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pucksandpower · 8 months ago

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Black Widow

Toto Wolff x black widow!Reader

Summary: Lewis Hamilton and George Russell are convinced you’re trying to kill their team principal, and, to be fair, you do have a trail of seven dead extremely wealthy husbands behind you … but it’s not what they think, you promise

The soft beep of medical equipment provides a rhythmic backdrop as you sit beside the ornate mahogany bed, your manicured fingers intertwined with those of your latest husband, Reginald Worthington III.

At 89 years old, Reggie, as you affectionately call him, is by far your oldest conquest yet. His wrinkled face, now gaunt from months of illness, still manages a weak smile as he gazes at you.

“My darling,” Reggie wheezes, his voice barely above a whisper, “I hope you know how much joy you’ve brought to these final months of mine.”

You lean in, your silky hair cascading over your shoulder as you press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Oh, Reggie. The pleasure has been all mine.”

It’s not entirely a lie. While you don’t love Reggie — or any of your previous husbands, for that matter — you’ve grown fond of the old codger. He’s certainly been the most amusing of your elderly spouses.

Reggie’s eyes twinkle with mischief, a ghost of the rakish playboy he must have been in his youth. “Now, now, my dear. We both know this has been a mutually beneficial arrangement. But I do hope I’ve provided some entertainment along the way.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “You’ve been a delight, darling. Truly.”

As if on cue, Reggie is seized by a coughing fit. You quickly grab a glass of water from the bedside table, helping him take small sips until the spasms subside. When he catches his breath, he fixes you with a serious look.

“Y/N, there’s something I need to tell you. About the will.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face carefully neutral. “Reggie, please. We don’t need to discuss such morbid topics.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. We both know why you’re here, and it’s not to admire the wallpaper. Now listen, because this is important.”

You lean in closer, curiosity piqued despite yourself.

Reggie’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “In addition to the usual — the houses, the cars, the offshore accounts — I’m leaving you my stake in the Mercedes Formula 1 team.”

Your eyes widen in genuine surprise. “The racing team? Reggie, I had no idea you were involved with-”

He cuts you off with a wheezy laugh. “Oh, my dear. There’s so much you don’t know about me. Did you think I made my fortune selling denture cream?”

You can’t help but smile. “Well, I did wonder about all those trophies in your study.”

“Remnants of a misspent youth,” Reggie says with a wistful sigh. “But this, this is my crowning achievement. A 33% stake in one of the most successful F1 teams in history.”

Your mind reels at the implications. This is far beyond anything you’d anticipated when you’d set your sights on Reginald Worthington III.

“Reggie, I ... I don’t know what to say.”

He pats your hand affectionately. “You don’t have to say anything, my dear. Just promise me you’ll make the most of it. I’ve always admired your ambition. It reminds me of myself at your age.”

You lean back in your chair, studying the old man before you. In that moment, you feel a surge of genuine affection for him.

“I promise, Reggie. I’ll make you proud.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good. Now, tell me about the others. I want to know how I measure up to my predecessors.”

You laugh, shaking your head in amazement. “Are you sure? It’s quite a list.”

Reggie’s eyes sparkle with interest. “My dear, I’m on my deathbed. Regale me with tales of your conquests.”

With a theatrical sigh, you begin. “Well, if you insist. Let’s see ... first, there was Harold.”

“Ah, the virgin husband,” Reggie interrupts with a knowing nod.

You raise an eyebrow. “And how did you know that?”

He winks. “I have my sources. Go on.”

“Right. Well, Harold was a sweet man. A bit naive, perhaps, but genuinely kind. He left me his tech startup. It wasn’t worth much at the time, but I sold it for a tidy sum a year later.”

Reggie nods approvingly. “Smart move. Who was next?”

“After Harold came George. He was ... intense. A retired army general with a penchant for war stories and expensive scotch. Left me his collection of rare military memorabilia.”

“Fascinating,” Reggie murmurs. “And the others?”

You tick them off on your fingers. “Let’s see ... there was Joaquin, the passionate Spanish chef. He left me his Michelin-starred restaurants. Then came Dmitri, the Russian oligarch. That was ... an experience.”

Reggie chuckles. “I bet it was. What did he leave you?”

“A series of shell companies and a rather gaudy yacht. I sold the yacht, kept the companies.” You pause, lost in thought for a moment. “After Dmitri was William, the British lord. Lovely man, terrible teeth. Left me his crumbling estate and title.”

“So you’re technically a lady now?” Reggie asks, amused.

You nod. “Lady Y/N, at your service. Though I don’t use the title much. It tends to raise questions.”

“Understandable. And the last one before me?”

Your expression softens slightly. “Ah, that was Hiroshi. Japanese tech mogul. Brilliant mind, but so lonely. I think I was the first real companionship he’d had in years.”

Reggie studies you carefully. “You were fond of him.”

You nod, a bit surprised by the lump in your throat. “I was. He ... he understood me, I think. More than the others.”

There’s a moment of silence as Reggie processes this information. Finally, he speaks. “And what did Hiroshi leave you?”

You smile wryly. “His AI research company. It’s been ... interesting, to say the least.”

Reggie nods slowly. “Quite a collection you’ve amassed, my dear. But tell me, what drives you? Surely it’s not just the money.”

You’re taken aback by the question. No one has ever asked you that before. You take a moment to gather your thoughts.

“I suppose ... it’s the challenge of it all. The thrill of reinventing myself with each new husband, of navigating these complex worlds they inhabit. And yes, the wealth is nice, but it’s more about what I can do with it.”

Reggie leans forward, intrigued. “And what is it you want to do?”

You pause, realizing you’ve never really articulated this to anyone before. “I want to make a difference. Real, lasting change. These men, they’ve all built empires in their own ways, but they’ve been limited by their own mortality. I don’t have those limitations yet. I can take what they’ve given me and create something ... more.”

Reggie’s eyes light up with understanding. “Ah, now I see why I was drawn to you. You’re not just a pretty face or a clever mind. You’re a visionary.”

You feel a flush of pride at his words. “I try to be. Each husband has taught me something new, given me tools I never had before. Harold showed me the potential of technology. George taught me strategy. Joaquin, the importance of passion in one’s work. Dmitri, how to navigate the murky waters of international business. William gave me a glimpse into old-world power structures. And Hiroshi ... well, he opened my eyes to the future.”

Reggie nods slowly. “And what have I taught you, I wonder?”

You smile softly. “Patience, Reggie. The long game. And the value of a good sense of humor in the face of adversity.”

He chuckles weakly. “Well, I’m glad I could contribute something to your education. Now, about this F1 team ...”

You lean in, eager to hear more. “Yes?”

“It’s more than just a racing team, you know. It’s a pinnacle of engineering, a testament to human ingenuity and the constant push for improvement. I think you’ll find it fits quite well with your ambitions.”

You nod slowly, mind already racing with possibilities. “I can see that. The technology, the global platform, the prestige ...”

Reggie grins. “Exactly. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find husband number eight in the paddock.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, Reggie. Always thinking ahead, aren’t you?”

He winks. “Someone has to. Now, promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” you say, and you’re surprised to find you mean it.

“When you’re accepting that championship trophy — because I know you will — wear something fabulous. Give those stuffy old men in the paddock something to talk about.”

You can’t help but grin. “Oh, don’t worry. I intend to shake things up a bit.”

Reggie nods approvingly. “That’s my girl. Now, I think I need to rest for a bit. But don’t go far. I want to hear all about your plans for world domination when I wake up.”

As you watch Reggie drift off to sleep, you can’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Sadness at the impending loss of this charming old rogue, excitement at the unexpected opportunity he’s given you, and a renewed sense of purpose.

You glance at your reflection in the ornate mirror across the room. Lady Y/N Y/L/N, soon-to-be racing magnate. It has a nice ring to it.

As you settle back into your chair, you begin to plan your next moves. The motorsport world won’t know what hit it.

***

The sleek boardroom of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team headquarters buzzes with hushed conversation. Around the polished mahogany table, team executives and board members huddle in small groups, their voices low and urgent.

Toto catches snippets of conversation as he reviews his notes for the meeting.

“Did you hear? She’s actually coming today,” whispers Bradley, the team’s financial officer.

Sarah, head of marketing, leans in. “I can’t believe Reginald left her his stake. What was he thinking?”

“Probably wasn’t thinking with his head, if you know what I mean,” chuckles Thomas, the technical director.

Toto clears his throat, silencing the gossip. “Let’s keep things professional, shall we? We have important matters to discuss today.”

As if on cue, the boardroom door swings open. The room falls into an immediate, almost eerie silence as you stride in, turning heads with every click of your Manolo Blahnik heels against the polished floor.

Toto finds himself holding his breath, caught off guard by your presence. He’s seen photos, of course, but they didn’t do you justice. Your tailored Armani suit exudes power and confidence, while your eyes scan the room with a shrewd intelligence that sends a shiver down his spine.

You take your seat at the far end of the table, directly opposite Toto. “Good morning, everyone. I hope I’m not late.”

Your voice, smooth as silk with a hint of amusement, breaks the spell. The room erupts into a flurry of awkward greetings and nervous coughs.

Toto clears his throat again, trying to regain control of the situation. “Not at all. We were just about to begin. Welcome, Lady Worthington. We’re honored to have you join us today.”

You smile, a dazzling display that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Please, call me Y/N. We’re all colleagues here, after all.”

Toto nods, fighting to keep his composure. “Of course, Y/N. Shall we begin with the agenda?”

As the meeting progresses, Toto finds himself increasingly distracted. He’s used to being the most commanding presence in any room, but your arrival has shifted the dynamic entirely. Every time you speak, offering insights or asking pointed questions, the rest of the board seems to hold its breath.

“I’ve been reviewing our sustainability initiatives,” you say during a lull in the conversation. “While I applaud our efforts so far, I believe we could be doing more. Formula 1 has an unique platform to drive innovation in green technologies. We should be leading the charge, not just following along.”

Bradley shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “With all due respect, Lady- I mean, Y/N, implementing new sustainability measures could be quite costly. We need to consider the bottom line.”

You lean forward, fixing Bradley with an intense gaze. “And what about the cost of falling behind? Of being seen as out of touch with the concerns of younger fans? Sometimes, you have to spend money to make money.”

Toto finds himself nodding in agreement before he even realizes it. “Y/N raises an excellent point. Perhaps we should form a task force to explore more aggressive sustainability options.”

You flash him a grateful smile, and Toto feels his heart skip a beat. He quickly looks down at his notes, trying to regain his composure.

As the meeting continues, you consistently challenge the status quo, pushing for bolder strategies and innovative approaches. Toto watches in fascination as you deftly navigate the complex dynamics of the board, alternating between charm and steel as the situation demands.

During a discussion about driver development, you interject again. “I’ve been looking into our junior driver program, and I think we’re missing opportunities. We’re too focused on traditional racing backgrounds. What about sim racers? Or scouting karters from developing countries? We could be tapping into a whole new pool of talent.”

Sarah, the marketing head, perks up at this. “That’s ... actually a brilliant idea. It could really broaden our appeal, especially in emerging markets.”

You nod appreciatively. “Exactly. And imagine the stories we could tell. The sim racer who became an F1 champion or the kid from a small village who rose to the top of motorsport. That’s the kind of narrative that builds brand loyalty and inspires the next generation of fans.”

Toto finds himself leaning forward, completely engrossed. “I love this direction. Y/N, would you be willing to work with Sarah to develop a proposal for expanding our driver search?”

“Of course,” you reply with a smile that makes Toto’s pulse quicken. “I’d be delighted.”

As the meeting winds down, Toto realizes that the entire dynamic of the board has shifted. The initial wariness towards you has given way to a mixture of respect and curiosity. Even those who seemed most skeptical at the start are now hanging on your every word.

“Well,” Toto says, glancing at his watch, “I think that concludes our agenda for today. Unless anyone has any other matters to discuss?”

The room is silent for a moment before you speak up. “Actually, if I may, I’d like to address the elephant in the room.”

A tense hush falls over the gathering. Toto holds his breath, unsure of what’s coming next.

You stand, your posture relaxed but commanding. “I’m aware of the rumors and speculation surrounding my ... personal life. I want to assure all of you that my presence here is purely professional. I’m not here to cause drama or upheaval. I’m here because I believe in the potential of this team and this sport. I hope that over time, you’ll come to judge me based on my contributions, not on gossip or hearsay.”

The sincerity in your voice is palpable, and Toto can see the effect it has on the room. Shoulders relax, expressions soften. There’s a collective exhale, as if a weight has been lifted.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Toto says, standing as well. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we look forward to working with you and seeing what fresh perspectives you can bring to the team.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table. As the meeting officially adjourns, people begin to gather their things and file out of the room. Toto notices that several board members linger, clearly hoping to have a word with you. He feels an unexpected twinge of jealousy.

Before he can second-guess himself, Toto makes his way around the table to where you’re chatting with Sarah about the junior driver program idea.

