas of the resort. He looks at the map one more time and memorizes the trail to the villa you're staying at, away from the bungalows, cabins, and the main hotel building.

When arrives at the door, he doesn’t knock. Not yet. He stands there for a moment, listening for signs of life behind the walls. The only thing he can hear is the sound of waves crashing ashore and the merry chirping of a couple of birds watching him from the nearest tree. He looks up and catches a security camera looking down at him. He takes a step back, away from its focal view, but the thing moves along to every of his steps. Very carefully, he walks up to the side of the house and turns the corner. More big brother eyes follow him along the path that leads to a set of stairs. He sends his hand to the back of his pants, curls his fingers around the handle before descending. Every step is measured. He keenly listens to the stillness of the villa. Maybe he got the wrong place, but it’d be unlikely. After the last step, he bends another corner, and brings his gun to his front.

Quietness is suddenly disrupted by a big— SURPRISE!

A group of strangers put up their glasses and cheer at his presence.

Right in the middle, there’s you, holding a cocktail up to him. You throw him a wink, sort of mocking him, watching him dumbfounded as everything unfolds before his eyes.

It takes him a minute to process what’s going on.

He’s standing on an extensive patio with a long skinny pool facing the ocean. There are cabanas, caterers, and a big cake on a rounded table. Somebody puts music on. It blasts across the property as you walk up to him.

“You came armed to my party? That’s cute.” You touch his shoulder, glancing at his flashy shirt. “So it's your shirt. This color really suits you.”

“Cute? What the hell is going on here?” He utters, tucking his gun back in his pants.

“Well,” you say, casually looping your arm through his and steering him toward the bar, “I’m just throwing a little birthday party for my fiancé.” You glance at him, batting your eyes, showing a big flashy ring on your finger.

“Fiancé? Did you hit your head recently?”

Your lip quirks up on one side. “I’ll explain later. Just have a drink and relax.”

He plants his feet, halting you both mid-step. His hand clamps around your arm, forcing you to face him. “Explain now. I don’t have time for your games.”

You sip through your straw, eyes never leaving his, clearly entertained by how much steam he’s building. “You don’t have time for my games? But you do have time for the Reaper’s Game, huh?”

That’s when it dawns on him. There was no hit on you. If there was, you set it yourself, bait on a hook, just to drag him here. To a party. To enjoy himself. Something he doesn’t have time for.

“What the hell do you know about that?”

“I’ll tell you later if you behave.”

A server stops nearby, and you snatch another drink from their tray, offer it up to Brax.

He doesn’t take it. He’s too riled up to drink, too obtuse to bend to your wishes.

“I’m not drinking anything until you tell me what do you want for me, alright?”

He’s impossible.

You shake your head and try again. “I wanted you here for my birthday party, okay?”

“Thought you said it was my birthday.”

“To these people, it is your birthday party, but secretly… it’s actually mine.”

He stares at you, disbelief tightening his jaw. “You’re so full of shit. What’s your endgame here?”

“I have no endgame, Braxton. Maybe I missed you. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Missed me? Last time we saw each other, you almost killed me.”

“Almost. That’s the keyword—almost.” You point out and slurp another sip of your drink. “Let bygones be bygones, Brax. You can’t hold a grudge forever.”

He folds his arms across his chest, shoulders broad and unyielding.

“That your new motto? You were the one who took a shot at me cause you thought I was flirting with a waitress.”

“Honest mistake.” You chuckle. “You were just in the way when the Vhosk came to nab me. I was angry, and you know… the heat of the moment and everything… I wasn’t thinking straight. I might have… overreacted a little. But I didn't mean to.”

Still deeply wound up, the knot on his brow deepens. “Is this your version of an apology?”

“If I say I’m sorry, would you stay?”

“I… I think I’m done with you. Even if you say you’re sorry. I have places to be. People to kill. You know how it goes”

“But you need to stay. I have a gift for you.”

Braxton scoffs, unfolds his arms, waves off your words. “I don’t want anything from you.”

You clear your throat, lean in until your lips hover dangerously close to his ear. He can feel the warmth of your breath as you whisper, “In this house, there are two red dots. Stay, and I’ll tell you who they are. You’ll be on top of the list by midnight.”

Red dots. Hot targets on the network. That gets his attention. Those come with extra points that could put him in first place.

“C’mon, hotshot? What do you say?”

Braxton considers for a moment and finally reaches to grab the drink in your hand. “You have one hour.”

