#fucking hell man. tangerines...

[ye-olde-ace]

hey. hey uh. what the actual fuck ?

Donald trump admits to rigging the election. I saw a clip on Tiktok but when looking it up on the Google I found no major news organization talking about it.

[softaestluv]

Sticky When Wet

Three times Ghost swore he hated honey with his tea and one time he admitted he couldn’t live without it.

Alpha! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Omega! Reader

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Omegaverse, Alpha/Omega stereotypical behavior, Scenting, Angst, Miscommunications, Denial, Simon is bad at feelings, Possessive behavior, Jealousy, Size difference, Eventual smut

Pt. 1 of 4, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 | masterlist | ao3

Black Tea.

Ghost cherished black tea more than the average person. Every morning: a fresh cup to start the day. Stressed out? A cup of plain and natural black tea would bloom deliciously in his chest. Solved most of his problems, burnt away the tension in his body.

Honey.

Ghost appalled honey more than the average person. The taste, smell, and consistency, everything about it, down to the yellow color. It was too sweet; a pungent aroma of warm sugar like butterscotch and woody cedar made him turn away in disgust. Plus, it was sticky and tacky. Clung to every surface it touched. Glued his counters and fingers in layers of goop that he struggled to scrub off.

He wasn’t one for sweets; rarely was he given the privilege of a sugary treat in his childhood. Candied items were even more rare in the military, though most luxuries were in his occupation. So, he never developed a sweet tooth; he lived without it for so long.

Instead, Simon favored bold flavors; enjoyed the rich malt of black tea. Melting bitterly on his tongue, just the way he craved. He couldn’t even imagine ruining the delectable taste of his tea with honey. Diluting the strong flavor soft and sweet.

There were few things Ghost admitted to loving in his life, but a warm cup of black tea was one he would willingly sing his love for from the top of the hills.

Why would he put artificial flavoring in it? The tea already had the perfect taste.

Ghost hated honey. Hated it even more mixed into his sacred tea. Despised the way your scent radiated it. Loathed how you reeked of sage honey and sweet tangerine. Disgusted each time he smelt your sickly sweet scent, each time you served him a tray in the mess hall stained in honey and citrus.

It ruined his food, ruined his fucking black tea. The delicacy of a pure cup ripped from his grasp the moment you started working in the cafeteria. Your scent soaked into the food, the tea—the whole fucking cafeteria. Filling his senses with warm honey, pungent even through the fabric of his balaclava, melting onto his tongue with each breath. Made his tea sweet and saccharine.

The tea bags stored in the kitchen were tainted by your scent. The only place he could enjoy a cup of tea anymore was tucked away in the barracks, stored in his room where he could peacefully escape your scent.

Even now, walking down the empty corridor to the mess hall, your smell wafted through the doors. Practically suffocating him the moment he walked through them, flooding every sense with your thick aroma. Drenching him in your warmth, clinging to his skin, and making him sticky, exactly the way he hated.

“The hell is this?” A sergeant shouted at you as Ghost walked over, tray slammed loudly against the counter.

Your head snapped up, shrinking behind your shoulders from the harsh gaze of the alpha, voice shaking lightly, “I'm sorry, sir. What’s the problem?”

“Are you stupid? Foods bloody fuckin’ cold, and you didn’t give me any bread.” Belittling tone making you flinch.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make sure to fix this for you,” You stuttered, trembling hands scrambling to pick up the tray as his aggressive scent overtook yours.

Your own scent turned sharp, sweet smell diluted, washed away, and tainted from the other alpha’s condescending words. Shifting warmth and tangerine into sour malodorous. The putrid smell alarmed Ghost’s alpha, rumbling in his chest angrily, trying to claw its way out to comfort the omega in distress.

Ghost’s eyes zeroed in on the other alpha, the man who soured your scent. His eyes twitched in irritation, instincts just about ready to maul the threat to your contented smell.

“No. Do it fucking right from the beginning next time, omega,” The man barked, alpha voice curled around the edges of his words, causing you to fight the urge to present your neck in submission.

The use of his alpha voice had Ghost growling angrily, watching you struggle to keep your chin down made him seethe, clenching his jaw tightly.

“Oy,” Ghost snapped, both of your eyes flickering to his looming presence, “Is that any way you should be talkin’ to her, sergeant?”

The sergeant opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the correct words as he stared at Ghost in shock. Dumbfounded.

“Huh?” He asked dripping in anger, crossing his arms over his chest disapprovingly, waiting for a response, “I asked you a fuckin’ question. Or are you the stupid one?”

“No, Lieutenant.”

The smaller alpha stammered under Ghost’s scrutiny, arrogance since dissipating from his voice and stance. Submitting to Ghost and his demanding tone like a petulant child scolded by his father.

“This isn’t a buffet. Go eat your fuckin’ cold food with a smile.”

The sergeant nodded, ducking his head in embarrassment before scurrying off like he wasn’t just brazenly scolding you. He would deal with him later during training, make him—make everyone understand that he wouldn’t tolerate that behavior.

Ghost turned his focus to you, doe eyes since widened, staring up at him with the same shock the sergeant wore.

“Thank you, lieutenant. You didn’t have to do that.”

“What? Like you were gonna fuckin’ do anything ‘bout it besides stinking the room up with distressed omega,” Simon grumbled, “Though, I guess you already do that.”

Your eyebrows furrowed together, a frown deepening on your plump lips as his words settled in. Sour scent muted into confusion, melancholic. You placed his tray on the counter, mumbling quietly under your breath as you diverted your gaze.

“Sorry about that, sir.”

Simon almost laughed as he grabbed the tray and walked to an empty table. Only he could save someone from an asshole alpha just to end up leaving the situation as the asshole. Though, he wasn’t lying; he had seen countless men scrutinizing you, and you never fucking did anything about it. Just let them walk all over you, folding under their command within seconds.

It pissed him off to watch you give in so easily. Especially when it soured your scent, filling the mess hall with distressed omega. That was almost worse than the sugared honey and citrus combination that overwhelmed his senses. Instead, it made his black tea unbearable; couldn’t even drink it as it burned his throat acidicly. Let alone be in the same room when it had his alpha unsettled, tossing violently in his chest.

Ghost didn’t understand why you didn’t fight back. Why you just let it happen when they clearly spoiled your mood, spoiled your sweet scent sour. Though, he wasn’t an omega, his natural instinct wasn’t to submit. His instinct was to challenge and battle against any authority that threatened him.

It’s not like the men in the military were astoundingly gracious anyway; most of them were pricks with too much testosterone who chose to take their anger out on the weak link, the omegas, to feel powerful. To follow and satisfy the primal hierarchy built into their genes, to make up for their lack of self-esteem.

There weren’t many omegas on base, and Simon was sure you faced most of the brute backlash from alphas. So, he took matters into his own hands, shutting down and shooing away any asshole he saw berate you. It was a known fact by now to the other men on base not to; he had made it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t allow anyone to treat you that way.

However, they were always receiving recruits, and a fresh trainee served as the perfect example for the rest of them. Before whispers were mingling between them ‘not to fuck with the pretty omega or else the lieutenant will make sure your training is a living hell.’

Besides, Ghost was only doing it because he liked his black tea without a side of distressed omega—really.

[waynes-multiverse]

Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

[queers-gambit]

Shower Shenanigans

part one: Perpetual L's and Overwhelming Dubs

prompt: midnight callers turn your quiet night upside down, but at least it ends with you riding your stranger in the shower.

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 4.7k+

note: nobody asked for this but he's my muse now

warnings: cursing, smut (unprotected, in the shower, she's on top), blood, wounds, brain rot, author isn't British, probably setting up for part three, wonky brain doesn't care what warnings are missed.

A storm had rolled over Osaka, a steady thrumming at your hotel window creating a calming ambiance as you lit a couple of the candles you ordered from the front desk. Curled up on the tiny loveseat offered in the small living space, you flipped through your latest novel you grabbed before running into Tangerine at the train station. Speaking of, you glared at your phone for the hundredth time in an hour, feeling a sort of overwhelming dread that he hadn't called yet - or at the very least, texted.

Was it silly? Oh, you KNOW it was.

But he had said some really pretty things that rang in your ears on a haunting repeat the rest of the train ride. Then the whole taxi ride through Osaka, and the three days it's been since meeting him - he just wouldn't leave your conscious. Every meeting you had was vaguely interrupted by some sort of thought about your mysterious stranger, driving you up the wall.

Sure, you could call him, but the idea of calling a stranger for no reason other than to hear his voice felt a little too vulnerable to you. Yo could ask where he was, if he wanted to come for a visit - or hell, even before you departed Japan back for London, England, you could come see him... If he so wanted.

But your mind refused to let you dial his number, which was left in your recents after he had texted himself in the bathroom. The memory of your ex was still so fresh, making you feel silly for having such vivid, intense fantasies about a man you've met once. And for the love of Christ, you didn't even know his real name! Just his silly, fruity codename!

Man, if you hadn't been embarrassed before, the memory of moaning a fucking fruit surely made you cringe to the point you wanted the Earth to open up, swallow you whole, and never spit you out.

Your trip was soon to end with your departing flight tomorrow night, giving you just a day of leisure time in the city - but you didn't feel like doing much since the storm. Your book was interesting enough, keeping you entertained with a cart of hot food from room service within arms reach. Your tea was lukewarm by now, being much easier to drink, bowl of air-popped popcorn sat in your lap. Over the sounds of thunder, there was a knock at your door.

More like a banging, but hey, logistics. This was odd considering it was close to nine in the evening and you hadn't called for anything.

With a sigh, you marked your page and stood; annoyed by the continuous knocking, oversized tee shirt falling back over your thighs, socked feet stuffing into your slippers before traveling to the door. You called in Japanese, "Who is it?"

There was a small scraping, making your brows furrow and call your question again - but with much more urgency. "'S me, love, open the door, please," a raspy, British accent croaked seemingly through the crack. You left the chain lock in place, slowly opening the door a fraction to discover Tangerine - bloodied to high hell - leaning on the doorframe of your hotel room with two other bloody men behind him.

"What the fuck? Jesus Christ," you hissed, shutting the door, snapping the chain off and yanking it open once more. "Get in here, are you okay?" You asked, gasping right after when Tangerine stumbled a little, making you catch him; assualting your sinuses with the smell of citrus, metallic blood, and cigarette smoke. "All right, all right, you're safe now, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon," you muttered, helping him over your shoulders and into your decently spacious hotel room. "C'mon, you two! Step lively before you trigger hotel security!"

You shuffled your stranger into the room and deposited him on the sofa; hearing his grunt of exaggerated pain. You looked at the others, sighing as you moved things out of the way, inviting the other two men to sit around the furniture. You tried not to worry about the cleaning bill you would surely get for all their blood.

"Jesus Christ, did you get shot?" You asked, seeing the fleshy wound in his shoulder that was very poorly staunched.

"That arsehole did it," he panted, pointing at the blonde stranger.

"Hi," the arsehole waved, "it was an accident, for whatever it's worth. I, uh... I have bad luck, don't really like guns," he shrugged meekly.

"You lot look like hell," you sighed, shaking your head and standing to your feet to take a few steps away. You asked over your shoulder, "Guess I shouldn't bother asking what happened?"

"Train wreck," the man Tangerine had been with earlier answered.

You blinked in shock, the men all wincing as they were seemingly finally able to relax. Only now, you noted they were all in the same clothes as days ago, just tattered, torn, burnt and singed, soaking wet from the storm, stained with blood. You looked at Tangerine, demanding, "Is that why you told me to get off the train? You were gonna crash it!?"

"No, no, darlin', that wasn't the plan," Tangerine coughed, head tilted back. "Just... Happened."

"Call it his bad luck, huh?" You shook your head and moved for the hotel's phone, dialing the front desk and waiting. When they answered, the cheery front desk girl asked how she could help and you asked her what first aid supplies the hotel kept stocked. She answered and you asked if you'd be able to get enough for three kits - claiming you were practicing for a medical school final. She was more than happy to oblige, telling you her brother did much of the same, and she'd send the kits right up.

Thanking her, you hung up, and turned back for room. You found a pair of shorts and hopped into them for modesty, using your ice bucket to fill with water, grabbing whatever hand towels and washcloths you could. You set the bucket to the coffee table, dipping the cloths in for the two strangers, asking, "You guys wanna clean up a bit?"

"Please," the blonde wheezed.

You nodded, handing over the wet towels and moved the bucket a little closer for them to reach. You introduced yourself to them, offering a smile, turning for Tangerine and taking a seat beside him to start cleaning him up. "Lemon," your companion's counterpart introduced.

"Ladybug."

"More fucking codenames," you mumbled, shaking your head, trying to mop up Tangerine's forehead. "Jesus, fuck, sweetheart, what did you do? Bash your head through a glass wall?"

"Window, actually," he mumbled, reaching up to caress your wrist and cracking his eyes open. "Thank you, darlin'."

"Hush," you smiled, wiping the blood from his mouth. "You guys are gonna need showers and new clothes, huh?" You looked at the other two, who were scattered around the room to use whatever reflective surface they could find.

"That'd be nice," Ladybug nodded. "Anyone any cash?"

You sighed, "I've got you guys, 's all right."

As you reached for the bucket of warm water again to rinse the washcloth and wring it out, you missed the looks Lemon and Tangerine exchanged; both mildly impressed with your generosity and kindness. Certainly, someone who would never get tangled up in the lot of them on regular circumstances.

The knock at your door made the entire room still, you sparing them a skeptical look and reprimanding as you stood, "Relax, it's just the supplies."

Still, Lemon and Ladybug made sure they were out of sight as Tangerine just couldn't move once deposited on the sofa. You greeted the service worker, strategic in how wide you opened the door, and accepted the supplies; thanking the man, closing the door, and depositing the materials on your still-made bed.

However, a new thought occurred and you picked up the phone once more. When it connected to the front desk, you asked if your conjoining room was vacant - and to your shock, it was. You asked if they would add the room to yours because your friend suddenly decided to join you (not a total lie), and some 20 minutes later, you were giving Ladybug and Lemon their own room keys. You propped the conjoining door open, the two men using the first aid kits and the other room's shower as you got Tangerine to a point you didn't think he would bleed out.

"Okay, sweetheart," you caressed his jaw, "I'm gonna pop over to the shops across the street, okay? Grab you guys some necessities."

"You don't have to, we shouldn't burden you like this," he whispered.

"You guys can't walk around in these clothes," you chuckled.

"Have been."

"Yeah, on the side of the road, huh?"

"Back of a tangerine truck for a bit, too," he chuckled.

"Well, that's fitting. Look, just," you sighed, leaning in to peck his lips softly, "stay here, rest, eat, I'll be right back. Get a shower if you feel able, yeah?"

He nodded, just looking you over for a moment. "I'm sorry," he whispered, shaking his head, "I didn't know where else t'go. Whole plan went t'shit, we were out of options, love, just... Didn't know where t'turn ta."

"How'd you even find me?"

He shrugged, "I have my ways."

"Well, that's doesn't vaguely make you sound like a stalker." Another peck to his amused smile. "I'll be right back, promise," you stood, found a pair of sweats, a hoodie, and changed your shoes before heading out the door.

Was it stupid to leave three strangers alone in your hotel room? For sure. But you still went, you were a caring person by nature and the idea of making them fend for themselves felt wrong.

Especially after the state they showed up in, Tangerine's soft words about not knowing where to go; you just wanted to help since you had the ability to.

Across the street, splashing through puddles, you zipped around what was available and gathered three sets of sweatpants, shirts, jackets or hoodies, and figured their shoes were fine for now until they could change them later. You grabbed a few snacks and bottles of water, sports drinks, and energy drinks, paid, and made it back to your hotel room.

"Oh, blessings, you sweet girl!" Lemon gasped when you presented the change of clothes and snacks. "Oh, fuck yeah," he whispered to himself, taking the gift and going to change as you tossed Ladybug his own set.

When you found Tangerine, he was in the same place - but at least he didn't look worse. Just exhausted.

"Hey," you cooed, caressing his head and watching his eyes crack open.

"You're back," he smiled.

"Mhm," you hummed, "and you need a shower. C'mon, then you can get in bed, get some rest."

"Nah, love," he groaned when you took his wrists, "let's jus' go t'bed."

"Tan, you're absolutely disgusting right now, you'll feel better under the water. C'mon, there's a shower seat, you don't have to do anything, I'll help you."