“Excuse me,” he says, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. “Y/N, I was wondering if I could have a word?”

You turn to him with a smile that makes his heart race. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

He takes a deep breath, acutely aware of the curious glances from the remaining board members. “I was impressed by your insights today. I think there’s a lot we could discuss further about the future direction of the team. Would you perhaps be interested in continuing this conversation over dinner?”

A hush falls over the remaining occupants of the room. Toto can practically feel the weight of their stares, but he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

You raise an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and amusement playing across your features. “Dinner? My, my, Toto. Aren’t you afraid of me? I do have quite the reputation, you know.”

There’s a challenge in your voice, but also a hint of vulnerability that catches Toto off guard. He realizes that beneath your confident exterior, you’re testing him, gauging his true intentions.

Toto meets your gaze steadily, his voice low but firm. “I don’t put much stock in rumors. I prefer to form my own opinions based on what I see and experience. And what I’ve seen today is a brilliant, passionate individual who could be a tremendous asset to this team. That’s the person I’m interested in getting to know better.”

The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for your response. You study Toto for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spreads across your face.

“Well, in that case, I’d be delighted to have dinner with you. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

Toto feels a rush of relief and excitement. “Eight o’clock sounds perfect. I know just the place.”

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Toto can’t help but feel like he’s standing on the precipice of something monumental. He’s built his career on calculated risks, on seeing potential where others see danger. Looking at you, he knows that this might be the biggest gamble of his life.

But as you turn to give him one last smile before exiting the boardroom, Toto is certain of one thing: it’s a risk he’s more than willing to take.

***

The Monaco Grand Prix paddock buzzes with excitement, a hive of activity as teams prepare for the most glamorous race on the Formula 1 calendar. Lewis Hamilton and George Russell huddle in a quiet corner of the Mercedes garage, their voices low and urgent.

“I’m telling you, mate, something’s not right,” George insists, his eyes darting around to ensure they’re not overheard. “Have you seen the way Toto’s been acting lately? It’s like he’s under some kind of spell.”

Lewis nods grimly, his usual pre-race focus replaced by concern. “I know what you mean. Ever since she came into the picture, it’s like he’s a different person. Always distracted, making decisions that don’t quite add up.”

“Exactly!” George exclaims, then quickly lowers his voice again. “And have you noticed how she’s always around now? At every meeting, every strategy session. It’s like she’s trying to learn all our secrets.”

Lewis furrows his brow, deep in thought. “You don’t think ... I mean, surely she wouldn’t actually try to ...”

“Kill him?” George finishes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, mate. But look at her track record. Seven husbands, all dead within months of marrying her. And now she’s got her claws into Toto.”

As if summoned by their conversation, you appear at the entrance of the garage, Toto at your side. The team principal’s hand rests comfortably on the small of your back as he leads you through the bustling workspace.

Lewis and George fall silent, watching intently as you make your way towards them. Your designer sundress and oversized sunglasses scream understated elegance, but to the two drivers, you might as well be wearing a black widow’s web.

“Good morning,” Toto calls out cheerfully. “Ready for qualifying?”

Lewis forces a smile, his eyes never leaving you. “Morning, Toto. Yeah, we were just discussing strategy.”

You step forward, flashing a dazzling smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. I’m still learning all the intricacies of race weekends.”

George clears his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Not at all. We were just finishing up.”

Toto beams, looking from you to his drivers with pride. “Isn’t it wonderful having Y/N here? She’s already brought so many fresh ideas to the team. I don’t know how we managed without her.”

You laugh, a sound that sends chills down Lewis and George’s spines. “Oh, darling, you’re exaggerating. I’m sure these boys were doing just fine before I came along.”

As you speak, your hand reaches up to smooth Toto’s collar, a gesture that seems innocent enough but makes both drivers tense.

Lewis clears his throat. “Actually, Toto, could we have a quick word? About the, uh, tire strategy?”

Toto looks surprised but nods. “Of course. Y/N, would you mind giving us a moment?”

“Not at all,” you reply smoothly. “I’ll just go chat with the mechanics. I’m fascinated by all this technology.”

As you saunter away, Lewis and George exchange a meaningful glance. This is their chance.

“Toto,” Lewis begins, choosing his words carefully. “We’re a bit concerned. About you, actually.”

Toto’s brow furrows in confusion. “Concerned? What do you mean?”

George jumps in, his words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s just that ... well, things have been different since you started seeing her. And given her history ...”

“Her history?” Toto repeats, his voice taking on an edge. “What exactly are you implying?”

Lewis takes a deep breath. “Toto, we care about you. And we can’t help but notice that Y/N’s previous partners have all met with ... unfortunate ends.”

For a moment, Toto just stares at them, his expression unreadable. Then, to their surprise, he bursts out laughing.

“Oh, boys,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I appreciate your concern, truly. But I assure you, it’s misplaced. Y/N has been nothing but a positive influence on both me and the team.”

George persists, his voice urgent. “But Toto, you have to admit, the pattern is alarming. Seven husbands, all dead within months of marriage. And now she’s here, learning all about our team, our strategies ...”

Toto’s amusement fades, replaced by a stern look. “That’s enough. I understand you’re worried, but I won’t have you spreading baseless rumors. Y/N is here because she’s a part-owner of this team and because I invited her. End of discussion.”

As Toto walks away, Lewis and George share a look of dismay.

“He’s in too deep,” Lewis mutters. “We need to do something.”

George nods grimly. “We can’t let her hurt him. Or the team. We need a plan.”

Throughout the day, as qualifying unfolds, Lewis and George find themselves constantly distracted. Every time they catch a glimpse of you in the garage or on the pit wall, their imaginations run wild.

During a brief break between sessions, they overhear a snippet of conversation between you and one of the engineers.

“So, if something were to go wrong with the car during the race,” you’re saying, “what would be the most catastrophic point of failure?”

The engineer launches into a detailed explanation of various mechanical vulnerabilities, unaware of the horrified looks on the drivers’ faces.

“She’s gathering intel,” George whispers to Lewis. “Probably planning some sort of accident for Toto.”

Lewis nods, his jaw set with determination. “We need to warn him again. Make him see reason.”

But their attempts to get Toto alone prove futile. You seem to be constantly by his side, your hand on his arm, whispering in his ear. To an outsider, it might look like the actions of a loving girlfriend, but to Lewis and George, every gesture seems calculated and sinister.

As the day wears on, their paranoia grows. They start seeing threats everywhere. When you hand Toto a bottle of water, they’re convinced it’s poisoned. When you suggest he take a look at something in the back of the garage, they’re sure you’re luring him away to do him harm.

Finally, as the sun begins to set over the Monaco harbor, they decide they can’t wait any longer. They need to confront you directly.

They find you alone in the hospitality area, reviewing some papers. As they approach, you look up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Lewis, George,” you greet them warmly. “Excellent qualifying today. You must be pleased.”

Lewis takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Cut the act. We know what you’re up to.”

Your expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in your eyes. “I’m not sure I understand. What exactly am I up to?”

George steps forward, his voice low and intense. “We know about your husbands. All seven of them. And we’re not going to let you add Toto to that list.”

For a moment, you just stare at them, your face unreadable. Then, to their surprise, you burst out laughing.

“Oh,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “Is that what this is all about? You think I’m here to kill Toto?”

Lewis and George exchange confused glances, thrown off by your reaction.

You lean in, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me tell you a little secret. Those men? They were all terminally ill when I married them. It was a business arrangement, pure and simple. They got to spend their last months with a young, beautiful wife, and I got their fortunes. No foul play involved.”

The drivers stare at you, speechless. You continue, your tone becoming more serious.

“As for Toto, well, that’s different. For the first time in my life, I’ve found someone I genuinely care for. Someone who sees me for who I am, not just what I can offer. I’m not here to hurt him or the team. I’m here because I want to be part of something meaningful.”

Lewis and George exchange uncertain glances, their convictions shaken.

“But ... all the questions about the car, the team strategies ...” George begins.

You roll your eyes, a hint of amusement in your voice. “I’m a part-owner of this team now, remember? Of course I’m trying to learn everything I can. How else can I contribute?”

As the truth of your words sinks in, Lewis and George begin to feel a creeping sense of embarrassment. They’ve let their imaginations and preconceptions run wild, seeing threats where there were none.

“I ... we ...” Lewis stammers, struggling to find the right words.

You hold up a hand, stopping him. “It’s alright. I understand. My reputation precedes me, and you were just looking out for Toto. I can respect that.”

George rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “We may have gotten a bit carried away. I’m sorry.”

You smile, and this time it reaches your eyes. “Apology accepted. Now, what do you say we put this behind us and focus on winning tomorrow’s race?”

As if on cue, Toto appears, looking between the three of you with curiosity. “Everything alright here?”

You stand, moving to his side and slipping your arm through his. “Everything’s perfect, darling. In fact, I think Lewis and George were just about to share some ideas they had for the race strategy. Weren’t you, boys?”

Lewis and George nod, grateful for the out you’ve given them. As they launch into a discussion about tire management and overtaking opportunities, they can’t help but marvel at how wrong they’ve been.

Watching you interact with Toto, they see not a black widow spinning her web, but a woman genuinely in love, bringing out the best in their team principal. They realize that sometimes, people can surprise you. And sometimes, the most unexpected additions to a team can be the most valuable.

***

The soft glow of chandeliers bathes the exclusive Monégasque restaurant in warm light, casting elegant shadows across the faces of Monaco’s elite. Grigori Volkov, a grizzled veteran of the Russian underworld, sips his vodka, his weathered face a mask of careful neutrality as he surveys the room.

His eyes narrow as they land on a familiar figure across the crowded dining area. It can’t be, he thinks, leaning forward for a better look. But there’s no mistaking that face, those eyes that have haunted his dreams and nightmares for years.

You.

Grigori watches as you laugh, your hand resting lightly on the arm of a tall, distinguished-looking man. He recognizes him vaguely. But what catches Grigori off guard is the easy intimacy between you, the matching wedding bands glinting in the low light.

For a moment, Grigori considers slipping out unnoticed. But curiosity gets the better of him. He signals the waiter, ordering another round of drinks to be sent to your table.

As the waiter approaches with the drinks, Grigori sees your posture stiffen slightly, your eyes scanning the room until they lock onto his. He raises his glass in a small salute, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You lean in, whispering something to Toto. The man looks surprised but nods, and together you make your way towards Grigori’s table.

“Grigori,” you greet him, your voice a mix of warmth and wariness. “It’s been a long time.”

Grigori stands, bowing slightly. “Indeed it has, my dear. You’re looking well. And who might this be?”

Toto extends his hand, his grip firm. “Toto Wolff. And you are?”

“An old friend of your wife’s,” Grigori replies smoothly, noting the flicker of surprise in Toto’s eyes at the word ’wife’. “Grigori Volkov. I knew Y/N back in her Russian days.”

You gesture to the empty chairs. “May we join you?”

Grigori nods, waving expansively. “Please, be my guests.”

As you settle in, Grigori can’t help but study Toto more closely. He’s younger than expected, vital and alert. Not at all what he’d imagined for your latest conquest.

“So, Toto,” Grigori begins, his accent thick with amusement, “how long have you and our dear Y/N been married?”

Toto smiles, his hand finding yours on the table. “Just over two years now. Best decision I ever made.”

Grigori’s eyebrows shoot up. “Two years? My, my. That’s quite impressive.”

You shoot him a warning look, but Toto just looks confused. “I’m not sure I follow. Why is that impressive?”

Grigori chuckles, taking a long sip of his vodka. “Oh, forgive me. I just meant that Y/N here has always been something of a ... how do you say ... free spirit? Never one to be tied down for long.”

You interject quickly, “People change, Grigori. I’ve found what I was looking for.”

Grigori nods, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Indeed they do. And what of your ... other interests? The ones you inherited from dear Dmitri?”

Toto’s brow furrows. “Dmitri? I’m afraid I don’t know much about Y/N’s ex-husbands.”

“Ex-husbands?” Grigori repeats, feigning surprise. “Oh, but Dmitri was special, wasn’t he? After all, not every day one inherits a slice of the Bratva.”

The color drains from Toto’s face as he turns to you. “The Bratva? As in, the Russian mob?”

You sigh, shooting Grigori a glare that could freeze vodka. “It’s complicated, darling. And very much in the past.”

Grigori leans back, thoroughly enjoying the drama unfolding before him. “Oh, come now, Y/N. Surely your husband deserves to know the truth? About your colorful past, your string of deceased husbands, your unexpected rise to power in certain ... shall we say, unofficial circles?”

Toto looks between you and Grigori, his expression a mix of confusion and growing concern. “Y/N, what is he talking about?”

You take a deep breath, squeezing Toto’s hand. “Toto, there are parts of my past I haven’t told you about. Not because I wanted to keep secrets, but because I wanted to leave that life behind.”