“Three.” You bargain. “One for each target. And one for me.”

Braxton scoffs, “you don't deserve three hours of my time.”

“Oh? The great Braxton can’t wait three hours now?”

“I can wait. It’s that I don’t trust you. And I don’t trust that they’re real targets, either.”

“Well, go then.” You bluff. “I'll give them to someone else.”

Exhaling heavily through his nose, he pauses.

“I'll give you two hours max. You better deliver.” He utters so sternly, it kind of sends a chill down your spine.

Begrudgingly, Braxton puts on his best smile and joins the party. Accepts his birthday wishes from a bunch of strangers. Pretends to care. Makes up a story about your engagement when people ask. He can truly charm anyone when he puts his mind into it, and it's always fascinating to watch him work. The only problem is that in between doing that, he also has a knack for flirting with other people when he knows you're watching. Especially then. You almost took a shot at his head, and he's definitely going to make you pay for it. But if everything goes according to plan, you'll have him eating out of your palm by midnight. So, you let him think he has the upper hand, that he's in control. It's easier that way. You're not about to trick him this time. You wanna make it up for all the times that you did.

Time ticks down and by sunset the party slims down until it's you and him only.

There's no teasing this time. No stalling. You hand over a box tied with a big red bow. Inside there’s a folder with the names and location of the two promised targets staying at the resort. You've put a lot of work into this and know exactly how much security they have, and now so does he.

“Be careful.” You say before he leaves.

“Why do you care?”

You shrug. “I guess if someone it's going to kill you, it should be me.”

“You're out of your mind.” He scoffs. “Don't worry, sweetheart, I won't give them the satisfaction.”

“But you'd give me the satisfaction?”

“I'll think about it.”

You see him out into the sunset that’s nearly over.

He doesn't go straight to his targets. No. You use your laptop, tapped into the security system of the hotel, to keep an eye on him in case he gets into trouble. You start feeding the footage from the previous night to the security room into the main building. He probably would go unnoticed, but you're not leaving anything to chance.

Braxton returns to his bungalow and waits till it's completely dark outside. When he comes out later, he's changed his outfit. He's now clad in a dark t-shirt and jeans. You follow his figure on the CCTV, moving with that determined stride to reach the house half a mile off from your villa.

Both targets are inside. You tap into those cameras too. He uses his weapon to take out one of the guards at the back. It's swift and quiet. The loud rumble of the party at the beach covers the sound of that shot. He then reaches down and collects the guard's handgun. He'd need more than the three bullets he has left to finish the job. You've seen him before in action, so his surgical precision when it comes to jobs like this doesn't surprise you. They all drop like flies around him. Six security guys is not a challenge for him. Neither are the two contracts who are no match to his skills. When he's done, he takes pictures of the bodies and sends them through the network. Then opens the fridge and invites himself to something sweet—yogurt, or maybe custard. You can’t tell from the angle, but he picks up a spoon from a drawer, leans on the counter and shovels spoonfuls into his mouth.

You use the controls on your laptop to point one of the cameras at him. A small click on the camera’s arm captures his attention. Brax looks up. Stares into the barrel of the lens for a long moment, as if he knew you're watching. He lets the spoon rest in the cup to free his hand, lifts it up with his middle finger sticking out in your direction. You snort as he proceeds to walk out nonchalantly with his earned desert.

Once he’s out, you proceed to wipe out all the cameras of any footage of him.

It's your turn now to get your gift. If you really know Braxton, you're sure he'd be crossing your door in less than half an hour. He'd hesitate on the way over, but he won't be able to resist seeing you once more. He's done it before. No matter how mad he is, there's always a part of him that can't resist you. Certainly he can’t now after probably helping him reach the finish line of the Reaper’s Game.

You close your laptop before finding out which way he'd go.

After that, you put on your favorite lingerie set, turn off the lights and wait in bed for his arrival. You could be wrong this time, but hardly you ever are. Brax is more simple than he leads to believe. He’s starved for affection. Craves you in ways he can’t explain. He always has. Even when he’s pissed off. Especially when he’s pissed off. He’s been waiting for this moment for two years. Perhaps you dropped the ball and should have tried to attempt to bridge that wound earlier. It worries you that you didn’t. And in the middle of all that hesitation, you slightly doze off, thinking that maybe you were wrong this time. Perhaps he's over you, and he’s already sick of playing this game with you.

But the game isn’t over yet. There’s a sound like a constant click, resembling the needle of a clock ticking the seconds away. It’s louder than that. Feels closer too.