He winced when you helped him on his feet, hobbling into the bathroom as Ladybug and Lemon were chowing down on whatever they could get their hands on. In the bathroom, you shut the door, set a clean towel on the counter, and turned to see him leaning on a wall, just watching you. You offered a soft smile, starting the shower to hea up, and then approaching him.

"Easy," you whispered, helping him unlatch his belt, step from his shoes, and then shed his trousers. His waistcoat followed, then his button-up, you gasping lightly, "Oh, fuck! Oh, my God. Yeah," you gently pet his side, prodding the dark wound, "you've got some broken ribs, sweetheart. Fuck's sake."

"That arsehole did that, too," he mused.

"Seriously? Damn, how'd you get your arse handed to yah by a lad named Ladybug?" You joked, dropping his boxers and pulling him from the wall. You made sure he was on the shower seat before stepping back and stripping yourself, joining him in the heat and getting to your knees.

With another washcloth, you gently suds over his body, the soap helping sweep away from grime. He let you work, scrubbing his feet, then working up his legs, rinsing, reapplying the soap, and continuing on your way. You washed his thighs and up his hips, to his waist, ignoring the way his cock stirred to life, bobbing into your elbow as it swelled. You were gentle over his bruises, the water feeling nice over your tired bodies; the soft scents of the soap soothing.

When you straightened up to wash his chest, you missed the way his eyes scanned over your soaking wet form. Feeling your hands on his collarbones, he reached down to seize your hips and heave - making you yelp. "The hell are you doing?" You gasped, needing to stabilize yourself on the wall and his non-shot shoulder.

"'S been three days too long, just wanted yah close," he whispered, sighing as his hands smoothed down your hips; gripping the flesh until indentations appeared.

You tisked, "You're hurt, you don't need t'fuckin' lift me. Use your words next time, won't you?"

He chuckled, "And what? Risk you sayin' no 'cause you don't wanna hurt me? Nah, love," he sighed. "Just wanted yah close, t'feel yah."

You hummed, "Close your eyes."

"Hmm?"

You held up the shampoo bottle, squirting a generous amount into your hand before starting to lather it into his scalp. He groaned, hissed at a few intervals, but overall let you work your fingers through his curls; pulling out any knots, shards of glass, and loosening the dried blood.

"You all right?" You checked, lifted on your knees to work; breasts all but pressed into his face.

"Mhm," he hummed, coiling his arms around you so he could literally just press his face into your cleavage. You chuckled, giving him a quick cuddle as he pecked your skin slowly, and continuing your work. When you lowered yourself back to his lap, your bare cunt drug down his shaft, making you both groan. "Baby," he seethed through his teeth, gripping the back of your neck to keep you close, "please, just - get on me, yeah? Need yah - on a biblical level, darlin'."

"You're hurt," you weakly refused, your resolve barely hanging on by a thread.

"Not so hurt that I can't enjoy this, huh?" He argued, licking over your lips to halt all rational thought. "C'mon, love, we hiked it three days here - after a fuckin' train wreck. I would've dropped if not for the thought of you, seein' yah, touchin' you again. Don't even gotta move, just sit there, love."

"If I do, will you finally just sit still and let me clean you up?"

"Whatever baby wants, she'll have, swear it," he grinned, hoisting you into his arms so he could grip his throbbing cock, lower you, and line himself up until you were impaling yourself on him. "Jesus, fuck!" He snapped, mixing with your whimper at his impossible stretch. "Ah, you feel so fuckin' good, doll, this is it - this is what I needed, huh? All I fuckin' needed - fuck - right fuckin' here."

"Hush," you whispered with an embarrassed smile, glancing back. "I need the shower head."

"I got us," he answered, holding you tight and standing with a small grunt. He easily grabbed the shower head, handing it to you, letting you rinse his hair out as he turned to pin you against the wall with his hips for balance.

"This isn't just sitting," you mocked, soap flowing down his shoulders and chest. "Close your eyes, please," you whispered, wiping the frothy suds from his face as he did. "God, your curls are magnificent, seriously, why does God give the best qualities to men - who don't even appreciate what they have?"

He laughed lightly, "Gotta get your attention somehow."

"Mhm, these lashes? Not even a drop of mascara," you mused, pecking the tip of his nose while one hand held his jaw. "And this jawline? Baby, this alone could cut glass."

"Like your nipples, right?" He teased, nipping your collarbones; both acutely aware of your pebbled nips dancing across his flesh each time you moved. He chuckled, readjusting you when you reached to set the shower head back in the holder; making sure it could cascade over the bench still. "We done?" He asked softly.

"Nope, got the conditioner," you rolled your eyes, holding his shoulders when he moved back for the seat; still firmly inside you. When he sat again, you released a high-pitched breath when the position pushed him further into you; your legs folding beside his thighs to keep the ideal grip.

"In a second," he smirked, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "Just need this, yeah?" He spoke against your lips, licking into your mouth. "Been hiking with a fucking hard-on for days, love, just fuckin' need this," he hissed into your mouth, teeth raking over your bottom lip in a possessive bite. You moaned quietly, lost in the ministrations of kissing him like a drunk teenager, barely aware when he started moving your hips over him.

"Tan," you tried.

"C'mon, love, we both need it," he shook his head. "Tell me to stop and I will, but I think we both need this."

With a long sigh, you pet his cheek, deciding, "Fine, but we're taking it easy, you're still - " But then there was a loud knock at the bathroom door, Lemon calling your name in question. You slapped a hand over Tangerine's irritated mouth when he looked ready to yell his protest, answering, "What is it, honey, are you guys okay? What's wrong?"

"Yeah, just, uh... Can we order a couple things from room service? Bit starving, thinkin' something hot?"

"Oh, yeah, whatever you guys need!" You encouraged happily, Tangerine biting your palm and making your hand retract with a small whine and pout.

"Oi!" He called over the shower stream.

"Yeah?" Lemon was heard laughing.

"Don't run up her bill, mate!"

"It's okay," you whispered, pecking his forehead. "Get what you need, Lemon," you called, "but order Tangerine something to eat, too, please!"

"On it, love! Thank you!"

"Oh! Of course!" You beamed back at Tangerine, who offered you a mild look of annoyance.

"Now, why do that?" He asked, grinding your hips on his again. "Huh? Those two will eat you outta house and home, love."

"It's fine, you guys have been through a lot," you promised, connecting your lips in a long kiss. "Now, you wanna keep talking financials or put the rest of this hot water to use?"

"There's my girl," he grunted, standing from the bench to move fully under the water; pinning you to the wall again.

You grunted when you collided with the cold tile, but the warm tongue in your mouth was plenty distraction. You held his neck like it was your single tether to life, teeth clashing, tongues wagging, lips wet and creating obscene sounds the more intense the kisses turned.

"Fuck," you felt the air punch from your lungs when Tangerine pulled his hips back to start thrusting; brows furrowed together in concentration as he worked in and out of you at an already brutal pace. You didn't complain - he obviously needed this, and by God, it felt otherworldly.

"'Ats my girl, so fuckin' good for me," he muttered, needing this more than you have ever before; each hand holding a thigh to keep you spread open for his taking, hips hammering into yours as his balls slapped the apex of your cunt to echo around the room.

You felt incoherent when he picked up his speed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder when your head was thrown back as he worked you closer, closer, closer to your release. There was no thought in your mind, just Tangerine; drunk on his smell, taste, touch, never wanting this feeling to end.

Just outside the bathroom, Ladybug was accepting the room service order when he heard the messy, obscene noises coming from the bathroom; looking wide eyed at the closed door. Lemon laughed, "Might wanna walk away, Joburg, he don't like nobody listening in."

"Kinda hard to when they're that loud," he blanched when you released a pornographic moan as Tangerine readjusted his stance so his cock was piercing what felt like straight through you. Lemon laughed at Ladybug being startled so much he literally scurried away.

"C'mon, love," Tangerine panted.

"Go back," you moaned, pawing at his shoulders as you felt too slippery in this position.

"Huh?"

"Sit!" You insisted, him pulling back from the wall and backing up until the bench hit the back of his knees - dropping him. "There's my boy," you mocked, a hand on the wall, the other on his good shoulder, supporting you to vigorously ride him. You felt renewed energy now that he was obviously okay, only his bullet wound still weeping - something you'll patch up once out of the water.

"Oh, holy fuck," Tangerine moaned, louder than you would've thought; his head thumping back to the wall and losing all composure. "That's it, doll, keep like that - ohhh, fuck me!"

"Exactly what I'm doing, yeah?" You teased, moving your hand to his throat and keeping pressure enough not to fully choke his air supply, but enough to make him moan at the feeling.

His mouth dropped open as you rode him enthusiastically, feeling determined to reward him for coming all this way to track you down. Yeah, sure, for a moment, it was concerning, but now, you simply didn't care that three strangers had found your hotel room and now crashed with you.

Nothing mattered when this deliriously delicious cock was inside you.

"Jesus!" Tangerine moaned, hands to your hips to help you move, but it seemed the years in your youth as an equestrian was truly paying off. Call it muscle memory, but years after mastering the posting trot and the correct canter diagonal, you were riding Tangerine as if you'd drop dead if you didn't. And he felt it, he felt all of it. "Yeah, you're too good at this," he groaned, "so fuckin' good - Goddamnit - fuck me. Just like that, love, keep going - fuck, I'm right there."

You smirked, pushing his neck back so we was pinned to the wall now, his eyes locked with yours, mouth agape, your breasts bouncing with vigor. You squeaked when Tangerine braced his feet, his own hips thrusting up into you to match your movements; adding to both your mounting pleasures as the shower created a cloud of steam around you both in a welcomed lung-choking heat.

You honestly didn't mean to, but the absolute gut-wrecking pleasure you felt was enough for you to moan in Tangerine's ear, "Daddy."

It seemed the right word as Tangerine groaned in an echo, thrusting faster to the point you couldn't keep up. You could only moan, groan, squeak, cry-out as he jackhammered up into you - something that made Lemon and Ladybug exchange looks, gather their things, and rush back over to their adjoining room to leave you both a fraction of privacy.

"Yeah, tell Daddy how good it is," he seethed in your ear, opening his mouth, and biting down on your neck; hand tightly wound in your hair.

"So good."

"How good?"

"Too good, Daddy, please," you sobbed, braced on his shoulders and chest as his arms held you tight to let him thrust with abandon. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, yes, yes, yes," you praised, your orgasm rushing higher and higher to a new height. "Fuck," you moaned in his ear, "need this cock everyday. Went three days without, felt like I was losing my fucking mind."

"Feelin's mutual, love, so fuckin' mutual," he agreed, his cock swelling, "just needed t'get here, find yah again. Shit, fuck," he looked to where you were conjoined, praising, "gonna need yah home address - ain't no way we're goin' without one another, huh? Hey?"

"Yes, yes, yes," you squeaked, "there - there - there!"

His thumb pressed to your clit and you were done for. Grinding and humping into his hips, you crashed over the other side of your orgasm; feeling mildly limp as you slumped against his shoulder, letting Tangerine thrust a few more times.

"YES!" He shouted your name through clenched teeth, holding you with a vice grip as he bottomed out, balls contracting, squirting his full load inside you with shuddering breaths.

"Oh, my God," you sniffled, holding onto him as your legs were spent and you knew, the odds of you moving any time soon were slim to none.

"Yeah," Tangerine chuckled, leaning back to the wall as he panted; keeping hold of you. "Yah all right, love?"

"Uh-huh," you breathed, still absentminded.

"Yeah," he mused, pecking below your ear. "Just what the doctor ordered, huh?"

"Think the doctor would want your wound closed," you slowly sat off him, looking to the bloody hole and frowning as you pet around the irritated skin. He winced gently, making you frown, "Let's go, love, you need this tended to."

Only, when you dismounted, his cock flopping out of you once released, you tried to find your feet but only found the floor.

"C'mon, love, you just sit," he sighed, scooping you up and switching spots. He set you on the bench, stood, rinsed off under the water, readjusted the stream so it hit you a little better as he lathered conditioner into his curls with one arm.

"You're supposed to leave it sit for a bit," you tisked when he washed the conditioner out; shaking his curls.

"'S all right, still does the job."

"Your girlfriends never taught you haircare?"

He cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish as he avoided your eyes. "Never really had one outside of secondary school. Job doesn't make dating the easiest, yeah?"

You furrowed your brows gently, then nodded, "Okay, well, just means you've room to learn, right?"

"Yeah, sure. You gonna teach me, love?" He mused, slicking his hair back in the water before shutting it off; wringing a few strands out.

"Why not?" You smiled. "But you gotta teach me something in return."

"Hmm? What's that you wanna learn?"

"How to shoot a gun."

He offered you a long look, seemingly skeptical. You accepted his hand and got from the bench, squeezing when the weight of your body made them tremble lightly. Stepping out, you both dried off with towels as he offered, "Why d'you think I know how to shoot a gun?"

"Tellin' me that Ladybug fellow is the only one? That's fine, I can ask him," you quipped, making him instantly respond,

"Nah, nah, nah, nah, don't do all that, I'll teach yah, love."

You smiled softly, wrapping your hair in a towel and approaching him - still naked. "Thank you," you whispered, kissing his lips in a soft, sweeping motion that made him hum in the back of his throat and reach for your bare arsecheek. "Now, c'mon, let's get you stitched up before you go startin' something you can't finish."

"You met me, love? I always finish," he gave a cheeky squeeze.

"Mhm, might be the last time, too, with this blood loss. Huh?"

He relented in a head nod and wrapped the towel around his hips, watching you shrug on a fluffy white robe and tie the sash. He took your hand, laced your fingers together, and exited the bathroom - only to come to a shocking halt.

There was blood trailed all over the room, medical supplies strewn around, and several food wrappers. "Told yah, love," Tangerine sighed.

"It's okay," you smiled, "they'll clean it."

"You're so sure?"

"I'm very persuasive," you eased. "C'mon, sit," you ushered him back to the bloodied sofa, figuring damage was already done and anymore blood wouldn't make much of a difference. You grabbed whatever material you could, snapping on rubber gloves and taking a deep breath. "Ready?" You asked Tangerine.

"One more kiss and you can have at it," he sighed, leaning in until you met him happily; offering several swipes of his tongue before resting his forehead on your own.

"It'll sting for a bit," you warned, holding the bottle of alcohol.

"C'mon, darlin', 's all right, I can handle - OH! FUCKS SAKE!" He cursed when you poured the disinfectant over his bullet wound.

In the next room, Ladybug and Lemon shared a look before snickering as if two juvenile boys at a sleepover. And honestly? Spot the difference.

requesting rules and masterlist

Bullet Train masterlist

[pretty-little-mind33]

Dad!Tangerine x wife!reader

Summary: Tangerine and your daughter go grocery shopping.

Genre: Just fluff <3

Warnings: jealousy (nothing super serious)

~ in honor of Father's Day 🤍 and this is officially an apology for breaking your hearts with Last Kiss… ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

There was nothing Tangerine hated more than grocery stores. No matter how clean, they always smell like dust, and no matter how empty, they are always loud. 

This afternoon, the new, hip, pop music is blasting across the store's multiple speakers and Tangerine almost considers covering his poor daughter's little ears because of how loud and obnoxious it all is. But, she's sleeping so darn peacefully, he's afraid that touching her more than the firm hand he has on her little head will disturb her.

He walks down to the baby food aisle, pushing his shopping cart with one hand. Thank God you had insisted on buying this ridiculously expensive baby carrier. It makes life so much easier and it's snug around his hips, keeping Maisie secured to his chest. Tangerine looks at all the brands on the shelves, taking his time, as he tries to find the ones you like best for her. After all, you spend more time with Maisie than he does—because of his job and all. Which is exactly why when he's home, he likes doing all the things you usually do—including shopping. 

Maisie makes a little sound, indicating that she's stirring awake and Tangerine smiles. "Hiya, Pipsqueak," he whispers as her round blue eyes blink up at him. Her small mouth forms into an 'O' and she hiccups, blinking rapidly. Tangerine bounces her in the carrier, his hand patting her back, anticipating her crying and, distracted by the movement, Maisie giggles. 

"There ya go," Tangerine praises, his smile widening. 

"She's very cute," a woman's voice interrupts the happy moment and Tangerine looks behind him. She looks around his age, early-thirties, with chestnut brown hair and wide hazel eyes. She's pretty, he makes the observation—objectively, of course. No woman compares to you in his eyes so he doesn't linger on the passing thought. The woman has her own child, a rowdy little boy who is half-hanging off the shopping cart he's strapped to. 