Grigori interjects, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Oh, but my dear, can one ever truly leave such a life behind? Especially when one has risen to such ... prominent positions?”

Toto’s eyes narrow as he looks at Grigori. “And what exactly is your role in all this?”

Grigori smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “Let’s just say I’m an old associate of Dmitri’s. And by extension, of Y/N’s. Though I must admit, I’m surprised to see you still among the living, Mr. Wolff. Our dear Y/N has quite a reputation, you know.”

You slam your hand on the table, your voice low and dangerous. “Enough, Grigori. That’s not who I am anymore.”

Grigori holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Of course, of course. I meant no offense. I’m merely ... surprised. After all, your previous husbands weren’t quite so fortunate. Or so young and vigorous.”

Toto’s jaw clenches, his eyes darting between you and Grigori. “I think it’s time we left.”

As you stand to leave, Grigori calls out, “Oh, but we’ve only just begun to catch up. There’s so much your husband doesn’t know, Y/N. About the power you wield, the empire you inherited. Don’t you think he deserves to know the truth about the woman he married?”

You turn back, your eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something deeper, more dangerous. “The truth, Grigori, is that I left that life behind. I found something real, something worth living for. And if you or anyone else tries to drag me back into that world, you’ll regret it.”

Grigori leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Is that a threat, my dear?”

You smile, cold and sharp. “Consider it a friendly warning. From one old friend to another.”

As you and Toto walk away, Grigori can’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine. He’d forgotten, in the years since you’d left Russia, just how formidable you could be.

He watches as you and Toto have an intense, whispered conversation by the exit. To his surprise, instead of storming out, Toto nods, takes your hand, and leads you back to Grigori’s table.

“Mr. Volkov,” Toto says, his voice steady and controlled, “I think it’s time we had an honest conversation. About Y/N’s past, about your ... association, and about how we move forward from here.”

Grigori raises an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “Well, well. It seems you’ve found yourself a man with a spine, Y/N. Very well, let’s talk.”

As the three of you settle back into your seats, Grigori can’t help but feel a grudging respect for Toto. Most men would have run for the hills by now, but here he is, ready to face the truth head-on.

“So,” Grigori begins, pouring fresh vodka for all of you, “where shall we start? With Dmitri? With the Bratva? Or perhaps with the mysterious deaths of Y/N’s previous husbands?”

Toto takes a sip of vodka, his eyes never leaving Grigori’s. “Let’s start with the truth. All of it.”

You sigh, your hand finding Toto’s under the table. “Alright. Dmitri was my fifth husband. He was a high-ranking member of the Bratva, and when he died, I inherited his position and his connections.”

Grigori nods approvingly. “She’s being modest. Y/N didn’t just inherit Dmitri’s position — she expanded it. Forged new alliances, eliminated rivals. She became a force to be reckoned with in our world.”

Toto looks at you, his expression unreadable. “And the other husbands?”

You meet his gaze steadily. “They were all older men, all terminally ill. It was a business arrangement. They got to spend their last months with a young wife, and I got their fortunes. No foul play, I swear.”

Grigori chuckles. “Oh, come now. There were rumors, whispers of poison, of accidents arranged just so ...”

You whirl on him, your eyes flashing. “Rumors started by people like you. People who couldn’t believe a woman could gain power without resorting to murder.”

Toto squeezes your hand, his voice gentle. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

You turn back to him, your expression softening. “Because I wanted to leave it all behind. When I met you, I saw a chance at a real life, a real relationship. I didn’t want my past to taint that.”

Grigori watches this exchange with growing fascination. He’s never seen you like this — vulnerable, open, genuinely in love. It’s... unsettling.

“And now?” He asks, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. “What becomes of your empire, Y/N? Your power? Your connections?”

You straighten, your voice firm. “I’ve been systematically dismantling it all. Using the resources to fund legitimate businesses, charitable foundations. I’m out. For good.”

Grigori leans back, genuinely surprised. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re really walking away from it all.”

Toto speaks up, his voice steady. “We’re building something new together. Something honest, something we can be proud of.”

Grigori studies them both for a long moment, then throws back the last of his vodka. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’ve actually done it. You’ve found a way out.”

You nod, a small smile playing at your lips. “I have. And I’d appreciate it if you’d spread the word. Y/N Wolff is retired. Permanently.”

Grigori stands, straightening his jacket. “Consider it done, my dear. But know this — there will always be those who remember who you were, what you were capable of. Be careful.”

As he turns to leave, Toto calls out, “Mr. Volkov?”

Grigori pauses, looking back. “Yes?”

Toto’s voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath the surface. “If anyone from Y/N’s past tries to cause trouble for us, they’ll have to deal with me. And I assure you, I can be just as formidable as my wife when necessary.”

Grigori studies Toto for a moment, then breaks into a broad grin. “I believe you, Mr. Wolff. I really do. Take care of her, won’t you? She’s one of a kind.”

As Grigori walks away, he can’t help but shake his head in amazement. You, the Black Widow of the Bratva, settled down and in love. Will wonders never cease?

He glances back one last time to see you and Toto deep in conversation, your hands intertwined on the table. There’s an openness to your expression that he’s never seen before, a vulnerability that speaks volumes.

For the first time in years, Grigori feels a twinge of envy. Not for your power or your wealth, but for the genuine connection you seem to have found. As he steps out into the cool Monaco night, he wonders if perhaps it’s time for him to consider a change of his own.

After all, if the infamous Y/N can find redemption and true love, maybe there’s hope for an old dog like him yet.

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residentwordsofaffirmationdealer · 23 days ago

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tracking barbara gordon's skillset as oracle:

she provides directory assistance for several international and intergalactic teams of superheroes (the birds of prey, justice league of america, the outsiders, and she has worked with the titans before).

she is the primary hacker and information network source for many of these heroes.

she helps provide mercy ops (disaster relief and humanitarian efforts) globally.

she is able to hack into the white house cameras.

she hacks into the united states air force routinely to use their memory capabilities.

she is seen as a pentagon level threat.

she writes her own code for scanning new satellite images for human habitations and anomalies.

she's accessed air force rockets no one is supposed to know about and overridden them to fire them.

she has a team of drones ready for surveillance.

she's put her own security systems on arkham asylum.

she hacks into information databases from federal complexes and assembles blueprints and guard schedules so she can send her agents to break into them.

she sets a government complex on fire (she says it is a small and contained fire.)

she also sets the clock tower on fire to force batman to not do murder/suicide.

she hacks into cia debriefing transcripts to obtain information.

she controls a large portion of the world's internet and power grids.

she also is the reason why many world leaders are in power.

she has access to the bank accounts of several supervillains, whom she toys with (specifically for blockbuster, she regularly steals millions of dollars from his accounts in a way that he cannot track who is stealing it and where it is going -- she's stolen 3 million, 17 million, 6 million, twenty million and also a hundred million from him).

she can also hack alien drones.

she can control traffic.

she has several booby-traps in the clock tower for potential assaulters. she also a device to monitor movement of people around it, in case batman decides to show up.

cited panels down below!

"she's the four-one-one for the jla, she the database for the g.c. ex-p.d. she runs mercy ops around the world." nightwing (1996) #38

"you have cameras in the white house?" "don't be silly. the white house has cameras in the white house. i've just tapped into them." nightwing (1996) #66

"i mean, someone hacks into our system and routinely uses our [united states air force] memory capabilities!" "i know!" "often." birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i run a database and search engine for a select few free-land crimefighters." birds of prey: manhunt (1996)

"we scan the most recent images for anomalies. things that don't belong." "where'd you get a program for that?" "i wrote my own code for that one." birds of prey (1999) #3

"they've accessed whitehorse, sir." "whitehorse? no one's supposed to know about that!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"and oracle? we're going to need eyes on several places at once." "i think we can manage that." detective comics (1937) #1077

"they've accessed whitehorse. what's the chance of them arming it?" "all clear?" "oh yeah." "fire!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"[arkham's] security is good, but piecemeal. i installed my own system there after the last breakout." infinite crisis special: villains united (2006)

"batgirl -- that incident a couple months back? when those government agents caught your face on tape? i found out where they're keeping it. it's a federal complex in virginia. i've sent you blueprints, guard schedules -- everything you'll need to break in." batgirl (2000) #17

"where did you get that kind of information?" "they traded another prisoner last month. i hacked into his cia debriefing transcript." birds of prey (1999) #9

"kat, do you have any idea... any notion at all, of how much of the planet's entire internet i control? how many power grids? how many world leaders owe me their positions?" birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i transferred all the funds in her cayman islands account to another offshore account. if she doesn't get the paintings to me in the next forty-eight hours, that money's going to my favorite charities." birds of prey: catwoman/oracle (2003)

"where do you get current [satellite] shots of rheelasia?" "that's my secret, you little netnik." birds of prey (1999) #3

"but the asborbascons were created using languages long dead even on my planet. they are uncrackable." "yes. the absorbascons are uncrackable. but the alien drones aren't." convergence: nightwing/oracle (2015)

"do you have that kind of cash?" "no. but i know someone who does." "there's been a... discrepancy, mr. desmond." "in plain english, mr. vogel." "at one point, three million was electronically transferred from your numbered accounts in the caicos to a bank account in hasaragua. from there to karocco, then yemen, then split between banks in senegal and manila. and then... my hardware couldn't keep up." birds of prey (1999) #3

"seventeen million from your account in the caymans. six from santa prisca. twenty from rheelasia. and a hundred million plus from other holdings of yours around the world, mr. desmond. and where it all goes? nobody knows." birds of prey (1999) #18

"they're taking your cash from impregnable accounts and transferring it electronically to their own." "and you can't find the source?" "there's subsequent transfers performed at lightning speed. the money's split up, rerouted in and out of various banks in an eyeblink. even i can't keep up with whoever this is." birds of prey (1999) #18

"let me handle the traffic." birds of prey (1999) #58

"all of you. keep your hands where i can see 'em." "not a problem. malory. ripken. peppermint." nightwing (1996) #39

#barbara gordon #babs #oracle #batgirl #birds of prey #justice league of america #jla #batman #robin #nightwing #huntress #black canary #blockbuster #dick grayson #tim drake #helena bertinelli #bruce wayne

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auspicioustidings · 8 months ago

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You are an escape specialist and understand the lengths the military will go to in order to protect their best assets more than anyone else. That's why you've been rotting in some off grid gulag for 3 years now, long enough that the torture is just to pass the time for the guards now because they know you're not saying shit.

Why are you here? Easy. Intelligence identified this was the most likely place their darling 141 unit would wind up if they were ever captured. You're here as a contingency if that happens. You are sure there are others in prisons and dungeons and mansions dotted over the globe whose sole purpose is as a "just incase" measure for a team that doesn't know you exist.

The day they drag in a man with a mohawk and a nasty looking hole in the head kicking and screaming? Oh you've never been so fucking excited in your life. Time to get the fuck out of here and spend the ridiculous amount of money that has been accumulating in offshore accounts for you since you agreed to this job.

If only the idiot would do as he is bloody well told.

#mhairidrabbles #discovering that Soap actually hates being given orders thank you very much #and he doesn't trust anyone who isn't his team #great just great this will be the most annoying fucking fetch and deliver quest known to man #but you can keep yourself going by every ao often closing your eyes and imagining drinking a cocktail served by your cabana boy on a beach

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letternotekisses · 7 months ago

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Being the personal assistant to Akande Ogundimu had its perks.

Perks such as the unlimited spending limit on the card he got just for you. You use it mainly for work expenses but he’s all too happy to encourage you to spend a little bit more for yourself, as a treat for being so well behaved and keeping on top of your tasks. Whatever you spend barely puts a dent in his pocket, and he’s happy to flaunt the notion whenever you try to refuse him in a flustered manner.

That’s on top of your pay too, which is plenty enough to keep you living comfortably on its own. Akande ensures to pay the pretty little thing who brings him his documents and schedules his meetings well - he takes good care of his toys.

In regards of professionalism, it’s non existent. As he finds ways to gift you expensive items or take you on celebratory dinners for reasons that aren’t really that exciting. The line between boss and subordinate is a little blurred, but you can’t find it in yourself to mind all too much.

You’re also in a tight-knit team - unorthodox - but charming nonetheless. Akande finds a rich satisfaction in watching each of his subordinates vie for your attention whilst you try to complete your work, whether it be Mauga’s straightforward approach or Sombra depositing thousands into your bank from an offshore account.

At the end of the day, he is the one that has your legs slung over his shoulders, your stockings - which he bought - torn to shreds under the promise that he’d buy you a new pair. He’s the one pinning you to the glossy wood of his desk, the ornate carving digging into your lower back as he busies himself between your plush thighs, gorging himself on you until you’re whiny and overstimulated, trying to push his head away.