When you open your eyes, you find him sitting at the end of the bed, playing with his gun.

“Did I bore you?” He asks lowly.

“Huh?”

“I know you were watching. Didn’t you enjoy the show?”

You sigh and turn to look at him, slowly coming out of that shallow slumber.

“I did. You were great. As usual.” You point out leaning on an elbow, propping your head on your palm.

“So, what’s in it for you?”

“Nothing. I told you there's nothing for me. It was a peace offering, Braxton.”

“Didn’t seem very peaceful. You tricked me. I thought that you were…”

“That I was what? In danger? Did you truly believe that?”

“Guess… I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. So, I keep wondering… what’s in it for you? Why didn’t you take them out yourself?”

“Hm.” You pause and find the force to sit up against the headboard. “You know, I don’t like getting my hands dirty unless I have to.”

“Right,” he scoffs, half glancing at you. “Is that it?”

You shrug. “Maybe I thought we could be partners, and share the reward.”

“So you want my money?”

“Well, part of your money.” You push yourself up again, but this time you lean on your knees and slowly slink your hips like a cat in his direction. “I also want your mind, your heart, and that thing behind your pants.”

When you reach his back, you lightly press your teeth on his nape. Braxton freezes when your teeth graze his skin. It’s the briefest, playful nibble. It pulls a low sound from his chest.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he laughs.

“Not as much as you are.”

“Let’s just agree we both should be locked up. Maybe together.”

“You’d like that, huh?” You nudge his earlobe with the tip of your tongue before sucking it between your lips.

“You’re playing a dangerous game there, sweetheart.”

“I’m not playing any games.” You whisper in his ear.

“No? Then what do you want?”

“Already told you. I only want you, Braxton. I got you a gift. Now I’m getting mine. How much do you want me to beg?”

His lips turn up playfully as he finally puts his gun down and takes a good look at you. He captures your seductive pose on all fours. Daring him. You say it’s not a game, but he knows better by now. Everything is a game to you. Including whatever this is.

“Maybe if you get down on the floor. I’ll think about it.” He uses his pointer finger to trace the shape of your jaw. “Or is that too much for you? Maybe you’ve forgotten what it is to have a real man in your mouth.”

“No. I definitely have not forgotten.”

You gracefully slip down the edge of the bed. Settle your knees on the floor between his legs. Braxton leans back, propping his hands behind him to give you full access to his package.

“Well, go ahead. Have at it.” He nods, nudging his hips upwards in a slightly thrusting motion. “Show me how you beg with my cock in your mouth. If you do it right, maybe I’ll fuck you.”

Taking up his dare, you lick your lips and swiftly undo his pants. Without tearing your eyes away from his, you palm his bulge over his underwear, gently curve your fingers around it and very slowly jerk him off up and down until he's half hard. Then you peel back the elastic of his boxers, freeing his erection. Your fingers curl at the base, it twitches in your hold. Leaning your head forwards, you stick out your tongue and draw a wet strip from the base up to his head. Braxton mumbles under his breath and when you look up at him, you notice his eyes have changed. They're now filled with that familiar, scorching fire. His length fully hardens when you repeat that same motion a couple of times. Wrapping his skin on your saliva.

When you're ready, you close your lips around that swollen tip and slowly go down, taking every inch of him until it touches the back of your throat. You go gentle the first couple of times before fully begging him with tongue, teeth and sweat how much you need him. How much you want him. And how much you've missed him. Every blow comes harder, and desperate.

“Look at you. Fuck…” he tilts your chin up so he can see your lust-filled mouth stuffed with his dick. “You beg so fucking good. Keep going.”

You hum round his raging erection and continue bobbing your head for his pleasure. And yours. There's a knot forming at your center. It's hot and wet. It coaxes your mouth to blow him harder and faster. The lewd sounds of your mouth weave with the grunts that come out of his throat. Now he's the one begging. His cock is nearing that edge. You can feel his veins and that pulse on your tongue. He's so close you can almost taste it. Before you realize it, his load fills your mouth, and he falls back against the mattress, taken down momentarily by that powerful jolt of bliss.

You lick torus lips and smooth your palms over his thighs. “Did I do good?”

His breathing still struggles to catch up when he says. “You did so fucking good.”

“Can I climb on top of you now?”

“In a minute,” he scoffs.

#fic rec #braxton wolff x reader #jon bernthal #the accountant #the accountant fanfiction #birthday tag #❤️❤️❤️

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