"How old is she?" 

"Almost seven months," Tangerine answers politely and turns to his food choices. Maisie makes a little sound and he coos, "I know, Pip, don't these all look so good?" as he caresses her wisps of hair.

He holds the little jar of orange pudding over Maisie, watching her eyes move with the jar, and he reads the label; Apricot and Beef. His nose scrunches in disgust. "Bloody hell," he mumbles and shakes his head, discarding the jar back onto the shelf.

"Are you a single dad?" The woman asks again, her son making loud car noises and Tangerine's mood instantly sours. 

"Oi, what kinda question is that?" he turns back to her, sounding offended. He's still bouncing Maisie, his gaze narrows at the woman, hoping his wedding ring becomes obvious. 

The woman pales at his tone and she raises her hands in a surrendering motion. "I- I didn't mean any harm," she mutters and her gaze drops to his hand. "Oh," she finishes, her cheeks becoming pink. Tangerine's gaze hardens as he becomes increasingly annoyed by this entire interaction. 

"I think she only asked because it's rare to see a man in this position," another woman interrupts cheerily from his opposite side. She is also wearing a baby carrier, but her daughter is much older than Maisie and she rests against the woman's back, her small hands hitting her mother's shoulder.

This woman is older and her eyes look tired. "I sure wish my husband would offer to take the children and do the groceries once in a while, if only so I could have a moment to myself. How long have you been married?"

Tangerine's expression softens as he looks between the women. What an fucking odd situation, he thinks. "Four years," he says. He smiles. He truly takes any chance given to talk about you and his marriage. "Been together for a little more than eight now though." His smile widens a little, your beautiful face popping into his mind. Maisie bables, drool getting on his chemise, but he just chuckles. "Quite a long time, huh, Pip?"  

The older woman smiles, wrinkles crinkling near her eyes. "Ah, the honeymoon phase—although, I'm sure it will last if you keep this up." She gestures towards him. The younger one, who is now holding her boy as he fusses in her arms, nods as well and she sends Tangerine a strained smile. She's looking at him with envy, but he can't blame her. His gaze drifts to her wedding ring. Her husband must be a real bellend. 

"It'll last," he says, grabbing some baby crackers and dropping them in his cart. "And a bit of friendly advice for ya." He looks back at the younger woman, smiling without his eyes. "Tell yer good for nothing husband to man the fudge up or leave his sorry arse. Kay?"

She seems speechless and he pats Maisie's back as she makes another gurgle and he rolls his cart past the woman. He pauses and reaches up higher than she can, grabbing some squeezable apple sauce from the top shelf. He'd noticed her debating on how to reach them, her eyes flickering to them during the conversation. He hands them to her and her eyes widen. 

"Oh, how did you—"

"By paying attention," he shrugs, looking between the women again. "Evenin'," he nods his head and walks away. 

He can't deny the thrill of being better. Better than their husbands, better than most men. It makes him feel superior and the closest to perfect he can be. He beams. He can't wait to tell you this when he gets home.

Maisie keeps on babbling at him, her tiny hands reaching for the lapels of his suit. He looks at her adoringly and nods, "Daddy did good, didn't he? Yeah," he chuckles and looks around, until he catches the plant section. "Now what kind of flowers do ya think Mummy would want, hm, Pip?"  

* * *

You've fallen asleep on the couch by the time Tangerine and Maisie come home. Your book is resting open on your chest as you snore slightly, your hair slightly damp from your shower.

Still, no matter how quietly your husband closes the door, you hear the sound. You've trained yourself to hear every little noise around the house because of Maisie. 

"Sorry, luv, I didn' wanna wake you," he says with a smile and unclasps the carrier, one hand under Maisie's bum as he slips the strap down his shoulder. You stand, yawning behind your hand as you walk over to him. He leans down and kisses your cheek, handing you the roses he'd picked. You take them, thanking him immediately as you smile brightly. Tangerine kisses your lips and then you bend down to pick up the groceries from the floor. You blink the haziness from your vision as Tangerine secures Maisie in his arms, the carrier put away. You caress your daughter's cheek and smile, walking into the kitchen.

Once you're inside and have found a vase, you arrange the pink and red roses. Tangerine buckles Maisie into the reclined infant seat, cooing sounds at her and it makes you smile. You move to the brown paper bag. "Oh, you found the ones I like," you hum, starting to put away the food. You hand Tangerine the baby crackers and he takes a sticky baby-plate and arranges some for Maisie. She gurgles happily when she sees them. 

"You were very specific, darling." Tangerine chuckles, breaking the crackers into smaller pieces for Maisie. 

He walks behind you, his hand skimming your stomach as he presses his chest against your back. Your eyes flutter closed and you lean into him, sighing. Exhaustion falls over you again, your body tired and relaxed. "How was your snooze?" He whispers in your ear. 

"Perfect," you say with a smile. "Thank you for going."

"Anything for you."

Tangerine rests his chin on your shoulder and you reach up to cup his cheek. "Was she fussy?"

"Nah, she was an angel," he smirks against your neck, pressing a kiss to your skin. "Although, some ladies seemed quite interested in 'er. And me, I suppose," he says with some cheek, hoping you take the bait.

When you spin around, your back pressed to the counter, he knows he won. His gaze flickers to Maisie, making sure she's okay, and then he looks at you again. 

"What happened?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. Not out of suspicion that something did happen. But simply because he's wearing that expression. You poke his cheek. "You're smiling like something happened," you tease. 

Tangerine shrugs. "What can I say, married women seem to love me. Some of them asked if I was a single dad."

Now your gaze hardens. "They what?"

Tangerine laughs and cups your cheek, kissing near your eye. "Don't look so gutted, my luv. Told 'em about you. Showed 'em my ring and all. They did sing my praises however, best husband or what not—" he winks, a smug grin creeping up his face. 

You cross your arms, now holding in your smirk. "Oh, they said that? For what? Grocery shopping for me? For our daughter?" 

"Guess so. Some husbands they must have. Miserable, innit?" Tangerine rolls his eyes. 

You laugh wholeheartedly now, placing your hands on his chest. "Aren't I lucky," you say it with a hint of sarcasm, but behind the playful tone, you do mean every word.

You are lucky.

Tangerine hums and leans in, his lips almost touching yours. He's still smiling, his eyes soft. "So lucky."

You nod, kissing him. "Mmm. The luckiest."

The sound of crackers falling from Maisie's hand interrupts the moment and you pull away, fussing over her as Tangerine continues to put away the groceries. You pick Maisie up, handing her a new small cracker. She gnaws on it happily, her consistency softening in her mouth. She's smiling up at you as she chews, babbling at you. 

"So damn talkative," Tangerine hums from behind you, closing the fridge.

 You nuzzle into Maisie's head, wiping some cracker crumbs from her lips. "He is such a complainer— you're just a little chatterbox, hmm?"

Another gurgle and a grin. 

"Heard that," Tangerine calls. 

You playfully narrow your gaze, ignoring him. You kiss Maisie's cheeks, putting her back into the chair and turn to ask Tangerine to prepare one of the fruit purées for her but he's already stirring the small spoon in the glass jar. You smile, your gaze softening. "You're such an overachiever," you say with a laugh.

He grins. "I'm adaptable. I think ahead."

"Show off."

"You love me."

You nod, "I do."

"And I love you."

"I would hope so," you say as he walks towards you and captures your lips with his again. 

"I love you more than anything," he says and then his gaze drifts towards Maisie behind you, her wide eyes staring at him and he smiles softly. "Maybe not anything," he adds and you turn your head as well, your smile obvious.

"Mm, of course."

Tangerine straightens up and smells the jar, his nose wrinkling. "You promise we aren't killing our daughter by feeding her this shit? Smells proper nasty."

"Promise. Now give it here you big drama queen," you say and take the jar from him. You take a spoonful for Maisie and bring it to her mouth. "Daddy is such a drama queen, isn't he, Maisie?" 

Tangerine rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "Oi, stop bad mouthing me to our kid." 

"Sooo dramatic." 

Maisie makes a little sound and both your hearts melt on the spot. The banter dies and you both look at your daughter with love and adoration. Tangerine glances at you and you lock eyes, simply smiling. 

And at that moment, nothing else matters.

[kithtaehyung]

broken, pt. 1 (3tan) | myg

title: broken (pt. 1) pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) series:masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball | stay | sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , fluff ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: chilling conversations prolong things even further… until everything goes to hell. note: this is only one half of what was supposed to be a whole chapter! broken, pt. 2 will come out after i've had time to make it something i'm proud of. trying to rush everything out didn't do any favors, so hilariously and ironically, broken is broken up into two hahaha. warnings: language, angst, tension, yoongi’s pov is longgg, alcohol consumption, tobacco mentions, bro🥲, yoongi in the studio😩, the studio boys make another appearance👀, …someone else makes their first appearance👀👀, scuffles, tense situations, did i say angst?, water bottles get their own warning, long hair yoongi, basketball yoongi🫠, crying, bro a ha ha, jimin has tats and he’s not afraid to show them, the chains stay on(???), …bad boy yoongi😀👍, honestly he is on another level of warning here don’t perceive me💀, the fluff is fluffing here like what, backstory we’ve been waiting for😗, yoongi on the phone, hand holding :’)), kissing :’)), oh god the kissing❤️‍🩹, there’s just a lot in both parts i'm sorry y'all playlist: broken (lp) drop date: dec 3rd, 2023, 4:00pm est word count: ...19.1k 🚶‍♀️

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Words abandon you.

They stand far from your form, pitying observers of your decaying state in front of the man you’ve been lying to. At once, you feel completely alone, not even Yoongi’s lingering presence helping when those eyes are piercing through time and space. Everything you’ve experienced over the past two years slings across your vision, from the first time you left your house in the pouring rain to get to Yoongi’s, to the car ride back you just took with his kiss still on your lips. 

All of those moments shattering into dust around your heels. 

Your feet make lines in them when you move to close the front door, something leaving your mouth before you can judge if it makes sense, “About what?” 

Zero sense. Absolute zero sense. Which your brother has absolute zero patience for. The drone in his question hits you like a punch to the gut, “Really.” 

“Just out late, is all,” you grumble, trying your best to not acknowledge an atmosphere so tense it’s almost crowded. “Jimin had another party, remember?” 

“Course I do.”

Huh? Wait. Why does he sound so—

“I was there.”

Dread launches up your veins, rocketing right to your heart in the middle of a pulse. He was there? You saw his car when Yoongi pulled up close to the house. He was there? When the fuck did he arrive? Oh, fuck, if he got there early enough… did he see you… and Yoongi…

No. There’s no way. Because one, Yoongi parked far down and around the corner. He made sure not to be close just in case you two could be spotted. 

With a thought you really cannot afford right now, you also assume he stayed that distance just so that he could pin you against his car. Fucking hell, focus! Upping the strength of your resolve to match cardboard, you lamely stall in your hunt for clarification, “You were?” 

“I was.” 

The watch on his wrist glints in its twist. When aggravated veins stare back at you, it’s obvious your brother is on the edge. Because he is deathly calm. “So where’d you go?” 

You blink, not having expelled a single breath since you stepped foot inside. 

Does he not know? Or does he know and he’s just waiting for you to finally spill? With all the hope in the universe, you yearn for it to be the first one. Because you cannot deal with a fallout right now. Not right after what happened with Yoongi. 

It’s just not the right time. 

“Yuri’s,” you blurt, finally kicking into gear and strategizing how you’re gonna finesse this. “She came and got me.” 

Your sibling just stands there, eyes a solid beam before he sighs at clasped wrists. 

Here it comes. He’s gonna ask why you didn’t say anything. Like he always does because for some reason you’re still not a true adult to him and he has to keep tabs on you at all times and you can’t just sneak around with his best friend in peace—

“K.” Your eyes shake once. “Just tell me next time.” 

And just like that, your brother vacates the foyer, dark dress shoes clacking as he retreats back into his room. Leaving you standing in silence. 

All the words around you just as speechless. 

Just like that, you’re gone again.

After watching you leave and wishing you didn’t have to, Yoongi shuts his door to rest ponderous thoughts on worn wood. Eyes closed and a storm on his mind’s horizon.

Just a little longer. He hopes you’ll understand. This is just something he needs. More than anything else. 

Exhausted, he peels himself from the door, meandering through the bog of his living room. Trudge, trudge, trudge to the dining table, skirting fingers along the edge and noting that it feels different than before. 

At least something in his apartment has changed for the better. 

Who would’ve thought that table would witness both an end and a beginning. That it would see the worst and best of him. If it was ever called to stand, there’s no doubt that it could recite all his failures and shortcomings. But he hopes that it would also attest to how much he’s fucking tried. 

As much as Yoongi wants to throw it out, he hasn’t. Because despite being withered to hell, all it needed to recover was the new company of a familiar face. 

And a little bit of summer rain. 

It watches as his thoughts move on, and soaks in the blues and pinks of sunrise as he crosses into the bedroom. At the feel of your lingering presence, Yoongi gnaws on his lip. 

What the fuck does he do now? The moment you leave, he wants nothing more than to have you back in his bed. It’s the one fact that he has come to fully acknowledge. Because there are many times you’ve caught him slipping. But when you’re lost to your dreams? Visibly at peace and safe under his sheets? That’s when he can’t even think straight. 

How your serenity throws him into disarray, Yoongi has no fucking clue.

But he can’t afford these feelings right now. Because how can he want you close while being the reason for this distance? Make it make sense. Don’t be a fucking hypocrite. Tsking, Yoongi once again accepts the consequences, heading to his bathroom before going back the fuck to sleep. 

Lies. Who is he kidding? There’s no way his rest will be the same without you. Especially since he doesn’t know when he’ll get to see you next. 

There is a way to remedy that. To put an end to your time apart. But Yoongi’s been so in his fucking head that it’s chaining him down and pulling taut. No matter how much he struggles, he can’t break free, and it’s driving him to the brink.

But last night? With you? Half moons mar his palms as he stands. Staring. Branding that whole memory into his heart.

After three months of questioning his existence. 

All it took was your soft hums to give him a reason. 

And you won’t ever know how much that meant to him. Not until Yoongi finally decides to tell you. Which will most likely be never. Maybe that’s why this time tears at his chest more than all the others. Maybe that’s why he stood in his doorway longer than usual. Maybe that’s why he can’t quite carry the weight in his chest.

Dumping himself on dark mountains—creations of his and your design—Yoongi buries his face in those valleys. Inhales those aromas like some hit he can live off of for however many days left he needs. 

Desperately grasping for a fading world where only you two exist. Drifting. Dreaming. Disarmed by a vibration on his nightstand.

The fuck.

Who is texting him this early. There are only a few people he has notifications on for wait it’s probably you saying you’re home.

Peeling himself off the sheets with a groan, Yoongi simply shifts his upper body to reach for his phone, squinty-eyed as he checks his screen.

And he doesn’t see your name.

Dumbass: 1 New Message

But your brother’s.

What the hell does he—

Dumbass [07:30]: We need to talk.

…Shit.

Yoongi grips his phone in panic, ice water streaming through his veins and mind set ablaze with potential scenarios.

He’s awake. You went home. And he’s awake. Fuck, did anything happen? Did you say anything? What are the chances this text means he found everything out? 

Shit. 

Does Yoongi answer now? Or does he sleep and pretend that this is just a text and isn’t a problem at all? Think. Your brother may not even be referencing you, or him. Right? It could be something completely different. 

Why can’t he fucking move? 

Every regret Yoongi’s kept at bay floods his brain, crashing into assumptions of your mental state and creating a massive whirlpool of dread. Just answer. Don’t answer. Just answer. Don’t fucking answer. Suddenly, another alert lights his home screen and it’s a call oh fuck—wait… It’s Jungkook? 

Why not. Sure. What’s one more issue. 

Picking up, Yoongi runs hard fingers through his hair as he answers.

“Hey, you coming?”

“Huh?”

“We have that session in thirty.”

The what. The session? Oh, fuck. The session. Yoongi completely forgot they had a recording booked today because they were so hyped last night to get a date for the release party shit. Vacating his bed, Yoongi answers with a low, “Yeah, I’ll be there.” 

“Yeah, don’t be late. It’s those guys from before.” 