Akande may consider sharing you with his agents someday, but for now he’s happy to keep his assistant all to himself<3

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Kickstarting “The Bezzle” audiobook, sequel to Red Team Blues

I'm heading to Berlin! On January 29, I'll be delivering Transmediale's Marshall McLuhan Lecture, and on January 30, I'll be at Otherland Books (tickets are limited! They'll have exclusive early access to the English edition of The Bezzle and the German edition of Red Team Blues!).

I'm kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to last year's Red Team Blues, featuring Marty Hench, a hard-charging, two-fisted forensic accountant who spent 40 years in Silicon Valley, busting every finance scam hatched by tech bros' feverish imaginations:

http://thebezzle.org

Marty Hench is a great character to write. His career in high-tech scambusting starts in the early 1980s with the first PCs and stretches all the way to the cryptocurrency era, the most target-rich environment for scamhunting tech has ever seen. Hench is the Zelig of tech scams, and I'm having so much fun using him to probe the seamy underbelly of the tech economy.

Enter The Bezzle, which will be published by Tor Books and Head of Zeus on Feb 20: this adventure finds Marty in the company of Scott Warms, one of the many bright technologists whose great startup was bought and destroyed by Yahoo! (yes, they really used that asinine exclamation mark). Scott is shackled to the Punctuation Factory by golden handcuffs, and he's determined to get fired without cause, so he can collect his shares and move onto the next thing.

That's how Scott and Marty find themselves on Catalina island, the redoubt of the Wrigley family, where bison roam the hills, yachts bob in the habor and fast food is banned. Scott invites Marty on a series of luxury vacations on Catalina, which end abruptly when they discover – and implode – a hamburger-related Ponzi scheme run by a real-estate millionaire who is destroying the personal finances of the Island's working-class townies out of sheer sadism.

Scott's victory is bittersweet: sure, he blew up the Ponzi scheme, but he's also made powerful enemies – the kinds of enemies who can pull strings with the notoriously corrupt LA County Sheriff's Deputies who are the only law on Catalina, and after taking a pair of felony plea deals, Scott gets the message and never visits Catalina Island again.

That could have been the end of it, but California's three-strikes law – since rescinded – means that when Scott picks up one more felony conviction for some drugs discovered during a traffic stop, he's facing life in prison.

That's where The Bezzle really gets into gear.

At its core, The Bezzle is a novel about the "shitty technology adoption curve": the idea that our worst technological schemes are sanded smooth on the bodies of prisoners, mental patients, kids and refugees before they work their way up the privilege gradient and are inflicted on all of us:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

America's prisons are vicious, brutal places, and technology has only made them worse. When Scott's prison swaps out in-person visits, the prison library, and phone calls for a "free" tablet that offers all these services as janky apps that cost ten times more than they would on the outside, the cruelty finds a business model.

Working inside and outside the prison Marty Hench and Scott Warms figure out the full nature of the scam that the captive audience of prisoners are involuntary beta-testers for, and they discover a sprawling web of real-estate fraud, tech scams, and offshore finance that is extracting fortunes from the hides of America's prisoners and their families. The criminals who run that kind of enterprise aren't shy about fighting for what they've got, and they're more than happy to cut some of LA County's notorious deputy gangs in for a cut in exchange for providing some kinetic support for the project.

The Bezzle is exactly the kind of book I was hoping I'd get to write when I kicked off the Hench series – one that decodes the scam economy, from music royalties to prison videoconferencing, real estate investment trusts to Big Four accounting firm bogus audits. It's both a fast-moving, two-fisted crime novel and a masterclass on how the rich and powerful get away with both literal and figurative murder.

It's getting a big push from both my publishers and I'll be touring western Canada and the US with it. The early reviews are spectacular. But despite all of this, I had to make my own audiobook for it, which I'm pre-selling on Kickstarter:

http://thebezzle.org

Why? Because Audible – Amazon's monopoly gatekeeper to the audiobook world, with more than 90% of the market – refuses to carry my work.

Audible uses Digital Rights Management to lock every audiobook they sell to their platform. Legally, only an Audible-authorized app can decrypt and play the audiobooks they sell you. Distributing a tool that removes Audible DRM is a felony under Section 1201 of the 1998 DMCA.

That means that if you break up with Audible – delete your Audible apps – you will lose your entire audiobook library. And the fact that you're Audible's hostage makes the writers you love into their hostages, too. Writers understand that if they leave the Audible platform, their audience will have to choose between following them, or losing all their audiobooks.

That's how Audible gets away with abusing its performers and writers, up to and including the $100m Audiblegate wage-theft scandal:

https://www.audiblegate.com/

Audible can steal $100m from its writers…and the writers still continue to sell on the platform, because leaving will cost them their audience.

This is canonical enshittification: lock in users, then screw suppliers. Lots of companies abuse DRM to do this, but none can hold a candle to Amazon, who understand that the DMCA is a copyright law that protects corporations at the expense of creators.

Under DMCA 1201 commercial distribution of a "circumvention device" carries a five-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine. That means that if I write a book, pay to have it recorded, and then sell it to you through Audible, I am criminally prohibited from giving you the tool to take it from Audible to another platform. Even though I hold the copyright to that work, I would face a harsher sentence than you would if you simply pirated the audiobook from some darknet site. Not only that: if you shoplifted the audiobook in CD form, you'd get a lighter sentence than I, the copyright holder, would receive for giving you a tool to unlock it from Amazon's platform! Hell, if you hijacked the truck that delivered the CD, you'd get off lighter than I would. This is a scam straight out of a Marty Hench novel.

This is batshit. I won't allow it. My books are licensed on the condition that they must not be sold with DRM. Which means that Audible won't sell my books, which means that my publishers are thoroughly disinterested in paying thousands of dollars to produce audiobooks of my titles. A book that isn't sold in the one store than accounts for 90% of all sales is unlikely to do well.

That's where you come in. Since 2020, I've used Kickstarter to pre-sell five of my audiobooks (I wrote nine books during lockdown!). All told, I've raised over $750,000 (gross! but still!) on these crowdfunders. More than 20,000 backers have pitched in! The last two of these books – The Internet Con and The Lost Cause – were national bestsellers.

This isn't just a way for me to pay off a lot of bills and put away something for retirement – it's proof that readers care about supporting writers and don't want to be locked in by a giant monopolist that depends on its drivers pissing in bottles to make quota.

It's a powerful message about the desire for something better than Amazon. It's part of the current that is driving the FTC to haul Amazon into court for being a monopolist, and also part of the inspiration for other authors to try treating Amazon as damage and routing around it, with spectacular results:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/dragonsteel/surprise-four-secret-novels-by-brandon-sanderson

And I'm doing it again. Last December, I went into Skyboat Media's studios where Gabrielle De Cuir directed @wilwheaton, who reprised his role as Marty Hench for the audiobook of The Bezzle. It came out amazing:

https://archive.org/details/bezzle-sample

Now I'm pre-selling this audiobook, as well as the ebook and hardcover for The Bezzle. I'm also offering bundles with the ebook and audiobook for Red Team Blues (naturally these are all DRM-free). You can get your books signed and personalized and shipped anywhere in the world, courtesy of Book Soup, and I've partnered with Libro.fm to deliver DRM-free audiobooks with an app for people who don't want to mess around with sideloading.

I've also got some spendy options for high rollers. There's three chances to name a character in the next Hench novel (Picks and Shovels, Feb 2025). There's also five chances to commission a Hench short story about your favorite tech scam, and get credited when the story is published.

The Kickstarter runs for the next three weeks, which should give me time to get the hardcopy books signed and shipped to arrive around the on-sale date. What's more, I've finally worked out all the post-Brexit kinks with shipping my UK publisher's books to EU backers. I'm working with Otherland Books to fulfill those EU orders, and it looks like I'm going to be able to sign a giant stack of those when I'm in Berlin later this month to give the annual Marshall McLuhan lecture at the Canadian embassy:

https://transmediale.de/en/2024/event/mcluhan-2024

Red Team Blues and its sequels are some of the most fun – and informative – work I've done in my quarter-century career. I love how they blend technical explanations of the scam economy with high-intensity technothrillers. That's the the same mix as my bestselling YA series Little Brother series – but these are firmly adult novels.

The Bezzle came out great. I hope you'll give it a try – and that you'll come out to see me in late February when I hit the road with the book! Here's that Kickstarter link again:

http://thebezzle.org

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/10/the-bezzle/#marty-hench

#pluralistic #kickstarter #audible #the bezzle #bezzles #prison tech #disciplinary technology #crowdfunding #wilw #wil wheaton #audiobooks #publishing #science fiction #marty hench #martin hench #red team blues #shitty technology adoption curve #reits

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alwaysthebiggerbear · 26 days ago

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"Sleep. I'll keep you safe." - Soldier Boy x Female Reader

Summary: You’re tired of running and you go to Soldier Boy for protection. He agrees to do it but not without a price.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Reader A/N: Prompt from @thelonelyempath. This scenario immediately popped into my head reading the line and I just had to write it. Beta'd by @rieleatiel. Warnings: violence/murder; implied assassination attempts; sexual propositioning; Soldier Boy being himself; starts out as a blackmail type dynamic that appears as if a little dubcon at first; language? Word Count: 2528 First posted on here: 1/1/24 dividers by @firefly-graphics

You never thought in a million years that you would be seeking out one of the most dangerous Supes in the world for protection. Then again, you never would have thought that a multi-billion dollar corporation would be after you, intent on seeing you torn apart and scattered to the four winds. You didn’t exactly blow the whistle on them, but you didn’t exactly tow the company line either—something Stan Edgar was less than thrilled with and now the evil son of a bitch wanted you dead.

It was no secret that Edgar and Soldier Boy had a falling out of sorts after the truth about his being handed to the Russians had come to light. His old team may have made it happen, but it was Edgar pulling the strings all along. Surprisingly, the Supe who had been so focused on revenge hadn’t hunted Edgar down after this revelation, which made you wary about going this route. However, after narrowly escaping the latest death squad sent after you, you decided you had no choice but to take the gamble. There was nowhere you could run that Vought wouldn’t find you and you just hoped this would be more of an ‘enemy of my enemy’ situation rather than a ‘handing you right over to your enemy’ situation.

Once you had managed to track him down in Hong Kong while you were busy running yourself, he had shockingly agreed to a meet, and even more shockingly agreed to help you. Not without certain stipulations, of course.

“Let me in that sweet pussy of yours and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

You should have known, especially from the way he had been eyeing you up ever since he caught sight of you. Screwing your face up in disgust, you flat out refused. “Not happening.”

He shrugged and began to walk away. “Then you must not need my protection that badly.”

You scoffed in disbelief. “You’re seriously turning me down because I won’t fuck you? Whatever happened to the ‘Soldier Boy is America’s son’ bullshit? The OG superhero who fought Nazis and protected people?”

Soldier Boy stopped and slowly turned back towards you. “I’d be putting myself on the line to protect you. For that, I deserve one hell of a payment.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms. “So now you’re blackmailing me into sleeping with you? Unbelievable.” You had heard he was more like America’s Asshole than its Son, but you still couldn’t believe your ears. You had even offered to help him take Vought down with what you knew, so long as he kept you safe. You knew he’d want that kind of information. Why else was he hopping from continent to continent in the last few months, trying to shake Vought just like you were? Instead, his dick was taking top priority. Typical.

“It’s the least you can do, doll.” He faced you fully again, shield hanging off of his arm as if it weighed nothing. “Like you said, I fought for this country, fought the Nazis, and now you’re asking me to play bodyguard while taking on Vought for you. I deserve something worth all that trouble.”

You ran through all other options in your mind. You still had a contact that could possibly put you in touch with someone that wouldn’t mind tapping into Vought’s offshore accounts that weren’t supposed to exist. You were already on Vought’s kill list; what would a few hundred thousand dollars of theirs matter? “I could pay you,” you offered.

“I’m not interested in money.” His eyes roved over you as he approached. “Besides,” he murmured as he came to a stop in front of you. You tensed as he reached up to tuck a strand of your hair that had gotten loose from under your ball cap behind your ear. ”I haven’t had a looker as pretty as you in a long time. Been locked away.” He gently gripped your chin in between his thumb and index finger, his eyes intent on your mouth before lifting to meet yours. A hint of a smirk started to appear on his handsome face when he most likely heard your heart beat starting to increase.

He released you and even took a step back from you, allowing you physical and metaphorical space. “Your call.”

You bit your lip as thoughts chaotically swirled inside your head. On one hand, you refused to be manipulated or pushed into sex with this asshole. No matter how physically attractive he might be, you weren’t willing to get on your back just so he would help you. But on the other hand, the cold hard truth was that you were tired — tired of running, tired of little-to-no sleep, tired of the paranoia that came with such a flight. Hell, at present, you hadn’t slept in almost two days and you were running on fumes; there wasn’t enough caffeine or energy pills in the world to get you through another day with no rest. Your reaction time was already dragging if your last narrow escape was anything to go by. If you continued this way, you’d be dead before the sun started to warm the sky; you were certain of it.