Fuck, it’s that one. The dudes that stopped by the studio just as things were wrapping up, shocking everyone when they scheduled some time. Highly successful musicians and performers booking something with a no name studio? Things are rolling in the right direction and coming along fast. 

But as things go. If they don’t take this shit seriously, everything can crash just as quickly.

“Heading out,” Yoongi finally says as he yanks a hoodie from his closet, and a loud vibration against his ear makes him flinch. 

Dumbass [7:40]: Heading over

Fuck!

“You okay?” 

“Shit, yeah.” Yoongi grips soft material before his phone hits his desk with a thump. Hastily dressing, he grunts, “Maybe. Might be like two minutes late.” 

“Nah, come now.” 

He’s heading over? Your brother? If that’s the case, there’s no way he doesn’t know. 

Fuck, relax. Don’t overthink. If anything, there wouldn’t have even been a heads-up. Yoongi figures he’d just find out as soon as he’s thrown against a wall. Or the ground. Or right onto his coffee table that this very guy helped pick out. Shit, he needs to know but he doesn’t wanna find out. 

But nevermind him. Are you okay? Swiping his device, Yoongi quickly types a text before fast-walking out of his room, going on autopilot when he assures into his receiver, “I’ll get there.” 

Yoongi [7:42]: Going to the studio

“On time? You better!”

Goddamn, he’s juggling too much right now. 

As Yoongi breaks into the dining room, he hears a rustling on the line before other voices jut through the speaker. Sounds like Hobi and Joon are already there, and the next thing said further spikes his stress level another peak, 

“We’re already cutting it close with the prep.” 

Fucking hell, the prep. The mics, the tracks, the setup. They forgot to do all of it. Something inside of him starts snarling and almost pounces through the phone, “Fuck, we should’ve been ready already.” 

“Shit, I know.” 

“We can’t keep doing this.” 

“Dude, relax, I get it.” 

“Do you? Cus this is… Fuck.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get it done but it’s gonna be tight. Hey, where’s the… Damn it, what’s it called?”

Frustrated and rummaging through his pantry, Yoongi knows he sure as hell didn’t think about anything else as soon as he heard you crying on the line. If he had remembered while leaving the studio, he could’ve spared a brain cell to rush everyone back in. “The what.” 

“The… The overhead mic for the drums.” 

Of course, he’d repeat every decision he made last night. Over, and over, and over again. But any of them should’ve remembered this step before leaving, which pisses him off. The studio’s lack of experience is showing and it’s making him nervous. 

And Yoongi still doesn’t know what’s going on with his best friend. 

“We need two overheads for drums,” he corrects while swiping a water bottle from the counter. And he’s about to rattle off where they are when he feels another long buzz. 

Dumbass: Incoming Call 

Of fucking course. 

Mind whirring so hard he can feel steam, Yoongi quickly recalls where the mics are, “They’re somewhere in the back by the amps, but I gotta take this so I’ll see y’all there.” 

“Wait, where are the—”

Nope. Kook’s just gonna have to figure out whatever he’s asking on his own. Switching calls, Yoongi answers while opening his door, hastily putting out the food and water he grabbed from the kitchen. 

“Hey.” Fuck, is his voice shaking? What the hell is he gonna be faced with in the next few seconds? Can he freeze time and rewind and keep last night on repeat? “I’m about to head out.” 

“Don’t leave yet, I’m coming.” 

“No, just”—Yoongi dashes back inside before grabbing his wallet and keys from the bar—“You good? I can’t be late.” 

“Don’t lie. Y’all are done, right?” 

Don’t lie. Yoongi feels like hurling. 

“We got another project,” he huffs as he meets sunrise again, blazing a trail through his corridor and rounding the corner to his car. “A band’s coming in for a session.”

“Shit.”

There’s a pause on the line. And it’s the first bit of silence Yoongi’s had since he got the first bone-chilling text. Is his secret safe? Are you okay? Should he work extra late and run from a problem yet again? He’s very good at that. Running. If there was a medal for distance ran from issues, he’d be on the podium for both gold and silver.

“Okay, fine.” 

Relief is temporary. This could just be him biding his time in order to figure out what to do. Or maybe he truly doesn’t know what’s going on and Yoongi has a bit more uninterrupted time with you. 

Delusion is a great place to stay.

In any case, his friend’s behavior is alarming. What’s he doing up this early? And why is he wanting to swing by so bad if not to slice him into tiny pieces? Nerves slow on the downslope, Yoongi shuts his car door and lends his ear, “But serious, are you okay?”

“I just… Tch. I can’t even say it.”

He lets his friend go through a series of small sounds on the line, pulling out of the lot and hitting the road with tire squeaks. “What’s up,” he finally pushes, looking sideways and remembering the car ride home. 

There was no way Yoongi was gonna say no to you. He didn’t in this universe, and he’d bet his whole life he doesn’t in any other one, either. Not when your wings looked like you hadn’t used them in months.    

Pained, Yoongi hopes you’re completely fine and sleeping. Tucked away in a bed that captured part of his heart, visiting him in your dreams so that some version of him can be at your side. 

“Everything, Yoong.” 

But, as it so starkly turns out, he has to deal with reality. And with the fact that you’re just as far away as you were before last night. Maybe even further out of reach. 

So, so far away. 

“There’s a ton of shit, but. Fuck. Guess we’ll have to wait.”

Right now, deal with the studio prep and get through the session that will probably take awhile. After that, meet up with your brother and hope to god he doesn’t know. “K.”

“Just lemme know when you get back.”

Then, when all of that is done, Yoongi will be alone. Staring into the night and trying his hardest not to give up on himself again. “Yeah, I will.” 

“No running.”

“K.”

When the call ends, Yoongi lets out the harshest breath he’s ever let out in his life. Hoping you went right to sleep without dealing with any of that. 

“How did that sound?” 

Looking into the recording room, Yoongi raises a thumbs up as Hoseok clicks back to the beginning of the track. At their side, Namjoon hits a button on the console before speaking into a microphone, “Y’all wanna come hear it?” 

“We can move on. Wanna get the doubling done.” 

Huh? They’re gonna move onto vocal doubling already? With a few blinks, Yoongi think it’d be better if they—

“Okay!” Jungkook agrees from the couch, cutting out any other thoughts. “If any of you need adjustments, let us know.” 

“Yeah, actually, can one of you come switch this out?” 

Joon throws a suggestion over his shoulder, but Yoongi is already heading for the booth before his name is even mentioned. 

Get everything done smooth. Stay disciplined. Be professional, goddamn it.

Entering the soundproofed room will always make him want to occupy the mic instead. That feeling hasn’t gone away, and there have been countless nights where he’s spent time just sitting in this very space, visualizing what it would be like to work on this side of the glass someday. Deep down, Yoongi knows he could be somebody. But imposter syndrome runs deep. 

Avoiding cables strewn about the room, he offers his hands without a word, taking a guitar from the lead singer and making his leave—

“Hey.” He turns. “You’re good.” 

What? Where the hell did that come from? Did he even hear this guy right or was he just daydreaming again? Yoongi’s so thrown he can only stare with question marks for eyes. 

Amused, the singer simply points to the side of his beaming countenance. “You have an ear.” 

Huh. How the hell can this dude tell? All Yoongi’s done is indicate if a recording take was good or not, and given a few minuscule suggestions to the keyboardist and guitarist—instruments he’s well-versed in. 

Yet again, he’s so in his head that the man outright laughs, “Relax! You can talk to us like normal, you know. None of us care about etiquette shit.” 

“Shit, my bad,” Yoongi finally responds, instrument in his hands proving a little lighter. “Thanks.” 

“Of course.” Swishing long bangs to the side, the performer rests a hand on his hip. “We’re open to anything. We’d just tell you if your opinion sucks.” 

Eyes creasing with his lips, Yoongi puffs out a laugh. 

“Kidding. Only a little.”

Even though these people are world-renowned, they’re the first humble group to run through the studio. Everyone else has been either cocky, standoffish, or super opinionated, which made for unproductive hours.

Yoongi likes this change of pace. His shoulders start to feel composed, less scrunched than they had been since you left his place this morning. Comforted, he looks down at the guitar in his fingers.

Choosing not to say what he wants to. 

Should he? Nah. These guys know what they’re doing. Despite the nice offer to speak up, it’s not his place. Far from it. 

…But what would you tell him to do? What would you be proud of?

Committed to his answer, Yoongi grips the neck and decides without another thought, 

“Do the chorus again.” 

The whole studio stills. But all he’s looking at is the man in front of him, shaking his head when they ask, “Same way?” 

“Uhm. No.” As he hands the guitar back, Yoongi wordlessly checks if he can see the sheet music. When given the go-ahead, he scans the lines before pointing out a passage to note, 

“Mm. Here. Vocals are fine as is, but. Ride the build-up quicker and hit the next chord after a bit longer.” When he stops, he has to fight to ignore the eyes on him. There’s no doubt that his extended time in the recording room is being questioned, and his hand movements probably make him look stupid. “It’ll keep in time but hit harder.” 

Done. He said it. 

And the response that follows puts complete silence to shame. 

Instantly self-conscious, Yoongi swears he can hear Hobi’s pants shift in the control room through two closed doors shit he took it too far. Fuck, if these guys walk out now the studio is done for and he’ll be the only reason why—

“Well, goddamn. Let’s try that then.” 

Huh. They’re gonna take that? 

As he steps away, Yoongi feels slightly awkward doused in attention. Yeah, expressions seem like looks of approval, but they could just be polite. 

The man hums the chorus with Yoongi’s notes in mind, and his eyebrows tick a bit before he addresses the others in the room, “You heard him?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Yeah, we can try that.”

“Why didn’t you think of that, Woosung?”

Yoongi can’t keep his amusement under wraps as the singer laughs, addressing his keyboardist with a grin, “Damn, not even Sammy? Straight to Woosung, huh.”

“Sammy would’ve thought of it.”

Another bout of mirth spreads joy around the recording booth, and Yoongi shares a look with the singer before they both nod. 

“Let’s see how it sounds.” 

“K.”

Proud and adrenaline-filled, he turns to walk back to the door, head so buzzed he doesn’t know what to do. But when Yoongi can’t see into the control room anymore, he misses a stare through the glass.

A stare that lingers on him just a little too long. 

The rest of the session goes smooth, and Yoongi’s relieved that they haven’t asked him for anything else. 

After all. He doesn’t wanna push it, or step on Jungkook’s toes. What happened in the recording room only went down because you would have scolded him for not seizing that moment. And the suggestion he gave was lauded after the next take.

It was the first time since you kissed him goodbye that he felt a healthy pulse in his chest. Despite the chaos of the morning, amid the thoughts and worries penetrating his brain, you reached out and kept him steady in just the right moment. 

Fuck being his good luck charm. You give guardian angels shame and you don’t even know it. 

“Okay, we’ll take ten after this.”

Jungkook holds up an arm while agreeing, “Okay! We’ll save what we got!” 

Yoongi’s scanning the tracks when he feels hovering over his shoulder, and he already knows it’s the kid without looking. “Sup.”

“Nothing.”

“You sure.”

At this, Jungkook pauses before he sighs. “Yeah, it’s nothing,” he clearly lies. 

But Yoongi will let him figure out whether to run with that or not. He seems a little bothered about something, and it very well could be what happened in the booth. This is work, and they’re both adults. If he wants to talk about something, Yoongi will gladly have that conversation. 

Suddenly, a vibration erupts in his hoodie pocket, and his phone is fished out without him even thinking. 

Hustler: Incoming C—

Shit. You wouldn’t call him at work unless it’s urgent. Which is quickly throwing any possible theories about your brother not knowing out the window. 

But fuck, he can’t answer yet. There’s no way. Not only is he in very close range to someone you don’t wanna speak to right now, but he’d get blasted for being on his phone during a session. Hoping you can wait just two more minutes, Yoongi turns the buzzing off within his hoodie pocket, anxiously waiting for the take to start. 

Hoping to everything that Jungkook didn’t happen to see what was on his screen. 

As soon as everyone looks pleased—three takes and thirty minutes later—Yoongi quickly excuses himself from the control room. His head practically overheats on the way out back, but the gust of morning breeze serves to soothe it some. 

It’s been chilly lately. A bit grey. But whatever the weather has been outside, it’s no match for the atmosphere of his brain. 

Pulling his hood over hair he hasn’t cut in months, Yoongi looks around before ringing you up. Hoping that you’re good and didn’t have to go through a version of his panic earlier. 

Hustler: Outgoing Call 

Straight to voicemail? Shit.

Hustler: Outgoing Call

Fuck, still voicemail. Are you okay? On the phone with someone else? Did your brother actually end up finding out and things are worse than he thought? Clutching his phone, Yoongi glances up while giving it slight shakes, body on alert while deciding what the hell to do now. 

Maybe he can at least text you to ask what the hell happened this morning? Typing. Erasing. Retyping. Retrying. 

Yoongi [9:02]: Got a session today, doll. 

That’s what he had to say? That won’t do you any good, the fuck? Berating himself with a sigh, he takes a few steps while texting a follow-up. 

Yoongi [9:03]: Still going, but are you good?

Staring, it takes him a few seconds to decide if this is enough. If these two messages are gonna suffice to help him figure out what the hell he’s getting into later. 

It’s not. There’s too much he needs to know. 

Hustler: Outgoing Call 

When it doesn’t ring a third time, Yoongi gives up, cursing before turning and raking his hood off in distress.

Only to see Woosung materializing out of nowhere—relaxed, silent, and taking a drag. 

Shit. How much of that did he witness?

“Been there,” the man empathizes, blowing out smoke into crisp morning. After a swell of early traffic fills the alleyway, he continues, “In trouble?”

Great. With a sound of dejection, Yoongi answers to a stack of random boxes, “Might be.” 

“Don’t wanna commit anymore?” 

“I do,” Yoongi blurts without hesitation, looking right into eyes that have seen plenty more than he has. 

And it’s the first time he’s admitted anything out loud. To a stranger miles above him in status, no less. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he clarifies, “It’s just… There’s something I need to do first.” 

Wait a sec. Why the fuck is he talking about this so freely? This isn’t something he does. Privacy is practically his brand. So why is it easy to talk to this guy? It’s him, for fuck’s sake. But what’s done is done. Woosung probably won’t even remember this conversation even happened, or is already annoyed as hell he didn’t get a good read on him. 

To Yoongi’s surprise, his alley companion speaks again after another white wisp. “Mmm… Something you need to do?”

Well. Yoongi walked right into this one. Swallowing and knowing he can’t dip out, he sighs, “Some shit I wanna finish.” The smell of tobacco wafts around him when he looks at dulled skies. “Shit I need to get through.” 

An amused hum floats through empty space. “Been there, too.” 

Yoongi slowly turns to regard his client, watching as Woosung becomes very interested in wet concrete.

What kind of shit has this guy seen? Surely, he could have had some of the same experiences. The slight droop in his confident shoulders tells enough. But would he understand the exact same situation? 

No. At least, Yoongi hopes not. Quite fucking frankly, he hopes no one has had to go through the same shit that he has. 

“Let me know if you ever need help,” Woosung offers, shocking Yoongi to the point of speechlessness. As he drops his cigarette to squash it out, he runs a hand through wild dark locks. “We’ll be around again.” 

Wait. What? Yoongi can only blink. “Serious?”

“Yeah.” The man looks down the outside corridor, watching as people start heading to their jobs through a central courtyard. “Got a good feeling about this place.”

What does he mean by that. What can Woosung possibly mean by that what does he mean they’ll be back? To the studio? To the city? What’s happening. Yoongi simply lets a pause prevail before offering the only response he’s capable of,

“It’s the food next door, huh.”

That laugh has got to be top five in the world. Not as great as yours, but definitely up there in terms of what makes Yoongi feel like things are alright. Not that he’d ever admit that shit to anyone. Ever.

Mercifully, the conversation moves away from risky topics. Instead, there are talks about a tour one is planning for his band’s album, mixed in with mentions of equipment the other is saving up for. Then the rest isn’t about music at all.

Finally, it’s time for them to continue recording, so they know to head back inside. “Don’t wait,” Woosung advises as he turns on his heel. 

And Yoongi can only stare somewhere else. 

“If there’s something you need to get through...” 

Stare, and stare, and stare some more.

“Hit it until it breaks.”

Because he’s already aware. More than anyone.

As Woosung shuts the back door, Yoongi’s gaze finds the crushed cigarette at his side. Another reminder of how things were.

And a reminder that he’s still a fucking coward.

Hours later, Yoongi’s car awaits him in the lot. 

And when he realizes that you still haven’t responded, he shuts his door just a little too hard. 

Whenever his friend comes over for drinks, it’s always the same routine. 

Both of them don’t talk much, instead opting for a quiet greeting before someone dumps themselves on the couch while the other grabs a bottle and cups in the kitchen. As soon as glasses are filled, conversation sparks as a game plays out on tv—or a sportscasting show if nothing interesting is airing. 

But this time? None of it happens that way. Because when Yoongi opens his door, he’s pinned with a shadowed visage he's only seen piercing through others. 

And the whole arctic starts to seep into his bloodstream.

Raising a brow and giving space is his chosen course of action. Best to not disturb a beast if they’re already ready to lunge.

And his friend eyes him as he stalks into the house, scanning around in search of something—living room, dining table, even looking into the open doorway of the bedroom. 

Fuck. Relax. Don’t assume anything until things are on the table. Yoongi has got to pretend like tonight is normal and fine and that he’s obviously and positively not seeing and sleeping with his friend’s little sister. 

And that he most definitely didn’t eat you out where your brother is sitting now motherfucker he needs a drink. Or a smoke. Or both with a plane ticket out of the whole country. 

At least the television is already on. If it wasn’t for that ambiance, Yoongi’s head would be jam packed with every goddamn sound known to man. Including the adorable way you talk in your sleep, and how you strain so beautifully when you come fuck, fuck, fuck! Focus. 

What’s happened has happened. And what’s going to happen will happen. Whether it’s a consequence of his actions, or nothing to do with any of this at all. 

But when faced with everything smushing together at once? Yoongi will probably need to be revived no matter what the outcome. This is the most stressed out he’s been in years. 

Not only that, but his stress is more than obvious. Even now in the kitchen, he’s scanning through his bottles with a finger—an action he’s never done while sober since the choices are always predictable. Holy shit, he needs to pull it together. 

Has he ever been this panicked? Does he appear just as chaotic and disjointed as he feels? This is too new. This is very new and if he doesn’t regain control there’s no telling where this foreign road leads.

But the silence still remains as he turns. And apparently the road hits a dead end at his dining table. Since it’s occupied rather than the living room sofa. 

Sighing, Yoongi ambles to his friend, placing everything down with clinks and ignoring the way his furniture is getting burned through. Both whisky’s are ready. Yoongi’s already holding his. And your brother still hasn’t moved a muscle. Honestly, what the fuck is going on with—

“I went to Jimin’s last night.”

…What. 

Don’t react. He’s staring. Don’t fucking react. Take a drink. A sip. Pick up the goddamn glass. Doing so, Yoongi slowly brings the liquid to his lips, not quite following his own instructions as he asks behind a barrier, “How was it.”

His question is met with a laugh that isn’t funny at all. The kind that drags a finger along the chalkboard of your soul. And the next question directed his way pulverizes Yoongi’s denial,

“Care to share what’s been going on?”

He’s sick. Beyond sick. The room is closing in and closing in too fucking fast. Shit shit shit. There’s no way he saw. No fucking way. He parked down the street he deliberately stopped as far away as possible and you saw your brother’s car in your driveway. Did he get there after you left? And didn’t see you while also not hearing from hi—

“Why her, Yoong? Hmm?”

Fuck! 

Yoongi can’t feel the air in his lungs. Because there isn’t any. Just a barren wasteland of shriveled futures and cracks in the foundation of every relationship he’s had in his whole life. The millisecond before a crash and only his wheels spinning and spinning and spinning—

Your brother shoots out of the chair, making the glass in Yoongi’s palm feel infinitely more solid.

“I mean, fuck! After all the shit we’ve been through? You’re gonna go back to her?”

All the—shit, he can’t even—back to? Back to you? What does he mean by back to you? Does he know about the first ti—

Volcanic, the man interrogating paces beside the dining table. Back and forth, back and forth. A pause. Back and forth.

And Yoongi still feels frozen in time. Is this it? Is this when things come crashing down? Glass suspends in midair all around him; an orchestra trembles beneath his feet, waiting for the moment to rip into his rib cage with swift strokes and a flourish as he’s taken down. 

“Can’t fucking believe you.”

When Yoongi finally chooses to speak, what comes out only feels like a horrible attempt more than anything else, “Listen, it’s my fau—”

“What, you just decided to fuck that bitch again? Couldn’t stay away?”

Oh, fuck that. 

Wood scrapes into flooring as Yoongi vacates his chair, hard feet planted as he gets into the face of his best friend, his confidant, his day one. Only to speak so low only them two can hear, “How bout you use your fucking words already and I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” They are only a breath apart. But no one’s going anywhere now. “Need me to spell it out for that fuckass brain of yours—”

“Say it—”

“Stop fucking your ex, dude!”

Yoongi’s back connects with the chair behind him, palms flinging back to brace himself through a jolt of pain. And his eyes go so wide they stretch at the edges.

…Motherfucker, what?

Your brother is not done in the slightest, but Yoongi can only stare as he’s being berated for something that is one-hundred percent news to him, too. 

“Everyone was happy when you finally left. All of us. Only for you to go and, what, get back with her?”

Nothing makes sense. This isn’t about you? Yoongi’s heart can’t even reset to start beating again. Everything is coming as shock after shock and there’s no way he can keep up at this pace.

His ex? Her? Where the fuck did that come from and why the hell does he of all people think that’s actually true?

“If you’re gonna be with her, you can count me out.” 

No. Never again. That would never, ever happen again. “The fuck are you even saying—”

“I’m not fucking joking, Yoong. If you’re seriously back with her then—”

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck you heard, but I’m not.”

“So everything I heard was a lie?”

“Huh?”

“He told me!”

He—who? Who the fuck would say that? And when how what the fuck and why? Yoongi stares, chest heaving with every inhale and exhale. Because he has a choice to make. Either he trudges into this lie and rubs sludge all over his bones, or he denies it like he wants because it’s not fucking true.

What the actual fuck. It’s already bad enough that someone sent this along the rumor mill. And it’s making him sick thinking about all the implications surrounding it. But it’s even worse that his best friend believes it so easily. He’s coming at him so quick without even asking if it’s true. 

The only silver lining—the singular bright spot in this hellhole—is that he can use it as an out. An out to protect you from wrath and further fury from your older sibling because if you were the rumor? He’d be laid flat on his floor next to a broken dining set.

“You gonna say anything or what?” 

Truthfully, Yoongi feels queasy knowing what he’s gonna do. But it’s for you. You, you, you. And for that, Yoongi will do anything. 

Even if it kills him.

“No, I, umm…” 

“No?” 

Just hurry up and fucking do it. 

Resigned, Yoongi lets the memories flood through. Every moment that’s haunted him from a distance charges forward as he surrenders to the pain of his past. “It’s—” Fuck, he can’t even begin to lie, head thundering, thundering, striking his heart in the rain. “I...” 

His friend halts. Tense before his shoulders fall back to normal. “You what.”

What the fuck does Yoongi do? What can he say when his brain is only firing up to beg him to run? Technically, he doesn’t have to say anything. He really doesn’t. But he can deflect. It’s what he’s best at, after all. He’s been doing it to you and he will do it again.

In the most defeated voice he can muster, Yoongi comes up with something that will placate his friend while still prolonging this horrid fib, “You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” 

“You sure?”

It’s true. More true than anything. “It’s over now.” 

A century passes. Then another. Then another. Every piece of furniture waits in silence as the television seeps back into his ears. 

Then his friend sighs, not looking back as he slumps into the same chair that you always occupy. And Yoongi hopes his sigh of conflicted relief isn’t witnessed. 

Following suit, he rubs his lower back before taking his regular seat again, not giving any shits about waiting to drink. 

His ex? 

As his throat warms, Yoongi starts to harden the more memories keep crashing into each other like jagged waves fuck he really hates how she was brought into this he swears as soon as he figures out who said this he is going to—

“Sorry.” Haze shattered, he lifts his gaze. “I’m so fucking stressed and hearing that last night just…”

“It’s done.” Yoongi reaches for the thick bottle, pouring more into his glencairn. Wanting to talk about literally anything else, he diverts the conversation, “But something else is up with you so say it.”

It works. The man inhales deep, rubbing his face with weary hands. When he rests elbows on wood, he finally talks about other things clouding his mind,

“Work is shit,” he groans downward. “They’re having me travel again.” 

“Domestic?”

“Yeah. But for longer. And I don’t…” Tapering off, he sits back, slowly playing with his glass. As if he doesn’t want to mention the next problem. 

When he finally does, Yoongi wholeheartedly understands the hesitation, “I dunno know what’s going on with my sister.”

Oh. Fuck, how the hell does he respond? Keeping his cool, Yoongi just repeats the question, taking out his phone and pretending to check his screen. “Your sister?”

“Yeah.” A sigh is sandwiched between explanations. “The past few months, I feel like.. They haven’t really been themselves.” 

A sudden crack splits him through.

“Not laughing. Not eating as much. Like even when they sound happy, I can tell it’s a front.. I don’t know.” 

The clunk of his phone hits the table very hard. 

No. No, no, no. Your texts have been so positive. So encouraging. Other than a few sad calls, you’ve been happy to hear from him just as he had been relieved to hear from you. Even in the car, you must’ve put your feelings lightly. 

Your wings. You’ve been enduring all that? For him? Yoongi’s heart rears its head, snagging one of his breaths and slamming both lungs into the floor.

And hatred paints his heart another shade darker.

“They finally went out last night, but. Didn’t come back until this morning.” Running rigid hands through his head, the man looks so pained. So helpless. “Same clothes, dude.” 

And Yoongi can only stare, feigning nonchalance but raging and tearing himself apart inside. “Mm.”

“I just… I know I suck at this, but. I don’t know what the hell to do. Or if I even do anything.” Your brother finally takes a swig, wincing at how much ethanol coats his tongue. 

Relax, relax, relax. As much as he wants to erupt on himself right now, Yoongi has to stay calm.

Not like he doesn’t know how. That’s usually how he operates, anyway. It’s hard to tell he’s struggling unless you look deep enough. And almost no one thinks to do so because his surface is all they want. 

But right now? He doesn’t think he can sequester this anger any longer. At him, his past, and his stupid present decisions. 

“Like I tried to say something but I just.. I felt like if I push too hard, they’re gonna shut down even more. Ever since that fight with Kook, it’s like..” 

Seeing an opening and keeping a neutral stance, Yoongi asks the most ironic question to date, “Are they seeing someone?”

At this, his friend shakes his head, eyes glued to dark amber liquid. When he answers, all the breaths in the world cut at once, 

“I think she feels all alone.” 

This hit is the strongest. Straight to the gut, breath stuttering and muscles clenching so hard they lock. It’s almost severe enough to affect how Yoongi feels around his eyes. 

“And it sucks not knowing what to do.”

Yoongi’s heart lurches, deflating and slipping out of the crack in his chest. Piercing on the jagged edges before slumping down onto a table that continues to judge him.  

You’re hurting. Your brother’s hurting. And it’s all his goddamn fault. Why can’t he just break free and admit shit? Why is he still haunted by the phantoms of his past? Why is he still so fucking weak? It’s clear that he hurt you. For months. You’ve been cheering for him that whole time while you’ve been visibly broken and it’s all because of his dumbass decision to—

“I’m heading out again.”

Yoongi raises his eyes. Because he can’t seem to move anything else. “When.”

Your older sibling takes a slower, more measured sip. Looking towards the channel playing in the living room, he answers, “After our game. Dinner Friday, game on Saturday, fly out Sunday.” 

“Mm. We’ll still be here,” Yoongi assures, keeping things as normal and neutral as he can. “Just like last time.”

How ironic. How hypocritical. He hasn’t been there for you in the slightest so how the fuck can he say that with a straight face. 

“Thanks. I know it’s a lot for y’all but..”

Not at all. Yoongi is more determined than ever to make everything up to you. It’s the least he can do after putting you through something he decided on the fly. 

On the run.

“Don’t worry about that,” he vows into his drink. Honestly, if you’ve been having second thoughts about this whole thing, he doesn’t blame you. Absolutely doesn’t blame you if you realize you’re better than this. But Yoongi’s at least gonna apologize in every single way he can. As soon as he possibly can. “We got it.” 

“K.” The man finishes his glass and goes to pour more. “Did I ever mention that she liked you?”

Now what— Coughing on whisky is a bitch and a half. Hitting his chest while both eyes squint from burn, Yoongi croaks out his exact thoughts, “What.”

At this, his friend finally breaks into his regular smile. Setting the bottle down with a hollow clunk, he points, “Don’t you fucking get any ideas. Jimin’s already on my shit list.” He scoffs out a laugh. “But it was obvious when we were younger.”

And Yoongi can only cough some more. He shakes his head through the sting, swallowing and trying to compose himself. He doesn’t know where the hell that came from, but he hopes your brother will understand when all is said and done. Even though he’s been the reason you’ve been so…

Yoongi almost fucking confesses.

“You’re a good person,” he blurts instead. Whether the guilt or last cough pushed it out, that’s still on the table. “You don’t suck at what you think you do.”

“You think so?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

The hell? Does this dude really not see how successful he is? How much he’s overcome and conquered and sacrificed? Truthfully, Yoongi wouldn’t be where he is today if not for your brother. Him. Jimin. You. Anybody. Which is what makes this ongoing betrayal… 

Unprecedented.  

“You’re the best out of all of us.” 

Your brother finally looks at him, though Yoongi isn’t doing the same. But he can still tell when a fist is held out for him to bump, so he does.

And they both share a drink in respectful silence. 

After a moment of them watching the tv, the man finally sighs. “Guess we did shape up pretty nice.” When he’s agreed with, he keeps going with a grin. “We were so fucking bad.”

Yoongi can only chuckle, much better memories fighting off the terrors. “Old me was a little shit.”

“You still are.”

“Says you!”

“I still am, too!”

Laughs precede big swigs of whisky and comfortable quiet. Bit by bit, shoulders start to relax with the surrounding air, and Yoongi lazily releases tension in his neck. 

After a few more pours, your brother decides to call it, using the bathroom before announcing that he’s gonna head out. Yoongi gets up from his chair to clasp hands goodbye, not expecting to hear one more plea,

“Break up with her, Yoong.” 

Shit. He sighs, and their conversation continues from the dining table to the front door. “It’s not like that.” 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s over now.” 

“For good?” As they stop beside the coat closet, your brother pins him with a look. “I was about to drive over and break down the door.”

Even though Yoongi shares a tsk with him, he can’t help but imagine what could’ve happened if that was the case. And it sends an unwanted jolt of chills. 

“Serious. I’m gonna keep saying this, but. she was just making you miserable, dude.” He slips on his shoes, smacking his foot on the ground to push one in place. “I’m sure it was good at first, but I mean… You gotta move on. You deserve better than that.” 

Anything would be better than that. Yoongi just disagrees with the whole deserving part. “I guess.” 

“You sure it’s over?”

“Yeah,” he assures, because that is something he intends to keep true forever. “It is.” 

“Good.” Keys jingling, your sibling then points into the open area with his whole arm, seven words leaving his mouth like ice, 

“Then get rid of that fucking guitar.” 

Ah. Among all the things. Of course he would bring that up, too. Jaw working, Yoongi looks away, now assaulted by all the torturous thoughts surrounding that painful reminder and fighting them off with no success. 

Get rid of it? He’s been trying. 

For three. Fucking. Months. 

“I might.” 

“…K.” 

And his best friend departs, leaving Yoongi inside and staring at the same black spot he’s kept in the corner for years. It has mocked him as he struggles. Laughed at him whenever he’s tried to throw it out. And aside from the times he’s made you feel better stinging himself on those strings, he has accomplished nothing except letting it win.

Pissed off and doused in guilt, Yoongi yanks himself away from the door, the instrument, and everything else except for his bed.

Keeping his shadow exactly where it stands. 

Yoongi knows he needs to talk to you.

But his phone exists somewhere on the other side of his bedroom door.

And he doesn’t have the strength to go get it. 

What time is it? 

All that greets him is darkness. 

Nothing new, but darkness all the same. 

Why was she mentioned? What does that mean? 

He needs to call you. He’s lying to his best friend. 

Her? You. His sheets still smell like you. 