Soldier Boy stared you down. “What’s it gonna be?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you glanced behind you at a small noise far off down the street. Thankfully, it was an old woman tossing something out onto the pavement, but you couldn’t deny it put you further on edge. You turned back to the Supe whose eyes stayed trained on you. You took a deep breath to steady your nerves and readied your response. His lips began to quirk upwards into a smile; he knew what your answer was going to be before you even said the words.

Vought Tower had been completely demolished. Luckily, it had been mostly evacuated before the destruction occurred. A fight between Soldier Boy and the now-dead Homelander had caused most of the damage, but the C4 that had been carefully lined throughout the infrastructure is what ended up bringing it down.

Before it went boom, Soldier Boy had approached Stan Edgar, who refused to cower in a corner. The Supe respected that, but it didn’t change what he’d come here to do. He gripped Edgar by the throat and lifted him in the air, choking the older man and ignoring the fingers that desperately clawed at his hand.

“I thought we had an agreement,” Edgar rasped out.

Soldier Boy shrugged. “She made me a better one.” He then snapped the man’s neck and tossed his body aside like a rag doll.

“Oi! We ought to get out of here,” Butcher warned after seeing Stan Edgar lifeless on the floor. “Frenchie’s about to blow this place to fucking hell.”

He glared over at the Brit and picked up his shield. He still didn’t trust him, not after what he and his merry band of assholes had tried to do the last time they’d teamed up, but he’d made a deal with you and he was intent on keeping his end of it. The only conditions Butcher and Captain Lesbo had given this time around was: no civilian casualties and Ryan was off limits. He did his best with the first and he could give less than a fuck on the other. As far as he was concerned, the kid was Butcher’s problem as long as the kid didn’t come looking for some payback once he got older, which Butcher assured he wouldn’t. That, and there better not be Novichok gas waiting at the end of this mission for him. They’d reluctantly agreed, knowing they had no other way to kill Homelander and take down Vought all in one swoop.

“After you.” Soldier Boy gestured for Butcher to leave first. The man scowled but obliged, keeping a wary eye out as he moved. Smirking, Soldier boy followed. The Supe might have enjoyed the reaction—or even tried to settle the score from Butcher’s previous betrayal—if he didn’t have you to get back to. He needed to let you know that you no longer had Stan Edgar or Vought to worry about. He’d kept up his end of the bargain you’d both made — now, finally, you were free.

You woke up to the sound of someone moving through the darkness in your room. You grabbed the gun from beneath your pillow and bolted upright as much as you could, trying to get your eyes to adjust so you could get a good shot.

“Relax, it’s just me,” Soldier Boy assured you.

Recognizing his voice, you slowly lowered the gun and focused on his location. When your eyes finally adjusted, you realized he was near the foot of the bed, completely nude, his hair damp from a fresh shower. “Ben,” you breathed out in relief. “You scared me.”

Through the beams of moonlight shining into the room from the window, you saw him give you a smile and lay his shield down on the floor next to him. “Didn’t mean to.”

You slipped the safety back on the gun and stashed it into the drawer of your nightstand. You hated having it under your pillow at night; it was super uncomfortable and you only needed to do that when Soldier Boy — Ben, as he’d asked you to call him instead — wasn’t around. “Everything go okay?”

“Better than okay.” You glanced back to see a smirk adorning that handsome face of his, with an all-too familiar gleam in those green eyes. You watched as he slipped on some sweats and then made his way to the opposite side of the bed. You moved onto your side to face him, smiling as he climbed in next to you and sat up against the headboard, turning to grin down at you. Within seconds, he had his arms wrapped around you, pulling you up against him, and he was kissing you a proper hello. He only pulled back when you needed air and tenderly rubbed his nose along yours, nuzzling you. “How about you, doll? Everything go okay while I was gone?”

You nodded and snuggled into his bare chest, letting out a relieved sigh when you felt his warm hands stroking your back. “Everything’s fine,” you assured him, closing your eyes. You’d never admit it aloud, but you felt so much better when he was around. Not only did you feel protected but you just felt better in general. You’d have to be under the pain of torture to admit to him (or yourself) that you actually missed him when he had to leave.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and let his lips linger there, continuing to rub your back just the way you liked. “Edgar and Vought are gone,” he murmured. “The Caped Cunt, too. You’ve got nothing more to worry about.”

Your eyes snapped open and you lifted yourself up to meet his gaze, your brows furrowed. “What?” You asked in shock.

“You heard me.” He stroked your cheek with his thumb, his grin now a smug smile. “You’re safe, baby.”

Your eyes widened when the realization hit you. “That’s where you went?”

Your only answer was the lengthening of that smile.

“Jesus, Ben.” So many thoughts and emotions swirled within you all at once. You were free, truly free. You no longer had to worry about Vought death squads hunting you down, Homelander coming for you, or Stan Edgar sending after you any ragtag Supes he could scrounge up. You were free. Although, Ben hadn’t told you that he was about to go on his most dangerous mission yet. He might be America’s original superhero and he might be tough to kill, but that didn’t mean he was completely invincible. He’d admitted as much to you over the last few months. “What if… What if you didn’t—”

He kissed you, effectively cutting you off. “I did,” he hummed against your lips. “Told you I would.”

You nodded, gently tracing his facial features with your hands before gliding down to his shoulders, dipping down the warm expanse of his back and then slowly returning to his chest. As always, he remained patient whenever you did this ritual of checking him for any wounds or injuries, knowing you wouldn’t find any but needing to assure yourself just the same. Truthfully, this man had come to mean more to you than you’d ever imagined would be possible. Hell, there had been a time when it wouldn’t have been possible at all.

When you were done, you met his gaze head on. “Do I want to know?”

Ben remained silent, but his eyes said it all: no, you didn’t want to know. You and Ben may have planned for the downfall of Vought and the ends of Homelander and Stan Edgar, the very same bastards that had put a target on your back in the first place, but that didn’t mean you wanted to hear the gory details of their deaths. You were just grateful Ben had come back to you alive and unharmed.

You gave him a thin-lipped smile in understanding. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Ben studied you for a moment, then pulled you in and kissed you again, his fingers slipping through your hair until he grabbed the back of your neck and urged you to meet him more fully. Just as you were getting into it, he broke away and chuckled. “You’re real eager for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?” You shot him a look and the smirk was suddenly back on his face. Without warning, he picked you up to rearrange you in the bed how he wanted you. “Too bad that you need to get some rest. We’re blowing the fuck out of here tomorrow and you’re gonna need to keep up.”

As if he would leave you behind if you couldn’t. “I thought you said Butcher would leave us alone after this.”

“I don’t trust that dicksucking Brit and I trust his bitch of a boss even less.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking when you felt him settle in behind you, knowing how much he enjoyed spooning you like this. “‘Kay,” you agreed. He had successfully protected you this far; you’d follow his lead on this one, too. You shut your eyes and snuggled into your pillow, content to feel his hands on your back caressing you once more.

You were just about asleep when you heard him murmur in your ear, “Sleep. I’ll keep you safe.” You smiled when you heard the words he’d been saying to you every night now for many months and your heart lightened when you felt his hands trail from your back to cup protectively over your rounding stomach, rubbing gently. ‘Safe’ is exactly how you felt right in this moment, and the little girl moving to meet her father’s embrace—like she always did when she sensed he was near—only cemented the knowledge that this was the first night neither you nor she were in danger any longer. It gave you a sense of peace you hadn’t known in a long time.

A/N: Sequel

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #the boys fanfiction #jensen ackles character

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i-cant-sing · 2 years ago

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What are your thoughts on the yandere haikyuu teams x their manager?

Boring. I need some spice in it. How about-

Yandere Daichi as a cop and his darling is a civilian and now he's so obsessed with her that he murders her husband, frames him as a criminal and will literally stop at nothing to get darling in his arms because again... who will suspect good old, everybody's best bud COP Daichi to be able to do heinous crimes???

Yandere Sugawara as a psychiatrist because come on- he gives major "master manipulator" vibes and now he's obsessed with his darling patient and will continue to do malpractice and gaslight her and prescribe her all the wrong meds until she loses it and he gets to admit it her under his "special care" and now he can play with her mind all day long🤍

Yandere Oikawa is now a pro volleyball athlete and he just saw Ushijima's little sis, the same one he used to bully and even rejected (and ofc, HUMILIATED) when she confessed to him back in highschool. But now Oikawa's obsessed with her and also still hates his nemesis Ushijima, so what's better than killing two birds with one stone??? And Oikawa still has a very devoted fanclub, only now it's larger and more powerful than ever so now he uses them and his socials to peer pressure you into dating him and eventually, marrying him because he ain't getting any younger honey and he needs some cute babies out of you ASAP.

Yandere Kuroo who is the smart IT tech guy at your office but in reality, he has his own cyber security company that he uses to spy on you, controls your entire life through your socials and don't even get me started on your online banking shit. If its any consolation, he's very rich so... yeah. He may not look like a million bucks, but he does have them. In several offshore accounts.

Yandere Kita who somehow ended up as a mafia leader, probably inherited it as family business and he has like severe OCD so he wants everything done to perfection or so help you, you will 1000% end up 6 feet under. Mafia Kita who has this vision of you being the perfect wife, solely based om the one time you offered him your handkerchiefs because he had a nosebleed from stressing too much and now Kita thinks you're an absolute angel and he wont let you destroy that fantasy of his. Seriously. He will pick out your outfits, tell you how to act and all, punish you if he must, but he does love you.

Yandere Ushijima who is a farmer and has decided that the reader whose car broke down and came to his door asking for help, will now be his wife and be a countryside mom to many kids (u can't say no, okay? He wants a big family) and animals! But hey, he's a very caring husband and will massage your feet, give you baths and feed you his homegrown veggies and meals daily once you are round with his babies🥺

Yandere Bokuto who is now a popular politician and he needs an obedient wife to keep up appearances and play the "family man" image up. So he decides to threaten reader who had a one night stand with him, and Bokuto somehow has very intimate images and videos of you and he uses them to get you to marry him. And now he controls every aspect of your life and tells you to do exactly as he says, and he abuses this privilege more as he gets more powerful and you could only imagine the horrors he would inflict on you if he does actually win elections, but you can't run away because again- he has eyes and contacts everywhere.

#yandere daichi #yandere daichi sawamura #yandere bokuto #yandere ushijima x reader #yandere ushijima wakatoshi #yandere ushijima #yandere kuroo #yandere oikawa #yandere oikawa tooru #yandere kita #yandere haikyuu #yandere haikyu x reader #yandere sugawara

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yanderedrabbles · 5 months ago

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I’m curious how sugar daddy would handle bankruptcy and all his cash floating away? 💸💸💸

Would he no longer be able to successfully chain y/n down now that he has no penthouse? ❌🏠

Or does sugar daddy have good investments and offshore bank accounts so his life style will never be affected? 🏦💴💶💷

He might not be the best at budgeting, but you know for a fact he's got at least one team of investment bankers working full time to keep his assets safe. He's worked hard for his cash and he'd be a fool to let it slip away.

He's also careful to never tie his business and personal assets too closely together. So even in the unlikely event business doesn't do well, he still gets to keep all his stuff.

Sorry babe, there's just no escaping him. He's got the kind of cash that lasts generations and it ain't disappearing anytime soon.

#Your emoji use got me giggling ngl

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nxzz-skz · 5 months ago

Text

Bound by contract (a bangchan x reader series)

Chapter 6

ᯓ★arranged marriage between nonidol!bangchan and fem!reader

ᯓ★ warnings: none rlly

ᯓ★ note: send an ask or comment to be added to my taglist!

chapter 5 - masterlist - chapter 7

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Three weeks later, you found yourself sitting across from Minho in a private lounge. He didn't know you were coming. Chan had made sure of it.

"Y/N," he greeted, looking amused as he sipped his whiskey. "To what do i owe the pleasure?"

You smiled sweetly, acting innocent, though your heart pounded in your chest. "I thought it was time we had a little chat."

His eyes flickered with a hint of curiosity. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Oh? And what's on your mind, sister-in-law?"

You kept your face neutral, kept your tone light. "Loyalty," you said. "Your, specifically."

His grin faltered just a little. He tilted his head. "Loyalty's a fickle thing. It shifts depending on who holds the power."

"That's true," you admitted, leaning forward so that only a sliver of space separated the two of you. "But here's the thing about power, Minho." You lowered your voice, almost whispering. "it doesn't belong to you."

For the first time, his eyes darkened. The smile dropped completely.

"Be careful, Y/N," he warned, "You're playing a very dangerous game."

You leaned back in your chair, eyes never leaving his, slight smirk forming on your face. "Then you should be the one afraid, Minho. Because I only play to win."

He stared at you for a moment longer, his grasp tightening around hi glass. Then, without another word, he stood up and walked out.

The second he was gone, your phone buzzed. One new message.