Inhale. Breathe. Inhale. 

He needs to call you. But he’s so, so tired. 

And the darkness pulls him back under. 

Without even telling him the time. 

Buzzing. 

Faint, gentle buzzing softly lifts Yoongi’s eyelids before a loud series of smacks causes him to rush out of bed what the fuck? 

Oh. His phone fell outside. Fucking hell, his heart’s beating way too quick for that to be the only thing that happened. 

Head in his hands, Yoongi sighs deep before making his way to the dining table. And it takes all of his strength to bend down to reach for his phone. 

Hustler: Missed Calls (6)

Dumbass: 1 Message

Hustler: 3 Messages 

Chim: 7 Messages   

Chim: Missed Calls (3) 

Holy fuck. 

With only the light of his phone illuminating the dark, Yoongi rings Jimin up. His heart’s a little disappointed it wasn’t you calling just now, but it’s probably best to stay away while his brain is so scattered and torn. 

“Oh, fuck. There you are.” 

“Mm.” 

“Don’t scare me like that, bro. I was starting to get ready to drive over—” 

“It’s fine,” he juts in. “What’s up.” 

Alright, maybe he shouldn’t be an asshole. There’s no reason to let his lingering shadow from earlier control his temper now. Jimin’s just being himself, for fuck’s sake. 

“I, umm. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.” 

Now that’s not what Yoongi expected at all. “For what?” 

There’s another pause on the line, and his reaction is immediate when he knows for a fact Jimin is fighting back tears. 

“I… I got so drunk last night, I—And I—”

Shit. A sinking feeling starts to weigh Yoongi down, his center pulling the rest of him in like a black hole. And he doesn’t need to hear the rest of this to know what this call is about. 

“He was looking for her, Yoong, and you weren’t there, either. He had this look, I—I couldn’t think of anything else to say in the moment and I told him—”

Jimin can’t even finish his confession. And it hits right in the gut. 

Despite his perceived persona, Yoongi doesn’t like hearing people cry. At least, if they don’t deserve to or don’t deserve to be sad—or if they’re you. He could care less about the rest.

But Jimin is one of the only people that can get him like this: eyes stinging at their edges and his chest concave. In the dark, though, no one can tell. No one can see him.

So he can openly swipe at his eyes before dumping tired limbs into a chair, catching his forehead in a damp palm. 

“I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.” 

Exhaling through his nose, Yoongi tries his best to calm his emotions. Because they are still raging and it’s going to take all of him to quell this tempest. 

Jimin knows more than anyone what this means to him. To you. The time you spent apart? If it wasn’t for his friend, Yoongi may have been in a much different position. If this was the only thing Park could do, then his effort has to be acknowledged. It worked like a fucking charm.

But goddamn, Yoongi wishes Jimin thought of literally anything else. He could’ve made up some random, some fling from another city, the damn studio itself. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he finally rasps out. “It’s just been a fuckin’ day.” 

Jimin sniffles before cursing at himself and, judging by the sounds on the line, Yoongi figures he’s opening his fridge. If he reaches for soju, that would not be surprising in the least, and now that sounds like a good idea.

“Same. Gah, I just… I should’ve warned you. I didn’t know he went over there.” 

“He told you?” 

“I called him after you didn’t answer earlier.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I passed out after he left.” 

“Ah.” 

Something shuts before there’s a crisp clink on the line, validating exactly what Yoongi was thinking. 

“I really am sorry. What did you end up saying?” 

“That it’s done.” 

A hum. 

“That’s very true.” 

There’s a question that Yoongi thinks to ask. Context that he needs. But as important as this information is, Yoongi doesn’t feel like talking about it right now. Or ever. But now still counts. So he switches the conversation over to something less daunting, “Practice still on tomorrow?” 

When Jimin laughs out of surprise, it gives Yoongi the smallest kick of energy.

“Ah, someone actually ready to go for once?” 

“Yeah. The plan is to make this game quick.” 

A hearty swallow spills out of the speaker before a hum follows, 

“Mm, that reminds me. Got something that might help with that.” 

What the hell does that even mean? “Huh?” 

“I’ll bring it over tomorrow. You might find some good uses for it.”

Yoongi rubs the grogginess still clinging to his face. “All these years and you’ve never given me a straight answer.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

“Knowing the answer.” 

At least Jimin’s back in a good mood. Or a better state than puffy-eyed and regretful. He doesn’t have to share the pain in this, too. It was an honest mistake. 

“You’ll know it when you see it.” 

“Annoying.”

“Love you, too!” 

Yoongi’s huff billows through his nose, and Jimin’s energy almost brings enough strength for him to clear the table. 

Ehh. He’ll leave it alone. He’s been pretty good at that lately, too, no matter how early or late it is in the night. What time even is it? Checking his phone, Yoongi’s brows crease when he figures that out. Why the hell are they even on a call right now? “Wait, is it really three?” 

“Huh? Yeah. I’m telling you, dude, I was getting worried.” 

He was really about to drive over? “Sorry. I really did just pass out.” 

“Mm. Well, I’m gonna go do that now.” 

“K. Same time tomorrow?” 

“Ah, a little earlier. Just so I can give this to you before everyone else shows.” 

That just makes Yoongi infinitely more curious. “Seriously, what did you get?” 

“Relax! You will like it.” 

“Chim, I swear—”

“You’ll thank me later bye!”

As soon as Jimin disappears from the line, Yoongi is left alone again.

Exactly where he always ends up. 

Exactly where he doesn’t want to be. 

But now that he’s done dealing with those notifications, Yoongi roams lidded eyes over his screen again. 

Wait. You called him six times? Fuck. What did you text? Were you wondering where he was, too? 

Hustler [20:01]: HOLY FUCK!! my phone died after i tried calling you this morning and i just fully woke up to charge it😭 he’s not home so call whenever  

Yoongi clutches his phone a little tighter. 

He very much would’ve rather been in your bed with you all day. 

That sounds like fucking bliss. 

Hustler [23:37]: tried calling but he’s home now. are you ok?? idk what’s going on with him but i think we need to be careful

Shit, Yoongi didn’t get to tell you. You’ve probably been worried about that every second you’ve been awake today. 

And he couldn’t even make it out of his goddamn room to help. 

All he comes with is worries for you. What kind of shit is this? What is he even doing? He even outright told you that you were dating only for that to be ripped from your hands for months. Why are you still giving someone like him a chance? 

Hustler [23:40]: but all i wanna do is see you

Fucking hell.

Nothing in the world can stop his heartbeat quite like you can. With that smile, or those eyes, or the simple shit like this. Not even lightning can strike him the same way. 

Despite the consistency Yoongi has with admitting his own shortcomings, and despite the way he keeps reminding himself he doesn’t deserve you…

All he wants to do is see you, too. 

You’ve been more than he ever would’ve imagined—your consideration, your intellect, your mind. And there have been times when you’d look at him as if he was the center of your galaxy. 

After all this time. All these days and nights. 

You still don’t realize that he was destined to orbit you.  

It’s been decided long before his mind was made up—at least, the part of him that doesn’t traverse the dark side. His heart had been tugging him to you ever since that rainy day, no matter where he’s drifted or which direction he’s gone in. All of them lead back into your arms. 

But just like the feeling he gets walking into the recording booth, imposter syndrome eats him alive and doubt scavenges on what’s left. 

He will never be good enough for you. One of these days, you will realize that you don’t have to settle for him. It’s good now, but you’ll only give him so many chances, which he is swiftly running through at breakneck speeds. 

How fucking stupid. Having these thoughts while wanting nothing more than to hear your voice. 

Just like everyone else, you’ll eventually be done passing through. His winter will return after your inevitable departure, all the warmth you give focused on something else that deserves it more. 

Something that isn’t broken. 

Yoongi whips his head up at the sound of buzzing, noticing thin lines of light beneath his phone on the table. 

What. No way. 

From the rapid beats inside his chest, he shoots his hopes right into the dark. 

And they burst into beautiful sparks when he reads his screen. 

Hustler: Incoming Call 

But just like the streaks of color he witnessed with you on that balcony, his brightness is short lived. Because as soon as Yoongi answers, the way your throat constricts scorches his windpipe through.

And the first thing you attempt to get through makes his eyes shut tight. 

“Are we… is this over?” 

Fuck.

“I get it, if we are. If you—if you don’t wanna do this with me anymore.” 

Fuck. Fuck everything this is not happening right now. “Hold up,” Yoongi breathes, body on full alert. “What’s going on?” 

“I thought… When you weren’t picking up, I—”

“Breathe, babe,” Yoongi softens, hating, hating, hating himself all over again. “I passed out before you called. That’s it.” 

“Oh. Shit, I really thought—”

“You would know,” he whooshes, syllables squeezed out by the mountain of regret on his back. After hearing what he put you through? Hearing how you sound now? There’s no way he can do that shit again. No more disappearing from the grid because he can’t fight himself. “You would know if I was done.” 

Your sniffle sinks the ship with his heart inside. 

“Are you? With me?” 

Yoongi folds, fingers digging through his hair and blocking it in hard chunks. The amount of things he wants to say to you could wrap the whole world before repeating. But he settles with a truth he can say out loud, 

“No way in hell, doll.” 

Please. Don’t cry. Because he can only handle feeling his eyes sting so much in one night. There’s only so much he can take before he’s grabbing his keys and speeding over—friends and brothers be damned. 

“Okay… I’m just. It’s been a day.” 

That’s okay. 

Because he’s had a day, too. 

“I don’t wanna bother you with it, though, it’s so late.” 

Please keep going. 

Please don’t leave him alone. 

“Talk to me.” 

Like a gentle stream, your recap—though not ideal—washes away the weariness from Yoongi’s eyes. Lifts the weight he bears on his shoulders, even if just a little bit. 

You’re so good at that. 

“Well. Umm. He saw me coming home this morning. And, umm. It was weird. I don’t know why but I think we have to be really careful. And ugh, it—. It sucks because he’s going on a trip soon and I don’t wanna stress him out even more but I—” 

Shit, you’ve probably been holding all of this in ever since you got up. You don’t know that your brother believes something entirely different. But of course you’d be considerate, even now. That’s just who you are.

“I, umm. I feel so fucking bad about it but I don’t wanna mess him up right now. Or maybe he knows but just won’t say it? Fuck, sorry, I’m trying not—to—”  

The phone goes mute, and Yoongi’s head suddenly weighs ten times heavier. 

“He doesn’t know, babe,” he soothes, hating how he can’t be there to comfort you with more than his word and waves in the sky. 

If he was stronger, things could be different by now. Vastly different. Vastly better. You would cry less, he knows that for damn sure. Weak, weak, weak. That’s all he fucking is. 

The only one he seems to be strong for is you. “He came over earlier.” 

“Fuck, really?” 

“Yeah.” 

You pause, seemingly to roll this information around that beautiful mouth of yours, and Yoongi has the strongest yearning to kiss all your worries right out of it. 

“What did he say?” 

Shit. You’ll just have to forgive him later. Because Yoongi chooses not to tell the whole truth. You don’t need to bear the same worries as him, anyway. They aren’t yours. He will shoulder all of those on his own. Because he’s the reason for them in the first place. “Nothing about us.” 

“Oh, thank fuck.” 

Good. Your relief is all that matters. But Yoongi still feels bad for not being able to pick himself up. You could’ve known that a lot sooner if he was stronger. If he was better. “So don’t worry, doll.” 

“Okay. What about you? Are you okay?” 

Huh? Your questions catch him completely off-guard. It’s almost comical how his first reaction goes straight to a No. But sticking to his earlier stances, he won’t bother you with any of that. There is a truth that he can admit. One that’s always true and will continue to be so. “Just wanna see you.” 

And this is when his eyes slowly shut. Don’t. Don’t cry.

“Me, too, baby.” 

Hearing that? Chipped and broken from your lips? That is another thing Yoongi can’t handle. His heart beats once before it free falls, and he clutches his phone just a little tighter. 

Fuck everything. He’s gonna find a way to do this. All of it.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You will?”

He’ll figure out how to move mountains to make it up to both you and your brother. 

“Just a little longer.”

He has to.

“Okay.”

Neither of you deserve this. And he doesn’t deserve either of you. Truly, the only thing he deserves is to be alone. And judging by the way things are going, it’s only a matter of time before you start resenting this behavior and leave, too. 

“Thank you.”

What? Something in Yoongi flickers, and he lifts his whole head to eye his screen. 

“For putting up with me.”

Oh. Of course you’d assume you’re the issue. Seems like you need the same type of assurance that he does. Both of you the same? Who would’ve thought his bruised soul would sync up with a perfect one like yours. 

At this, he holds his breath before chuckling soft. “This has been the highlight of my day, doll,” he admits, finally breaking into a tiny smile and sitting back.

“Really?”

Wait. There was another good part of his day. But he wants to save that for when he can tell you in person. “One of them. But you’ll hear about the other one later.”

“Boo.”

Cute. Wait, isn’t it absurdly late? You have to be up for work in mere hours. It’s a miracle you reached out when you did. “Don’t you have to be up soon?”

“A ha… Yeah.” 

“What are you still talking to me for?” 

“I miss you.” 

Well. That’s not something that he expected. And your admittance being so immediate actually sends shivers down his arms. 

Yoongi can only laugh to himself. He knew he had it bad, but this feeling is something else. “Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t do what? Miss you? Yeah, right.”  

God. You’re getting too fucking good at this. He’s gotta fight back or else his throne will be taken before he even sees you again. “Just a bad night to say it, doll.” 

“Why?” 

Perfect. “Cus I’m willing to get in the car.” 

“Fuck.” 

Yoongi happily lets his mouth slant when you groan, chuckling into the receiver and getting up to clear the table. When he flicks on the kitchen light, he doubles down, “Wanna try again?” 

He knows you’re gonna say no. Even though your brother doesn’t know, it’s definitely not a proper time to sneak you out—as much as he fucking wants to. Fuck, to be the one sneaking you out of your house… Maybe there’s another version of you both out there that’s done it. A version of him watching a version of you creeping out to his car, face shining in nightfall and etching a permanent smile into his heart.

“I hate you.” 

Yoongi should’ve expected that. The sudden laugh that flings out into his liquor cabinet ricochets off multiple bottles, and he shuts it while sporting a wide grin. “That’s better.” 

“Ha ha.” 

You’re smiling, too. Cute ass. Just the fact that he knows makes him excited for the future, and he’s determined to make it count. Make it worth it. You deserve every goddamn apology he can give. “I miss you, too, babe,” he whispers, grabbing the glasses from the table to wash in his sink. 

“Nu uh! You hate me, too.” 

Wait. Did you…

Did you just pout? 

Hell no, that’s outright cheating. That’s when Yoongi will never be able to win. Putting the phone down, he promptly states his new plan into a basin, “Nah, I’m going to sleep.” 

“Wait, huh? Why!” 

“Nothing.” 

“I swear to god—” 

“Nothing at all,” Yoongi lies, voice straight as he can muster while hot water runs over his hands. It’s a good kind of sting as his chilled skin adjusts, and he cleans one glass before he hears you ask in his ear, 

“Getting ready for bed? Or are you in the kitchen?” 

The smallest smile graces his face. “Guess.” 

“Kitchen.” 

The hell? “How’d you know?” 

“You’re always in there.” 

Can’t deny that. The glasses are both set to dry in the dishwasher as Yoongi’s amusement dies down, and his next comment flows out before he can think much of it, “You like to keep me in here.” 

“It does seem to be where we end up, huh?” 

“It does.” Which is fine by him. He’ll never forget all the times you’ve been in here. Your laughter and your storms, he will remember them all. 

“The world said let them cook.” 

Your giggles will be the fucking end of him one day. Fuck, he can’t wait to see you. He may even find a way to see you before the game. 

But for now, Yoongi will figure out how to talk to you, every day, no matter what. Texts, calls, whatever the fuck. The effort has got to show from now on. No more of this dark headspace shit. He needs to try harder and figure it out faster. For you. 

“Go to sleep, doll,” he huffs with full cheeks. 

After another adorable batch of sounds, you rustle on the line before sighing, 

“You better sleep, too.”

“I will.” 

With a blink, Yoongi notices two things. One, he just cleared his table and cleaned up without even thinking. And two, despite feeling like absolute shit the entire day and dreading the coming of night, falling asleep won’t be an issue. 

Because of you. It’s always you. 

Maybe there’s a way out. Maybe he can finally face it all and come out on the other side. “Talk to you tomorrow, babe.”

“I’d like that. And you’re sure he doesn’t know?”

Just like that, the demons are knocking again. Closing his eyes, Yoongi murmurs into the receiver, “I’m sure.” 

There will come a time when he will tell you. But that will be way in the future, when he is ready. For now, you’ll just have to trust that he’s telling the truth. Not the whole truth, but enough for it to calm your nerves. 

“Okay. Good night, baby.”

One more heartbeat to get him through the night. 

“Night, doll.”

When the phone cuts, Yoongi’s hand falls, his stare shifting straight to the living room. 

Right towards the corner that stares back. 

It’s been five days.

But it feels like you’ve aged twenty-eight years.

Ever since your brother confronted you—after your much needed reunion with his best friend—you’ve been floating through time. Lost. Confused. Wondering why that conversation went the way it did and gnawing at your sanity bit by bit. 

And even though Yoongi explicitly told you he didn’t say anything concerning your relationship, you still haven’t shaken that feeling. No matter where you are, who you’re with, or on a pretty Friday like this one, you feel… Strange. 

When you saw your brother waiting, you for sure thought you were gonna get grilled. It was a given you were gonna break as soon as he started asking deeper and more specific questions. The fallout was gonna happen in your own house right at your door. 

…So what in the fuck was that?

You shift your legs, the chill of the office failing to comfort you in your manufactured, building distress. 

Somehow, that version of the conversation proved much, much worse. Because now you’re spiraling trying to figure out why he just took your lie as the truth. Truthfully, you feel nauseous. And as much as you need to get some semblance of closure, you still feel hesitant. Because if he’s just biding time? He’s not just thinking about what to do with you. 

He’s thinking about what to do with Yoongi, too. 

This is so hard. 

The only thing—the only thing—keeping you grounded. Is Yoongi himself. 

Ever since the call you never thought he’d answer, you’ve been contacted every night. What was once days of radio silence quickly shifted to him reaching out however he could, hours of the day be damned. Just last night, in fact, Yoongi sent you texts at four in the morning, and you beam just thinking about what he said so casually.  

Yoongi [3:57am]: That keyboard I told you about is fucking dope. Just got it today and it won’t let me sleep lmaooo

Yoongi [3:58am]: I was gonna say sorry for texting but fuck it you’re getting all the updates :) 

No matter what it is, be it a text, call, or video chat, Yoongi seems fully committed and in the moment. Present. And it’s been… Really nice. If you didn’t have your brother’s shadow hovering over your brain, life would be practically perfect. 

Forcing yourself to actually work, you manage to get some small things done. Even the meeting you attend goes smoothly and you leave any outside worries on the other side of those glass walls.

So when you get back to your desk, an awaiting paper bag makes you pause. And your whole body prepares to weep.

Only one person has ever sent you food while you’re at work. And staring inside the parcel, you would’ve been able to tell who it was from even if said person had never sent any before.

There’s a small note on top of a to-go container—one that you immediately recognize as that super good restaurant next to Jungkook’s studio. 

What the hell? How did Yoongi know you wanted some this whole week but didn’t wanna risk being so close? With careful fingers, you pluck the tiny paper from the bag, opening it with care before your eyes get so teary eyed you can’t even read.

Tonight.  

This man.

I got the next one.

This wonderful, charming man. 

But you’re getting what I need so here’s the list:

Goddamn it, Min Yoongi. 

Seeing an actual list of food squeezes a laugh through your throat in a squeak, tears rushing out of your ducts before they’re hastily swiped. 

After five days. Yoongi really just sent you on a grocery run to surprise you with another meetup.

The gesture is so him that you cannot help but shake your head, ruefully huffing to no one and pocketing the note in your bag. And all your worries scatter even further. 

A dinner before the big game is risky, for sure, but at this point you couldn’t care less. Your brother has his own work outing tonight, anyway, and you are dead set on breaking all of this to him soon.

Even though you are very much unprepared. And he is going to lose his fucking mind if he doesn’t know already. Fuck.

You’ve had all five days to think it over. All the possible combinations and possibilities and outcomes. Some of them are extreme, some of them are hopeful. But for a majority of these projections, you have a feeling that none of you are gonna leave it without wounds. 

And you don’t know how you’re gonna save both of them if theirs are cut too deep. 

Regardless, that’s in the future. Not now. Right now, you are staying in the present and working like molasses until you can jet out the door, nary a care nor concern weighing on your heels.

Tonight. He’s gonna cook for you?

You’ll have the first substantial meal you’ve had in months.

Even though you want nothing more than to see Yoongi, your nerves are still buzzing and bumping into each other nonstop. There’s a lot you still need to know. Like why he was radio silent for months, and why your brother has been a little weird this whole week. 

Save it for later. Hopefully Yoongi will tell you why eventually. Or that gap will stay elusive to your brain forever.

Sliding into your car, you dump your bag in the passenger seat before pulling out the list, clutching it close and taking a leap that could either calm your nerves or spike them. 

Yoongi: Outgoing Call 

When he picks up, you legitimately don’t answer. Because even after all this time, you still can’t quite function when you hear that deep voice addressing you directly. 

“Hey.” 

All you have to do is say something. Anything. You could rattle off the damn list, stumbling over all the syllables just like they’re currently smushed together in your fingers. 

But you don’t snap out of this trance until he speaks again. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi,” you squeak out, clearing your throat while watching other people walk to their cars. “Hi, sorry. I just umm.” 

You just what? Somehow lost all sense of language just from him saying hi? Get it together. Stop that racket in your stomach and say what you were gonna say. “Thank you for the food. I’m off work now so I’m heading to the store.” 

He simply huffs a quiet laugh.

“Get whatever you want, too. Just let me know how much it is.” 

Huh. Did Yoongi just say all those words in that order? If you heard him right, forget the damn food. You’re close to speeding directly to his place and breaking down the motherfucking door. “Oh, I definitely will,” you respond with instead of hauling ass, the words pushing through your lingering smile. “And don’t worry about that, I got it.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah! I got big girl money now.” 

Yoongi laughs again on the line, fuller and closer this time. Are you on speaker? 

“It’s like that? Maybe I should work there, too.” 

“Oh, you’d hate it,” you giggle, scheming hard in your head for tonight already. Pretty bubbles in your ribs lift all your spirits. “I’m actually pretty bossy here.”

The groan that seeps through your car should be illegal. 

“That is literally what I’ve been wanting to see.” 

It’s your turn to chuckle as you finally make your way out of the parking lot, heading right to the market that you know for a fact has all of what he’s asking for. “I’m only that way at work, though.” 

“Do better.” 

Your immediate response makes his laugh crunchy in the speakers, and you go along with him because life is good. Life is fucking great right now. “Never mind, you’re paying. And I’m getting stuff for dessert now, too.” 

“What? Who said anything about dessert?” 

“Me,” you huff out in pride. Since he wants to see that demanding side come out so bad. With a fleeting thought, you think about what it could be like if you end up confident enough to— 

“I’m starting to regret this.”

“Regret what?”

“Everything.”

Liar! Your cheeks hurt as you look both ways before making a turn. “Can’t fool me. You’re excited.”

“I am.”

The way there was no hesitation sends shivers up your spine. But it’s partly because you thought you’d be faced with another joke or dig. Not a sudden one-eighty. Stopping at a light, you clear your throat before shyness puffs right out of it. “Well, good,” you state while checking your mirrors. “Cus I am, too.” 

“That’s a given, though.”

“Excuse you.”

Yoongi laughs before you hear the sound of cabinets, and you wonder which ones he could be touching. 

“Mm, babe. One more thing.” 

Can he stop making your heart beat two times at once? “Hmm?”

There’s a little bit of pause, followed by the clank of a pan on metal. When you hear another hum, you wonder what he could possibly—

“I think we’re out of condoms.” 

Who is out of what. If you weren’t still at a red, your foot would’ve slammed on the gas because what the fuck! All you can manage out are sounds without substance, random syllables, gibberish. Nothing is computing in your head. 

“Wait. Or are we?”

Okay, Yoongi needs to stop with that two-letter word before your behavior turns downright criminal. With as much seriousness as you can manage, you accuse, “Are you just fucking with me?”

And his response launches you forward just as the light turns green, 

“Yeah. That’s why we’re out of—”

“Alright!” you cut in, stopping stopping stopping him because for whatever reason, this conversation is too much. Despite seeing this very man naked in many, many ways, just having this talk with him is making you shier than ever before. “Guess I’ll, umm. Get those, too.”

“Nah, you don’t have to.”

“Oh. Found some?”

“No.”

Wait. If he didn’t find some why is he telling you that you don’t have to— “Oh,” you peep in realization. A very sudden, jaw dropping realization. “Goddamn it, you’re too distracting now, bye.”

And he finally breaks with laughter that’s contagious as hell. Which isn’t fair when you’re pretending to be upset with him. Even when you can’t see Yoongi, you can imagine the way his cheeks rise and his eyes crease. The way the whole room illuminates when he’s packed with happiness. 

And you want that to be the case forever. 

“You’re just lucky I’m not there with you.” 

“Yeah, you’d be annoying as hell.” 

“Damn!” 

As the market comes into view, your teeth shine as you grin, roasting this man quickly becoming one of your favorite pastimes. 

“To be fair,” you start to amend, fingers drumming on the wheel as you decide whether or not to say what you want. After deciding that there’s no wrong answer here, you softly admit, “I really do wanna get groceries with you.” 

There’s no words that come out in response. Only the slight movements of shuffling and water running and what could be more cabinets closing. But you don’t really know for sure—

“It’s gonna happen, doll.” 

You clutch the wheel.

“Cus I want that, too.”

One of these days you’re gonna see this damn cat again. 

Foot connecting with Yoongi’s door, you grunt as multiple bags burden your limbs, pride digging divots along your arms—second trips be damned. 

It doesn’t take long for him to let you in anyway, and you swoon at the way he doesn’t even ask while taking some of your baggage. But the kiss on your cheek makes your heart bang into everything between the front door and the kitchen. It’s so distracting that you barely smell the spices greeting you, too. 

“Thanks for getting all this,” Yoongi says as you both cross onto tile.  

“Of course.” Lifting the much lighter load that you have, you revel in the small thumps and thuds on his counter. Not really knowing why. “Let’s put this up before I yell at you.”

His laugh comes out in hisses while you both start reaching into bags. “For what!” 

“Sent me everywhere to find some of this shit.” 

“You could’ve asked somebody.” 

Feeling a bit silly and high off his presence already, you repeat his words in a goofy mocking tone, and the way he blows out air sends your belly fluttering. 

And just like that, things are back to normal again. No worries about your sibling, or work, or anything else looming by the door. Inside is what matters, and the whole apartment fills with jabs and jokes as groceries find their homes.

But Yoongi finds a bag you had separated from the rest, and you snap your mouth shut when he looks inside, something rising in your core when he turns to you with an eyebrow raised. And a smirk so salacious it makes you quiver. 

“What about it,” you squeak out, crumbling when he simply takes the bag and flings it through his bedroom door. “You said you—we were out, so…” 

“That’s a big box, doll,” he points out on his way to your tightly bitten lip. Mouth slicing through your sanity, he approaches you with a glint in his eyes. “Got something you wanna say?” 

“Nope,” you whoosh out oh god he looks way too hot in those sweats wait is that a growing bulge? “Although I will say it took me forever to pick out what—”

Sparks ignite your hands when your lips are claimed, launching them into his shirt and tugging him backward because you’ve been waiting way too long to kiss the shit out of him. 

And Yoongi responds in kind, pinning you to his fridge and so, very obvious that he’s been waiting for this, too. 

Heaven probably wonders how to replicate this feeling. How to imitate this treasured yearning that only he can pull from the depths of your ocean. Deep, deeper, deepest. All these kisses. Your ascending affection. 

“As much as I wanna throw you on my bed,” Yoongi jokes, pulling away and giving your cheek a light tap. “I’m taking you somewhere.” 

And you’re so thrown from the impact that your brain mini-resets. “Huh? We’re leaving?”

“Uh huh.”

Hold on. Wait. Is this what he meant when he said he’s getting the next one? You’re going out to eat? Together? No. No, there’s no way. Yoongi knows that’s the worst possible thing to do right now, as much as the idea is sending your belly in a frenzy. “Are you sure? What about dinner? Won’t people… You know.”

“It’s ready already,” he reveals. “By the door.” 

Your head snaps to where he points out, even though you can’t see through the bar. “Really?” No wonder it smells like a cooking aftermath. All those smells twirling around your head. How did you not even catch the dishes in the sink? 

But hold up, you just bought a shit ton of food! “Then what the hell was the run for?”

Yoongi blinks. Then he does it again. Expression stone still, he responds as if you were privy to his plans this entire time, “I told you to get what I needed.” 

Your turn to blink.

“And I needed food.”

This man is going to be the death of you. Affronted, your jaw hangs before you grit through a smile that betrays you, “Oh, you—” 

“So thanks,” he quips through another tilt of his lips. “Let’s go, doll.” 

The begrudged sound that leaves you makes him kick his head back on the way out the kitchen. 

“Eat.”

The container on your thighs warms you through. “Now?”

“Mm.”

“I can wait,” you assure, watching as night paints the surrounding scenery in navy and black. “We can eat together.” 

“Just a bite then.” 

Turning to Yoongi, you don’t see a change in his face as he eyes the road. The veins in his arm catch all the streetlight, and you gulp before your gaze falls to what he made. Music fills the car, and you decide that maybe you do feel a little hungry. So you listen to instruction, popping it open and being careful as you pluck a piece to try. 

There’s no denying it. This motherfucker is a chef. “Fuck, this is good.” 

Your borderline moan sends Yoongi’s shoulders bobbing, and you will never get over those low, gravelly laughs. “Sorry.” Your hand hovers over your mouth in embarrassment. “I don’t react like that unless I’m alone.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, well,” you swallow. “Course you don’t.”

A tiny peek of teeth show as Yoongi smiles, and you don’t expect what he offers next, “Just be you, doll. It’s just me.”

The next bite of food pauses on the way to your mouth. “Oh,” you murmur. “Same for you then.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Cus we wouldn’t make it to where we’re going.”

That was legitimately the worst time to put food in your mouth. Sputtering, your words come out low and chortled, “You fucker.”

His hisses are brief before he dips into silence again. As he slowly turns the wheel, you can see a glimpse of something deep in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he suddenly apologizes, swallowing as you keep your gaze. 

What is that look? Weren’t you both just having a good time? “For what, baby?” 

“Everything.” 

Your lungs flinch. This is definitely not what you expected to hear on the way to wherever the hell you’re going. “Oh.” 

Yoongi still doesn’t look your way, and with each pass of a light over his face, you catch quick snapshots of those eyes you’re still so shy of. “I, umm. I didn’t expect shit to pan out this way.” 

“It’s okay,” you whisper. 

After a slow motion of disagreement, his head falls forward just a bit. And your eyes find his hand clutching the gear shift in what you sadly think is frustration. “I’ve just thought about some things,” he starts, another song playing. “How worried you must’ve been.” 

You look forward. Because this is the part where you can’t face him. “I was. But not for the same reason as last time.” Without a hesitation of your own, your palm reaches between your seats. And you can tell Yoongi watches as you take his hand to hold. 

“I was worried about you,” you correct with softness. “It was hard because I didn’t know what to do.” Don’t fucking cry. You filled quite a few buckets already. “When you started not really saying much, I just… Hoped it was for a good reason, so. Yeah.” 

You feel your hand gently pulled, which is already enough to make you melt. But when it’s kissed, you don’t know what the hell to fucking do. 

“I’m sorry, doll,” Yoongi whispers into your skin, lips brushing with every syllable and painting a canvas of his reconcile. “I won’t leave you hanging like that again.” 

There’s a tiny fire in the back of your throat, the embers reaching your eyes just a little too aggressively. You attempt to squash the growing flames before they flare. “Oh. Umm. Thank you.” What else do you say? Yoongi’s being wonderful, but why do you feel… sad? Why is there lingering snow on your windowsill? “Were you worried?” 

“Me? Umm.” He stops at a light that he clearly didn’t want to stop at. Resting your conjoined hands on his pliant thigh, his jaw works as he observes them.

And you wonder if he thinks they slot together perfectly, too. 

“…Yeah.” 

Fuck. “About what?” 