Chan: You did good.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Things worsened quickly after that.

Minho was more careful now, but he didn’t back off. If anything, his moves became bolder. Chan caught wind of a fake transfer request that nearly drained one of the company’s foreign accounts. Minho’s signature was on it, but it wasn’t enough proof to take him down.

That’s when you got involved.

Felix was surprisingly useful. With his help, you gained access to the company’s internal messaging system. Every encrypted message Minho thought was private was no longer private.

“You don’t know how deep this goes, Y/N,” Felix had warned. “This isn’t just about business. If you get caught, he won’t go easy on you.”

You didn’t care. If Minho wanted to play dirty, so would you.

And one night, you found it. The smoking bomb. A message from Minho to an offshore client about the “file” he’d stolen. It wasn’t just company intel — it was financial leverage.

“Got him,” you muttered, staring at the message on your laptop. Your heart raced with adrenaline.

You called Chan immediately.

“It’s over,” you said, breathless.

On the other end of the line, Chan let out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“You did it, Y/N,” he said softly. “We did it.”

And for the first time, you felt like a real team.

But something about the quiet in his voice sent a chill down your spine.

Something’s coming.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

ᯓ★ Reblogs appreciated!

ᯓ★ taglist:

ᯓ★ perm taglist: @cafffeineconnoisseur @skzbiasot8 @candyquokka @idiotmaterial @backseat-serenade-dizzyhurricane

#stray kids #skz #lee know #bang chan

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itwasrealtome · 2 days ago

Text

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 18 • Burning Out — Part I

TAGLIST FORM

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary: Alexis is sick with the flu.

Content Warning: Usual SVU and Violent Crimes talk • Mention of a new criminal ring, human trafficking, victims, police work | Alexis being sick with the flu

A/N: Hello my loves, another long chapter just for you! I didn’t think this one would be so long, so I made it into two parts. You have the first one today! I’ll leave you to wait and guess what might happen once Olivia drives Alexis home.

Also, just know that I’m still taking requests for Carol Hathaway x fem!reader or fem!OC

MONDAY, MARCH 20

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

09:52 AM

The PR internships had clearly worked wonders at the Bureau. If nothing else, they’d mastered the art of rapid dissemination. Information, gossip, photos–it all moved faster than a bullet down the hallways of the Manhattan office, as if the walls themselves had ears and the vents carried secrets faster than air.

It took a mere five hours for a single photo of a newborn baby to make the rounds, from the proud father in the Evidence Unit to the break room, where it became the centerpiece of a ten-minute debate over whether the kid looked more like his mom or his dad. The tech team got involved, analyzing the baby’s nose and jawline with the same intensity they reserved for surveillance footage.

Just over thirty minutes for whispers about Reynolds’ closed-door meeting with a Washington official to snake through the office like smoke, mutating from a routine check-in to a rumored shake-up in leadership by the time it reached the bullpen. By lunch, someone swore they heard Reynolds was being promoted to a Pentagon post. By mid-afternoon, it had somehow escalated to a full-blown conspiracy theory involving blackmail and offshore accounts.

But when it came to the flu, it was as if the Bureau had perfected its own brand of biological warfare. Germs spread like wildfire, hitching rides on coffee cups, doorknobs, and hurried conversations. One sniffle at the Monday morning briefing became a chorus of sneezes by lunch. By the end of the day, agents were walking around with tissues jammed into their jacket pockets, eyes red and voices hoarse, and the sound of coughing echoed through the hallways like a morbid symphony.

Alexis, despite her reluctance to accept it, was one of them.

She’d tried to deny it, of course. Chalked up the sore throat to last night’s stakeout in the rain, the pounding headache to too much coffee and not enough sleep. But even now, as she pushed open the door to the SVU precinct and stepped inside, the scratch in her throat was sharp enough to make her wince.

Miles followed close behind, his gaze tracking the way her shoulders slumped for just a second, the way her hand lingered against the doorframe as though she needed that extra beat to steady herself. It was subtle–the kind of pause most people wouldn’t notice. But he wasn’t most people, and he’d known the SEAL long enough to catch the way her jaw clenched, the way her breath came shallow and thin, as if sheer willpower could keep the flu at bay.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her pull herself together, her spine straightening as she pushed forward into the building. But when he fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his coat pockets and a faint smirk ghosting across his lips, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

—You know, you’re not as sneaky as you think.

Alexis shot him a sidelong look, eyes narrowed, but the glare didn’t have its usual bite. Beneath the fluorescent lights, the hollows under her eyes looked deeper, the skin beneath them faintly bruised with exhaustion. Her cheeks were flushed, a patchy, uneven red that had more to do with fever than the lingering cold outside.

—Don’t start, she muttered, her voice a rasp of gravel and smoke.

The words scraped against her throat, coming out thicker than she intended, more growl than threat. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw tightened as she glanced sideways at her partner, who didn’t bother hiding the smirk twisting his mouth.

—Oh, I’m starting. You’ve been coughing into your shoulder like a Victorian orphan for the last twenty-four hours. I’m just waiting for you to faint dramatically into someone’s arms.

His tone was laced with a blend of concern and exasperation, his eyes flicking over her pale complexion. She was holding herself too rigidly, her shoulders bunched beneath her coat, as if sheer defiance could hold her upright.

—I don’t faint, she shot back, the words tight, clipped.

A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple, but she swiped it away with the back of her hand, her glare fixed straight ahead, away from the elevator. The street outside the precinct was a blur of cars and pedestrians, a cacophony of honking cabs, muffled voices, and the distant wail of sirens, all merging into a single, relentless hum that seemed to press against her skull.

The air pressed down like a wet, heavy blanket, each breath thick and laborious, every step dragging as though the floor were a few inches deeper than it should be. Beyond the glass doors, Manhattan blurred by in chaotic bursts of motion—too loud, too bright, too fast. Inside, each ache and shiver felt amplified, as though the walls themselves had grown heavy with the weight of it.

—No, right, of course. You just lose your voice, run a low-grade fever, and glare at thermometers like they’re FBI informants who lied to you.

Miles’ voice cut through the fog of her exhaustion, his tone threaded with that particular blend of frustration and concern that made him sound more like a scolding older brother than a partner. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, tracking her every move as if he were waiting for her knees to buckle. His hands burrowed deep into his coat pockets, shoulders squared, jaw tight–like he was chewing over words he knew better than to say.

His friend rolled her eyes, the movement slow and deliberate, as though even that small gesture required more effort than she could spare. The corner of her mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk that almost took shape before it fell away, her expression hardening back into that stoic, impassive mask as they drew closer to the Special Victims Unit bullpen.

Inside, the air was thick with the restless hum of detectives and officers moving between desks, coffee cups clutched like talismans against the fatigue weighing them down. Phones rang, voices rose in clipped exchanges, and folders slapped onto cluttered surfaces with the kind of sharp, anxious energy that suggested no one had slept much in days.

—You’re the one who gave it to me.

—Me? Langford scoffed, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and defensiveness. I’ve been living on Lysol and prayer since Charlie and Ava started coughing up lungs at the start of the month.

—Exactly. Alexis lifted a finger, jabbing it toward him as they neared the bullpen doors. You brought that plague into the Bureau. And then last Thursday, you let Heist–Heist, Miles–do my coffee run. Heist. Who literally sneezed into his hand and wiped it on a file the same morning.

Miles nearly choked on his coffee.

—That was a misunderstanding.

—I saw him stir it, she said flatly, her eyes narrowed to slits. With the lid. And then look around like he committed a war crime.

The man barked out a laugh, shaking his head as they reached the front desk.

—So instead of going home to sleep this off like a normal person, you’ve decided to infect the entire precinct out of spite.

—I don’t have time to be sick, Gray said, offering the reception officer a nod as they passed. We’ve got four potential victims still unaccounted for, two names we haven’t ID’d from yesterday’s interview pool, and Carisi is in court all day. I’ll sleep when the ring’s taken down.

Miles came to a halt in front of the conference room door, one hand braced against the frame as he turned to look at her.

—You’re gonna be a real joy to be around when you start hallucinating.

—Flu’s not gonna kill me.

—It might kill Heist if he brings you another coffee.

—Not denying that.

MONDAY, MARCH 20

Manhattan — 16th Precinct

11:03 AM

Olivia had handled a whole host of crises in the morning, but she hadn’t expected this one.

The bullpen was a cacophony of noise and movement, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and tension. Phones blared with insistent rings, keyboards clattered beneath frantic fingers, and voices rose and fell like crashing waves as detectives barked orders across desks, each one an anchor amid the chaos. The evidence boards were a patchwork of photos, maps, and scribbled notes, threads of red yarn snaking between names and locations, connecting dots that refused to align.

But amidst all that noise and fury, it was the scene unfolding just beyond Amanda’s desk that brought the lieutenant to a sudden, dead stop.

The blonde detective was seated, shoulders hunched forward as she watched the tableau with a frown etched deep into her brow. Miles stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched so tight that the muscles pulsed beneath his skin. His light eyes tracked his partner, who was leaning heavily against the wall just outside the conference room, her head tipped back, eyes closed, the line of her throat working with each shallow breath.

Alexis’s skin was flushed, a feverish bloom staining her cheeks, and sweat glistening along her hairline, dampening the loose strands that had escaped her small bun. In her hand, she held a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, its cap dangling from her fingertips, forgotten. The bottle wobbled as her grip weakened, but she didn’t seem to notice. The only movement was the subtle, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, each breath dragging as if it cost her something just to keep standing.

Olivia’s stomach twisted, a coil of tension knotting low beneath her ribs. The commander wasn’t just tired. She was running on fumes, and the fumes were burning out.

—What the hell is going on?

Amanda hesitated, her gaze darting to the agent as if searching for backup, but he kept his eyes on Gray, his jaw set, the muscle working beneath the tight line of his clenched teeth. Rollins’s lips parted, then pressed shut again before she exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping as she finally spoke.

—She won’t go home.

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, sinking between them like stones dropped into a still lake. The oldest’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her jaw tightening as her eyes darted back to the SEAL. The younger woman’s skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat, a drop tracing a slow path from her temple to her jawline before disappearing beneath her collar. Her head rolled slightly against the wall, and for a moment, her eyelids fluttered, as though she were fighting to stay conscious, to keep her eyes open.

—Won’t? Benson echoed, her voice hardening, sharpening to a point that cut through the surrounding noise.

Miles’ shoulders tensed, the muscles rigid beneath the fabric of his shirt, his jaw clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed visibly beneath his skin. He pushed away from the desk with a restless, almost frustrated energy, his hands coming to rest on his hips, fingers splayed as if grounding himself. But his eyes never left his friend. His gaze remained locked on Alexis, dark and intense, the concern simmering beneath his sharp, frustrated expression

—Told Reynolds to shove it. Said she’s not going anywhere until the case is closed.

Amanda shook her head, a weary exhale slipping past her lips. The coffee cup crumpled beneath her grip, the cardboard sleeve collapsing inwards, and she seemed to realize it only when a drop of lukewarm coffee dribbled onto her thumb. She hissed a curse under her breath, but her gaze stayed fixed on Olivia, her brows knitting together, a thin line of tension deepening between them.

—Their unit chief tried to send her home hours ago, she said, her voice low and edged with something close to apology, as though she were personally responsible for Alexis’ stubbornness. She said we still have potential victims unaccounted for. Names we haven’t ID’d yet from yesterday’s interviews. And with Carisi stuck in court all day, she thinks she can’t afford to leave.

The blonde’s shoulders slumped, her expression tightening as her eyes drifted back to the sick agent, who still leaned against the wall as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.

—She said she can sleep when it’s over.

Olivia’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding so hard she could feel the tension radiating up through her temples. The sight of her friend sagging against the wall, her eyes closed, head tilted back like she was hanging on by a thread, twisted something deep in the lieutenant’s gut. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was the kind of bone-deep fatigue that dragged people down, made them reckless. Made them vulnerable.

—That’s enough.

The oldest didn’t wait for a responde, didn’t give either of them time to interject. She strode forward, her heels clicking against the linoleum with deliberate, unyielding steps. Each stride was purposeful, slicing through the chaotic buzz of the bullpen like a blade through a fog.

Alexis didn’t open her eyes until Olivia was right in front of her, the shadow of the older woman cutting through the fluorescent light. The SVU leader folded her arms, the lines of her jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line as she stared down at the SEAL.

Up close, the youngest looked worse than Olivia had anticipated. Her skin was flushed, the fever painting her cheeks in uneven splotches of red, and her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion and glassy with something dangerously close to delirium. The Gatorade bottle dangled from her limp fingers, the cap askew, a few drops trickling down her knuckles to splatter the floor.

—Gray. You’re done. You’re going home.

The agent pushed off the wall, the motion unsteady, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. She caught herself with one hand, palm splayed against the cool surface as if the wall itself were the only thing keeping her upright. Her shoulders rose and fell with each shallow breath, each exhalation a rough, wheezing rasp. Still, she tilted her chin defiantly, her eyes narrowing as she tried to muster some semblance of composure.

—I’m fine, she rasped, her voice a hoarse whisper that barely made it past her chapped lips. I just need a minute.

—A minute? Olivia echoed, her brow lifting, her arms unfolding as she stepped closer, invading the woman’s space with an intensity that left little room to escape. You need a bed, a gallon of water, and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not another minute leaning against this wall like you’re trying to hold it up.

Alexis’ jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath her fever-flushed skin. A flicker of defiance sparked in her eyes, momentarily cutting through the fog of exhaustion. But it was brief, a flash of fire quickly snuffed out by the oppressive weight of her body’s betrayal.

—There are victims we haven’t found yet. I can’t just—

—You can, the lieutenant cut in, her voice sharp as a snapped wire, the words slicing through the space between them. And you will. You’re no good to anyone like this, Lexi. You’re burning out, and you’re gonna crash. And when you do, it’s not going to be pretty.

The brunette swallowed, her throat bobbing visibly, the muscles in her neck taut with strain. Her gaze dropped, her eyes landing somewhere near Olivia’s collarbone, and for a moment, it was as though she couldn’t quite focus, couldn’t quite find the strength to hold her head up.

But then, with a burst of stubborn resolve that was more desperation than strength, Alexis pushed away from the wall. Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring as if sheer force of will could hold her upright. Her hand trembled as she dug into her coat pocket, the fingers clumsy, fumbling, before finally closing around the familiar shape of her SUV keys.

The keyring jingled in her grip, the sharp metallic sound slicing through the bullpen’s ambient noise like a blade. Her jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the fever-flushed skin as she forced herself to take a step forward, her legs stiff and unsteady beneath her. She moved toward the bullpen doors, eyes narrowed, gaze fixed on the exit as if reaching it were a mission in itself.

Benson’s eyes darkened, a shadow of irritation flickering over her face as she watched her friend retreating back. The sight of the keys in the younger woman’s grip snapped something tight inside her, a wire drawn too taut. She stepped forward, her stride decisive, each step sharp and purposeful as she closed the distance between them.

—You’re not driving, she said, her voice low and firm as her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Alexis’ wrist, a quick but gentle grip. With a swift, unyielding twist, she pried the keys from the agent’s shaky grasp, the cool metal pressing into her own palm, solid and unmoving. Not like this.

Gray’s eyes snapped up, a flare of anger igniting behind the glassy sheen of exhaustion. Her cheeks were blotchy with fever, eyes rimmed red, and yet she tried to muster a glare, the same fierce, unrelenting defiance she wore like armor.

—Give them back, she bit out, her voice raw and frayed, each word edged with a rasp that threatened to splinter. She lifted a hand to grab for the keys, but the movement sent a tremor through her frame, a shiver that rippled from shoulders to knees. I’m fine, Liv. It’s just a cold. I’m not a kid.

Olivia’s expression hardened, her jaw set as she slipped the keys into her own coat pocket, out of reach.

—No, you’re not. But you’re also not invincible. You can barely stand up straight, and if you think I’m going to let you get behind the wheel in this state, you’re out of your damn mind.

Alexis opened her mouth, her lips parting around what was likely a retort, but the words never came. Instead, a deep, chesty cough burst from her, the sound thick and wet, a jagged rasp that echoed through the bullpen like a gunshot. The force of it doubled her over, one hand flying to her mouth as the other shot out to grasp the edge of a nearby desk. The coughing fit racked through her body, each convulsion knocking the breath from her lungs, leaving her swaying, eyes clenched shut, face pinched with pain.

The bullpen went silent. Conversations dropped off, detectives exchanging wary glances as the sound reverberated off the walls. Amanda shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her gaze cutting to Miles, whose jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. Fin, across the room, crossed his arms, eyes narrowed, his expression a mask of concern and frustration.

When the fit finally subsided, Alexis sagged against the desk, her shoulders heaving as she struggled to pull in air, each breath a shallow, wheezing gasp. Sweat had gathered at her temples, and a faint tremor ran through her hands, her knuckles white where they gripped the desk’s edge.

The SVU lieutenant stepped closer, the toes of her boots nearly brushing against Alexis’. The proximity forced the youngest to tilt her head up, the movement draining what little strength she had left.

Olivia’s expression softened, the rigid lines around her mouth easing just slightly, a flicker of something warmer, more compassionate, breaking through the hardened facade she wore like armor. But her jaw remained tight, clenched with a tension that pulsed beneath her skin, her eyes fixed on the woman with a steady, unwavering gaze.

—Alexis, she said, voice dropping to a low, insistent murmur, each syllable deliberate, a coaxing thread woven through the steel. You’re done. You’re going home.

The soldier swallowed, the motion visible in the taut line of her throat, her jaw working as she fought against the exhaustion pressing down on her like a weight. The muscles in her neck tensed, and her gaze flicked away, unable to meet Olivia’s eyes, instead focusing somewhere near the lieutenant’s shoulder. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths, the sound harsh and uneven, as if each inhale scraped against raw lungs.

—I can still—

—No. Not another word. You’re going home, and I’m driving you.

For a beat, Alexis’ mouth opened, a protest forming on her lips, but Liv was already moving. Her spine straightened, shoulders squared as she lifted her head, eyes scanning the bullpen until they landed on Fin, who stood by the coffee machine, arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn together in a deep furrow.

—Fin, she called, the authority in her voice slicing through the room. I’m heading out again. You’re in charge until I get back.

The former Ranger’s gaze shifted from his boss to the FBI agent, his expression tightening as he took in the younger woman’s pale, sweat-slicked face.

—Got it.

Olivia didn’t wait for a response, didn’t give Alexis another chance to argue. She moved forward, one hand wrapping around her bicep, firm but gentle, guiding her toward the exit with a steady, insistent pressure.

Alexis’ legs were heavy beneath her, feet dragging slightly with each step, and Olivia kept her arm securely around her back, a subtle support that kept the woman from stumbling. The younger woman’s body felt too warm against her, the fever radiating through the thin barrier of their clothing, each shaky breath catching as if the air were too thick to pull in.

Inside the elevator, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Gray’s face, accentuating the dark circles beneath her eyes and the unhealthy flush painting her cheeks. The lieutenant kept her hand at the small of her back, steady and unyielding, even as Alexis leaned against the wall, her head falling back with a soft thud. For a moment, her eyes drifted shut, lashes fluttering against skin that was damp with sweat, but then they snapped open again, hazy and unfocused.

—I don’t need you to babysit me, the brunette muttered, the words slurring together, voice raspy and thin, a strained rasp that grated against Olivia’s ears. I can take care of myself.

Benson’s gaze remained fixed forward, her jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding as the elevator descended.

—Yeah? she said, sarcasm coiled through every syllable, her eyes hard and unyielding. You’re doing a great job of that. You nearly coughed up a lung back there. You want me to call an ambulance next time?

Alexis’ brow knitted, the scowl trying to form but losing its shape beneath the exhaustion dragging at her features. Whatever retort she might have had withered before it could take shape, her eyelids sinking lower as another shiver rattled through her. She pressed her head back against the wall, the cool metal biting against overheated skin, eyes slipping shut once more as her breathing hitched, each inhale a ragged, congested rasp.

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to the lobby, and Olivia tightened her grip around her friend’s waist, bracing her as they stepped forward. The street outside was a chaotic blur of honking cars, shouting pedestrians, and the distant wail of a siren cutting through the din. Benson barely registered it. All her focus was on the SUV parked at the curb, its dark windows reflecting the gray sky.

She moved swiftly, unlocking the passenger door with a quick press of her thumb against the key fob, the mechanical beep cutting through the din. The door swung open with a groan, and the lieutenant turned to Alexis, one hand still pressed to the small of her back, the other sliding down to steady her arm. The muscles beneath her palm were tense, and the young brunette swayed slightly, her knees unsteady, the fever robbing her of any sense of equilibrium.

—In you go, Olivia said, her voice softer now, a gentle note threading through the firm command.

Alexis hesitated, her gaze drifting to the driver’s seat, her jaw clenching as though she could grind the tension away. A muscle jumped beneath the flushed skin of her cheek, and for a moment, she looked like she was going to argue. Her eyes were dark, glassy, and rimmed with exhaustion, a storm of defiance and fatigue churning behind them.

—You don’t have to—

—Yes, I do, Olivia interrupted, her tone sharp but not unkind, the words slicing through the fog of resistance that clung to the commander like a second skin. Get in. We’re going home.

For a long, weighted beat, Alexis just stood there, the Gatorade bottle still dangling from her limp fingers, the condensation dripping onto the sidewalk in slow, deliberate drops. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths, and the tension around her mouth tightened, the defiance slipping away like sand through a sieve. Then, with a heavy, defeated exhale, her shoulders slumped. The fight bled out of her in a single, weary motion, and she ducked her head, sliding into the passenger seat with the sluggish, heavy movements of someone whose body was beginning to betray them.

Olivia lingered there for a moment, eyes tracing the curve of Alexis’ cheekbone, the droop of her eyelids, the tremor in her jaw as she leaned her head back against the seat. Then she pulled in a deep breath, the air sharp and cold against her lungs, and shut the door with a firm, decisive click.

Rounding the front of the vehicle, the oldest moved to the driver’s side, her boots splashing through a shallow puddle as she adjusted the seat and slipped behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life beneath them, a low, steady hum that vibrated through the cabin. Olivia adjusted the vents, angling them toward Alexis as she pulled away from the curb, the rain-slicked streets unfurling before them in a wash of gray and silver.

Beside her, the young SEAL had slumped against the window, her forehead pressed to the glass, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The Gatorade bottle rolled lazily in her lap, rocking back and forth with each turn Olivia made, the condensation smearing across her fingers. Her breaths came slow and thick, each one a ragged draw that seemed to pull too much effort from her already weakened frame.

Olivia’s jaw flexed as she tightened her grip on the wheel, her knuckles blanching as she forced herself to keep her eyes on the road. Outside, the rain fell in soft, rhythmic taps against the windshield, the wipers swiping back and forth with a steady, hypnotic rhythm that drummed in time with the heavy thud of her pulse. But every few seconds, she found herself glancing sideways, her gaze drifting over the curve of Alexis’ profile, the flush on her cheeks, the lines of fatigue etched into her brow.

—You want me to crack a window? she asked, her voice soft, the words slipping out before she could think better of them.

The brunette didn’t respond. Her eyes had drifted closed, the tension in her jaw finally loosening, the lines of her face softening as sleep began to drag her under. Olivia could still hear the slight hitch in her breathing, the faint rasp of congestion that clung to each exhale.

She swallowed, the movement tight, her throat working around something thick and unnameable. The knot in her chest twisted tighter, pulling at her ribs, as she forced her gaze back to the road, the world outside blurring beneath the steady sweep of the wipers. Beside her, Alexis slept on, her forehead resting against the cool glass, her breaths slow and even now, her body sinking deeper into the seat with each passing second.

And Olivia just kept driving, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead as rain streamed down the windshield like a veil, her hands steady on the wheel despite the tremor in her chest.

TAGLIST: @ginasbaby @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @alexis042499

#olivia benson x reader #law and order svu #olivia benson x oc #law and order svu x oc #law and order svu x reader #agent gray #olivia benson #fiction #law and order special victims unit #svu fic #svuseason18 #l&o svu #svu #amanda rollins #fin tutuola

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prnstarmartini111 · 12 days ago

Text

real fantasies ♠

Summary: secretary!reader x lawyer!rafe

Y/N tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and glanced at the wall clock. 8:37 AM. Early, but not unusual. She’d been coming in thirty minutes before her official shift for weeks now. Not that anyone asked her to. But she figured it didn’t hurt to be the first one there, to make sure the coffee was fresh, the reception desk tidy, the inbox sorted.

She was originally hired as a temp, someone to manage the reception while the firm “restructured their admin team.” That was two months ago. Somewhere between scheduling meetings and refilling the Nespresso pods, her role shifted. Now she was half receptionist, half personal secretary to the man himself — Mr. Cameron.

Truth was… she hadn’t come in early just to tidy the reception desk, restock the printer paper, or make sure the Nespresso machine was prepped with fresh pods. Those were all good reasons, easy ones to rattle off if anyone ever asked.

But if she was being honest — truly honest — she came in early for him.

For those quiet few minutes before the day really began.

When the only sound in the building was the soft click of his shoes across the tile and her own heartbeat in her ears.

Mr. Cameron always arrived early too. Never exactly the same time, never announced, just… there.

And those minutes — five, maybe ten if she was lucky — were her favorite part of the day.

There was something about him in the morning. He looked different somehow. Less polished. A little looser in the shoulders, his voice rough with sleep, eyes a bit heavier. And when he walked through the lobby and met her eyes, gave her a quiet “Good morning” in that low voice of his — God, it did something to her.

He was always polite. Always professional. Never inappropriate, never even flirtatious. He treated her with respect, calm, precise. But she noticed things. The way he glanced at her shoes sometimes when she crossed her legs behind the desk. The way his eyes lingered for a beat longer than necessary when she handed him documents. The way his voice softened when he used her name.

She didn’t know if it meant anything. Probably not.

Still, every morning she paid attention — to the cut of her blouse, the shape of her lipstick, how her hair framed her face. Nothing over the top, nothing that would draw a raised eyebrow. Just enough to feel like maybe, maybe, he’d see her as more than just the girl at the desk.

Sometimes, she caught herself hoping he’d forget something just so he’d have to walk back through the lobby again. Or linger near her desk for an extra minute. Or say something that didn’t have to do with calendar invites or legal briefs.

Today, when he walked in, she felt that familiar, embarrassing flutter in her chest. Like her body was already reacting before her brain had a chance to rein it in.

He’d looked right at her. Not just glanced — looked. And he’d smiled. Just a little. But it was there.

“You’re here early,” he’d said.

Not annoyed. Not questioning. Just… noticing.

“Oh. Uh, I just… needed to sort through some invoices that came in late yesterday"

The corner of his mouth had twitched, like he saw through it but didn’t mind. “Invoices. Right.”

And then he’d gone into his office with a soft “Thank you” after she offered to get his coffee.

Now, alone again, she pressed her palms flat against the desk, grounding herself.

It wasn’t professional. And it wasn’t going anywhere. He was Mr. Cameron. Her boss. Technically, her temporary boss. Someone who wore cufflinks that probably cost more than her rent and signed deals with people who used words like equity stake and offshore account in casual conversation.

She was just the girl who made sure the copier didn’t jam and kept the candy dish full.

-------------------------------------

A few hours later, the lobby of the office buzzed with its usual morning rhythm. Phones ringing. Shoes tapping against polished marble. The soft hum of printers kicking into motion, spitting out contracts and case summaries like clockwork.

Y/N was back behind the reception desk, posture perfect, eyes scanning the screen in front of her, though she wasn’t really reading the emails piling up. Her mind kept drifting.

She adjusted her skirt subtly under the desk, crossing one leg over the other.

It was shorter than what she usually wore. Still professional — technically — but it skimmed higher up her thigh than normal when she walked, and she’d paired it with a tucked-in blouse that hugged her waist just enough to make her hesitate before leaving the house that morning. She’d stood in front of her mirror for an extra two minutes, wondering if it was too much… and then decided she didn’t care.

The elevator chimed.

She glanced up.

A man stepped out wearing a navy bomber jacket, hands in his pockets like he owned the place. His eyes flicked around the space, zeroing in on her with easy confidence.

“I’m here to see Cameron,” he said as he walked straight past the sign-in sheet, already heading toward the hallway like he’d done this a hundred times.

Y/N blinked, standing up quickly.

“He’s busy at the moment,” she said with a polite smile, stepping slightly into his path. “If you’d like to have a seat, I can—”

“Oh, no. I’m good. He knows I’m coming,” the man interrupted, not slowing his pace.

She moved a bit more deliberately this time, enough that he had to actually stop.

“I still need to check,” she said, keeping her tone firm but composed. “If you could just wait a moment—”

He grinned. “Just tell him Leo’s here.”

She hesitated.

“Hold on,” she said, and instead of reaching for the phone or the intercom, she rounded the desk and headed down the hallway.

Her heels clicked softly against the floor, and her pulse quickened the closer she got to his office.

She knocked once, then eased the door open.

Mr. Cameron looked up from his desk, pen in hand. His brow lifted slightly when he saw her, and his gaze — slow, deliberate — moved from her eyes to the curve of her waist and back again. She swore she saw something flicker there, just for a second.

“There’s someone here,” she said, keeping her voice composed. “Leo. He said you’d know who he is.”

His expression didn’t change, but his jaw shifted slightly as he set his pen down.

“It’s fine,” he said. “You can send him in.”

Before she could reply, a voice cut in from behind her.

“Told you,” Leo said smugly, already halfway through the doorway. He gave her an exaggerated once-over as he passed — eyes dragging from her heels to the hem of her skirt, then up, not bothering to hide it.

“Nice to see you too,” he added with a crooked smile.

Y/N didn’t respond. But she felt Mr. Cameron’s gaze snap to Leo in that exact moment.

Then, slowly, back to her.

“Thank you, Y/N” Mr. Cameron said — a little too quickly, a little too clipped. “That’ll be all.”

His voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. Barely noticeable.

She nodded once, straightening a little.

“Of course.”

As she turned and walked out, she could feel Leo watching her. She could feel Mr. Cameron watching him watching her.

And even though her pulse was high and her stomach was flipping in ways she tried to ignore, she couldn’t help the smallest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

For once, she didn’t regret the skirt.

---------------------------------------------

It was raining softly outside. Y/N had just finished washing the last dish, setting it on the drying rack beside a chipped mug.

She padded barefoot through her apartment, dimly lit with a single lamp, a quiet playlist humming low from her speakers. Her gray sleep shorts were soft from wear, her oversized tee hanging off one shoulder. She had tied her hair up loosely.

She’d just settled onto the couch with a glass of wine when her phone lit up across the room.

Unknown number.

Her heart skipped for no reason. But she picked it up.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then — that voice.

“Y/N, it’s Rafe”

Immediately, she straightened. Her wine forgotten. Her fingers gripped the phone tighter.

“Oh. Hi,” she said, voice caught somewhere between casual and breathless.

“I’m sorry to call you this late,” he said. His voice was lower than usual, less formal, like it softened once it stepped out of office hours. “I’m working on the Dallinger case, and I forgot some important documents.”

She was already standing, walking toward her small kitchen table where her bag and keys were. “Do you need me to scan and send them?”

Another pause.

“If you’re not busy… would it be too much to ask you to bring them to me?” he asked, carefully. “I know it’s not part of your job, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. But I could really use them tonight.”

Y/N didn’t even hesitate.

“Of course,” she said, her voice too quick, too eager.

He exhaled lightly into the phone. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

When he hung up, she stood there for a moment in the quiet of her apartment, heart thudding steadily beneath her ribs. Then she crossed to her bedroom and opened her closet.

She pulled out the shortest skirt she could find and a tight blouse. She wore a touch of mascara, a hint of perfume, and smoothed her hair down into something a little more deliberate than the casual mess it had been earlier.

She told herself she just wanted to look presentable.

But she knew the truth.

The documents were easy to find. She grabbed the folder and caught a cab, pressing the printed address in her lap like it might vanish if she let go. Her nerves buzzed the closer they got.

It felt personal. More than it should’ve.

When he opened the door, it was like stepping into some version of him she hadn’t yet met.

Sleeves rolled up. Shirt half-buttoned. A pen still tucked behind his ear. His hair slightly rumpled, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours.

“Y/N, You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

She smiled, tightening her grip on the folder. “No problem, Mr. Cameron.”

He took the folder from her, their fingers brushing — warm and brief — and then he glanced up, meeting her eyes with something unreadable.

“Rafe, just say Rafe, Y/N” he said quietly.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh… okay.”

Something in her stomach flipped. It was such a small thing. A name. But it felt like a crack forming — a shift. A quiet invitation into something a little closer.

“Right” she murmured.

He gave her the smallest smile, and stepped aside. “Come in. I just put some coffee on, but I can grab you something if you’d like.”

She stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood. His home was everything she expected — clean, minimalist, warm in that masculine, curated way. The lights were low. There was music playing faintly from another room — instrumental, jazzy.

“Thank you again,” he said, flipping open the folder as he moved toward the couch.

They sat — not quite close, not far. The papers rested between them. He leaned forward, flipping through them with quiet focus.

She watched him. The way his brows furrowed. The way his thumb dragged slowly along the paper’s edge. The way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was thinking. Every motion quiet, thoughtful, unhurried.

The rain tapped gently at the windows. The apartment was warm.

And he was right there — so near, and somehow still just out of reach.

She shifted slightly, smoothing her skirt. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Her voice was soft.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just gave a small exhale, still focused on the papers. “No,” he said after a beat, voice low. “You’ve already done more than enough for me tonight.”

But then he rolled his shoulder — a subtle movement, like he wasn’t even fully aware of it — and winced just slightly as his hand moved up to rub the back of his neck.

She tilted her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You're working too hard,” she said, a touch of amusement in her voice. “You’re gonna end up with a permanent hunch if you keep this up.”

He gave a quiet laugh, deep and low. “What I really need,” he said, rubbing at the base of his neck, “is a massage.”

She raised a brow, leaning back a little. “Oh?” she said, teasing. “I could help you with that.”

He finally looked at her then, the curve of a smirk playing at his mouth. “Yeah?”

And before either of them could pretend it was just a joke, she was already moving — walking around the couch, quiet and steady, heels off now, her steps soft against the floor.

She rested her hands gently on his shoulders. He was tense — and warm. Her fingers pressed lightly at first, testing.

He let out a low breath, tilting his head slightly as her thumbs moved in small, slow circles. “Oh,” he murmured, a hint of relief in his voice. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She smiled, unseen behind him. “Someone’s gotta look out for you.”

He hummed, leaning a little more into her hands. “Yeah?”

“You take care of everyone else,” she said, her tone still soft but threading with something more real now. “With your endless case files and late-night calls and moral high ground. Someone has to take care of you, too.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, letting her work out the tension in his shoulders, his breathing slower now — steadier.

Then, voice quieter: “You already do.”

He turned his head slightly, enough to glance at her over his shoulder. “The coffee waiting on my desk before I even sit down. The folders color-coded and perfectly prepped.”

Her fingers stilled, just slightly.

Then, in one smooth motion, he lifted his hand and placed it over hers and gently pulled her hand forward, guiding her around the couch.

Her heart skipped.

He didn’t let go. Just kept her hand in his, eyes following her as she moved to face him.

“I really should be thanking you,” he said, his voice lower now, intimate in a way that felt almost dangerous.

And before she could say anything he tugged her closer, slow but sure, and pulled her gently into his lap.

She caught her breath as her legs slid on either side of his, straddling him, her hands braced against his chest now, and his hands steady on her hips.

The space between them vanished.

Her body settled against his, warm and grounding, her legs folded on either side of his lap. Neither of them moved at first . They just… existed there for a moment, caught in the thick hush of the room. The music played softly in the background, the notes barely audible over the sound of their breathing — a little heavier now, just slightly out of sync.

His hands still rested at her waist, the heat of them seeping through the fabric of her blouse. One of his thumbs dragged up slowly, brushing just beneath the hem, skin against skin. She didn’t pull away.

Her fingers had found the collar of his shirt again, fingertips grazing the top button, hesitant. Like crossing that tiny boundary would make everything real. Tangible. Irreversible.

He was watching her.

His eyes moved over her face — the curve of her lips, the flutter of her lashes, the tension in her jaw she was trying not to show. And when she finally met his gaze, he leaned in — not rushed, not desperate — just close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath ghost across her mouth.

She swore she could feel her pulse in her throat.

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. It was certain. A claiming, quiet and deep. His mouth moved against hers with purpose — slow, but insistent — the kind of kiss that made everything else fall away.

She responded before she could even think about it, lips parting, hands curling into the fabric at his chest. He tilted his head, deepening it, and her body melted into his like it had been waiting to. Like she was meant to fit right there.

His hand slid up, one large palm splaying across her back, fingers pressing between her shoulder blades as he held her to him. The other stayed at her waist, guiding her without needing to. She could feel the strength in him, coiled and restrained, the way his grip tightened just slightly every time she rolled her hips against his.

She didn’t mean to move — not really. It was instinct, the kind of thing her body decided without permission. Just the slow press of her hips into his, feeling the growing hardness beneath her, the way he tensed every time she shifted.

A low sound rumbled in his throat — not quite a groan, but close — and it did something to her. Lit a fire under her skin, in her chest, deep in her stomach.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, eyes searching hers, dark and unreadable. His voice was low, rough.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she whispered, fingers brushing the side of his jaw. “I want to.”

That was all it took.

He kissed her again, hungrier this time. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head just enough to deepen the angle. She let herself fall into it, gave in to the press of his body beneath hers, the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his hands as they slipped beneath the back of her shirt, palms skimming hot over bare skin.

Her breath caught as he pulled her tighter against him, the slow grind of his hips meeting hers like it was second nature. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like they’d done this a hundred times before in a hundred different fantasies they both pretended they didn’t have.

Her blouse shifted as his hands moved, and she felt the cool air kiss her spine, followed by the slow drag of his fingertips. She shivered.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard, voice just a rasp against her mouth.

“Tell me to stop.”

But her lips just brushed his again, the answer silent and unmistakable.

#obx #obx fic #fanfic #rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe fic #smut #x reader #rafe obx #slow burn #secreatry!reader

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