“That you’d hate me.” 

Your heart meshes his fingers with yours. “Yoongi.” 

“Or that you shouldn’t be with someone that’s gone this much.” 

Fuck, he’s doing it again. Regressing. You’ve seen it happen in his kitchen and you’ll be damned if all that work, all that peeling, all that resolution amounted to nothing wait, wait, stop. This isn’t gonna be an overnight fix. And you have no clue what’s been happening, so just keep trying, trying, trying. 

“I’m used to people leaving,” you joke, but not really. “Like seasons.” 

He whips his head to you, and you backpedal because that probably sounded so random. You’ve got to think about filtering your thoughts a little more now that you’re getting comfortable. Yoongi says you can be yourself, sure, but you have to admit your quirks are a little out there. “I know it’s weird, but..” 

He’s quiet as the light turns green. And when you don’t finish, he admits, “I think the same.” 

“You do?” 

Your hand is brushed as a hum peppers it from above. “Mmhmm.” 

“Well.” That’s interesting. You didn’t know anyone thought about that stuff like you did. Now you wonder if there’s anywhere else your wavelengths sync, and if they’ve been syncing up all this time. “At least you come back.” 

Yoongi squeezes your hand tight before he holds it against his lips. Again. Fuck, this is a lot. You’re so wrapped up in his gesture that you don’t catch what he whispers. 

“Hmm?” 

He glances at the center console before putting your hand back on his thigh. 

“Always, doll.” 

And the fire you stepped on rages back with a vengeance. Heat and sting surrounds your eyes, and you don’t hide how you press your feelings into his skin. “Me, too.” 

If you weren’t lost in the surrounding scenery outside, you would have caught Yoongi’s look. But all you feel is his hand clutching you tight, and it breaks you down all the same. 

The rest of the drive is spent with him telling you to eat more, and a bunch of your sing-alongs to almost every song that comes on. It seems like the tiny bit of closure opened you both up, and you don’t even realize that you’ve been on the road for a really long time. 

But finally, Yoongi pulls up to a building, and you’re haphazardly rapping along to a song before you notice. Wait. What? He drove you to a rec center? 

Your fingers curl around his forearm before you even notice. “What’s this?” 

“Where we’re going.”

Hold on, you’re going inside? “Are we even allowed to be here?”

When Yoongi responds, his teeth make you shiver as he smirks. “Can’t say for sure, no.”

“Then why—”

He unlocks before you can finish, and you’re left in an empty car until he rounds the hood, coming over to your side and opening the door. You almost don’t hear what he says next, too focused on the jewelry swinging from his neck as he bends forward. 

But you catch it, and glance once more at the sight in front of you before biting your lip—in nervousness or excitement, you can’t decide.

“You comin’?”

Damn. Obviously, you want nothing more than to see him here. And it’s much too late for anyone to be around. But if something happens… Whatever. 

Your mouth finally unsticks. “If we get caught, you’re gonna pay for this.”

And you can’t resist his stupid grin. “Now get your pretty ass out before I put you in the back.” 

“Yoongi!”

Grinning, he leads you out, and you follow him to the trunk. After bouncing his stowed ball a couple times, he decides to lean in and reach for something else. 

Wait. Is that what you think it is? “Did you always have that in there?” you ask, pointing to the contraption that Yoongi’s using to air up his basketball.

And he does a horrible job at suppressing a smile. Which makes you burst into flutters and beats beats beats. “You liar!” Oh, you are gonna wipe those laughs from his throat. “I had to change up my plans because of you!”

Palming the ball, Yoongi tilts his head dangerously to one side. “And I got to see you,” he proudly claims. “So I’ll take it.”

You hate how the memories come packaged with what’s haunted you. What else happened during that time, and what happened after you left. But there’s no way you’re gonna bring that up. Not when the night has transformed into something so magical. 

So you just clutch your food and lean on his car, opting to compliment him to wipe the murk away. “Got to see you, too,” you puff into the brisk night. Because you harbor a bit of nostalgia in your bones. And because he still makes you shy. “You and your stupid hair.”

Another bout of hisses wisp into your side. As you turn to regard Yoongi again, he slips his chains into his hoodie before continuing, and you swoon at the veins popping out of his skin with each pump. 

How can he look so perfect doing the simplest things? So unfair. 

After seconds that feel like an hour, Yoongi’s done. And he scans the parking lot before telling you to follow him. 

What you expect is some outdoor courts. Maybe getting past a gate or two. So when you approach a back door lit by the shine of a single light, you freeze. “Are we really going in?”

Fishing something out of his pocket, Yoongi simply turns over his shoulder. “Yeah. Why not?”

“Oh.” You didn’t think you’d actually get inside the building. If there was an outside court just as accessible it would’ve made sense. Can you even bring food in here? Is that question even relevant? “No reason.”

“So I shouldn’t bust in?”

Huh. “What?”

“I’ve already done it a few times, so.”

“Wait!” Nerves throw your hand on his bicep before you can stop. “What if someone sees us?”

He’s so warm. And so toned. And if he plans on taking his hoodie off? You’re not prepared for whatever the hell he has underneath. 

Voice softened, Yoongi tries to placate your paranoia, “They won’t, doll.”

“Are you sure? If we get caught here they’re gonna call the police and I am definitely not… Gonna…”

The object in his hand jangles, and you clearly see he was just joking the whole time because keys—keys—stare you in the face. 

What is it with him and keys? 

When Yoongi speaks, you feel like you’ve never done anything bad in your life, and suddenly the thought of trespassing with an official way in is so scandalous, 

“You picked the wrong night to be a good girl.”

You have to admit. Seeing him so mischievous and dashing makes you wanna follow him wherever the hell he goes. Even if it gets you in trouble. Even if you were breaking in tonight, you would be all in. And that thought should frighten you, but it only does because of the wings tickling your rib cage. 

How can he make you feel rebellious and yet still so shy? The power of Min Yoongi. He’s way too good at destroying you.

When you glare, the man only grins, hisses of laughter leaving him way too happily before he unlocks the door to no alarms or sirens. He doesn’t need to throw a wink your way, too, but of course he does as he lets you in. Which causes you to float through the dark entryway instead of walk oh he did not just slap your ass!

A jolt in your cunt causes you to regard him in shock. To which he hums in a feigned question. “Hmm?”

With nothing but darkness and his cologne surrounding you, it’s only natural that giddiness takes hold. Truthfully, you’re packed with so much adrenaline that you feel a little wild yourself. “You’ve been waiting to do that, huh.” 

“So fucking long.”

You are not surviving the night. And you don’t give a single shit.

But as shy and out of control as you feel around this man, you also feel safe—even in a faraway, dark building that you’ve never been in before. That’s gotta say something about him, right? 

Yoongi feels along the wall beside you for lights, purposefully bumping your chest with his front even though he’s securing a ball with an arm. When you question his joking decision with noises, a chaste kiss on your lips shuts you right up.

“You’re in the way,” he jokes through what you think is a smile, and you’re about to move when he flicks on a switch very far away from your shoulder.

Liar! Your jaw drop must be comical because Yoongi’s grin stretches astronomically wide. But you cannot find a retort because seeing him so chill while you’re stiff from paranoia has you at a loss.

Is this how he used to be all the time? This carefree, all caution to the wind? He’s so fucking handsome like this. No wonder he’s pulled so many hearts just like yours. 

When you still don’t find any words to say, Yoongi makes it harder, stepping so close that you have to swing the plastic container away. Taking one of your hands in his free one, he gives it a warm squeeze while murmuring,

“You’re so cute.”

“How,” you ask just as softly.

And Yoongi responds with lights in his eyes. “Just are.”

Your lips mesh with his as he keeps your fingers secured, and suddenly every cautious thing in your body gets launched into the skies, too.

But it ends as soon as it begins. And Yoongi backs away from you with a smile, 

“Eat.”

“Huh?”

“Eat, doll,” he orders before turning and dribbling onto the court.

When you call out that he hasn’t eaten yet, Yoongi tells you that he already did. When you look around to figure out where to even sit, you decide on the closest set of bleachers and make yourself as comfortable as you can.

Which is impossible. Because they’re bleachers. Which is now triple impossible. Because Yoongi just shucked off his hoodie and the only thing he had under it was his chains goddamn it.

If you weren’t already sitting down you would’ve fallen right into the next dimension. How the fuck are you supposed to eat in these conditions shit he’s walking over! 

Your throat seizes as Yoongi approaches, face trained as if he isn’t aware of his overwhelming presence. All he does is bend to place his sweater next to your legs. But the quick smooch on your lips makes you swoon harder than you ever have.

And the way his silver taps your chest makes you mentally hold on for dear life. Wait. What the fuck, Yoongi’s taking them off right now? Right in front of you? Just as you're supposed to eat oh okay he’s handing them to you great wonderful fantastic.

The metal links feel so warm yet slightly cold to the touch. Weighty, yet light. But you clutch them in your hand as you connect a gaze to his.

“Relax,” he orders, lightly slapping the side of your thigh. “No need to worry.” 

And with bangs swishing, he goes right back to the ball waiting for him. Leaving you starry-eyed to hell with silver in your palm.

…Did all of that just happen? Is any of this even real? Quite frankly, you fucking forgot what you were even worried about. 

No matter what he does—simple lay-ups standing in place, dribbling to different spots to shoot, or even lazily jogging after the ball—you’re so enthralled with his actions that you forget that you’re not supposed to be here. 

And it takes your last bite of food for something to finally hit you. How does Yoongi have keys to this place? Where the hell did he score those because you don’t think he ever mentioned anything about working here. Or anywhere else other than the studio. 

Yet another mystery to add to this walking, bare-chested enigma. 

But there’s another question forming behind your eyes the longer you watch him practice, the more you notice how he’s actually going hard. Yoongi’s really good right now. A lot better than what you’ve seen of him before. 

Has he been coming here more often than he’s let on? And why does he look so… serious? You’d be surprised if he even remembered you’re here. 

Setting your empty container down, you gather the chains in your hands again, deciding to slip them over your head for safer keeping. After, you grab a water before stepping down the bleachers, hanging a little ways away until Yoongi notices you’re courtside.

And when he sees you, he stops practicing immediately, jogging to you so sweaty and shining and gross and handsome and— “Wait, you’re all swea—”

You’re pulled into a kiss the same time you hear a basketball drop, salt on your tongue and damp palms on your cheeks. And you melt right into the shiny wood floor, drifting, drifting, sailing into dreamland even though you’re technically already there. 

“Sweaty,” you whisper into his hot breaths of exertion, a twinge between your legs when he kisses you even deeper—breathing, inhaling, taking you in. “Gross.”

“Thanks.” 

You flash a smile against Yoongi’s lips, giggling because this is all better than anything your brain could’ve conjured on its own. When you ask why he’s going so hard, all you get is a question in return,

“You’re perfect, you know that?” 

Huh? Blinking, you suddenly don’t remember your own train of thought. “What did I do?” 

“Nothing.” He presses a wet mouth to your nose. “Did you eat?”

Laughing, you reassure him, “I did, I did.” 

“Good. You bored?”  

“Huh?”

Yoongi leans to softly take your lips this time, and you want to say he’s approaching the legal limit for kisses tonight. “Thought you came over cus you wanna leave.”

“And stop seeing you play? I could watch this forever.” You squeeze the water bottle a little tighter. “Just checking on you.” Another strike hits between your legs when Yoongi takes another, lazier glide over your mouth, and you sigh when he tugs you forward by your bottoms, fingers slick from use. 

You could do this for eternity, too.

“Well I got about five more minutes in me, so..”

This man. 

“Forever might be a stretch.” 

“Ah, shut up. Here,” you offer through a giggle, holding the water out for him to take. 

“Thanks.” When he does, he tilts his head at just the right angle to cut you through, gulping down liquid and making you do the same to your nothingness. 

So unfair. “You looked like you were going pretty hard.” 

Lowering the bottle, Yoongi shifts his jaw before taunting something a ways off. “I kinda was.” 

“It was kinda hot.” 

His laugh makes you smile, and his next swig makes you weep. “Nah, but. This is our practice gym. I can just zone out here, so. It’s been one of those things.” 

Ah. Was this one of the places Yoongi ended up during those months apart? You wish he could’ve brought you along sometimes. Or at least thought about asking. It’s nice just to be around him while he does something he likes. Gaining courage, you say exactly what’s on your mind, “You can always bring me, too. If you want.” 

And it’s true. You don’t really have to do much when you’re with him, because just being around him is what brightens your day. Lifts your mood. 

But you have to admit that watching him play basketball while shirtless is the biggest fucking win in history. 

When did Yoongi get so close? When did his eyes retreat so far away? “I didn’t wanna bother you with this,” he admits, a drop of sweat clinging onto his chin. “I don’t even put music on.” 

“You never bother me,” you whisper back. Hoping that he believes you and that he will start to accept that as fact. Because it is. “Even if you’re being annoying.” 

The bottle crinkles as he smiles, and there’s a soft kiss to your lips that has no real desire behind it. Just a nice peck that sends you careening down a hill of flowers. “You won’t be feeling that way tomorrow, babe.” 

“And why is that?”

“Cus of what I’m wearing.” 

And he says that while half-naked? Like any look on him could get any worse. “Oh,” you scoff out, fully calling his bluff. “As if.”

Well, fuck. You don’t enjoy the smirk plastered on his face. It has you both dreading and excited for whatever demon you’re gonna run into tomorrow. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shrugs as he starts to hand the water back. “We can go soon, by the way.”

“Okay.”

But before you can grab it, Yoongi pulls the bottle from reach. “Unless,” he teases. “You wanna play me.”

“What.”

His grin shines, face glistening and turning your insides to jelly. “You told me you’d win, so. Let’s see it.”

You said that? While sober? How does he remember something like that when you can’t even recall a time or place you’d tell him something so bold. “When!”

“Right after you woke up once. Said you’re a master?”

Oh. That was ages ago. Fuck, you already forgot how did Yoongi remember? 

“Oh. Well.” Your nose turns up in feigned haughtiness. “Wouldn’t wanna throw you off your game before a championship.” 

“Uh huh.”

“I’d make you cry what the fuck!” 

Water spills down your head in rivulets as you freeze, stunned and watching Yoongi jogging his laughs back to the bleachers like a punk. “Think you got something on your face, doll.”

“Yoongi!” What the hell possessed him to do that to you here? Racing after him with purpose, you slam into him just as he reaches for another bottle, shoving a laugh out of his throat and making him catch himself on hardwood. “Nu uh, gimme that!”

“It’s mine, I just ran out—”

“Bitch!” You lunge for another bottle lying further away, distancing yourself to quickly rip the cap off and to avoid feeling his slick back on your hands. 

And it’s a lawless gym as both of you start spraying water, arcs and splashes of bottled liquid spewing over the court and soaking into your clothes and his bare skin. Which proves to get worse and worse for your wellbeing the more he gets soaked in your attacks. 

Running ends up being the only option to avoid getting completely drenched, and you hightail it behind bleachers before your waist is grabbed. “Fuck!” 

“Uh huh.” 

You try to wrestle out of his hold, his wet forearm digging lovely into your stomach, and you’re temporarily let go just so Yoongi can spin you around. 

Your back connects with solid wall, the impact shooting a grunt out of your throat before you laugh out of pure disbelief. “I can’t believe, you got me to do that,” you rush out, sentence punctuated by your breaths more than anything else. 

Here you are. Under bleachers. With Yoongi’s skin caging you with radiating heat.  

You can only stare as he drinks you in, no doubt looking at his silver around your neck and your chest heaving from exertion. Butterflies float across your stomach when his smile drips, and you fold as soon as he swoops in. 

Everything in your being pulses hard. It’s so visceral that you teeter on the edge of sanity and logic, and the thoughts slipping through your mind are just as wild as you feel. Before you’re even aware of it, a mischievous finger slides along the hem of his shorts, and you jump at the downright boulders rolling down your front, 

“Careful, doll.”

“Hmm?” You feel bad. And it feels fantastic. “What was that?” 

More gravel slides down his tongue, and you shake at his attractive as fuck threat, “Fuck around and find out then.” 

Your giggles add feather lightness into his murky laughs, but you’re so preoccupied that you don’t notice his hand between your legs until he slaps the inside of your thigh. “Yoo—!”

“Unless.” He leans forward. “My baby’s too scared.” 

Holy fuck, you might be. Is he really willing to do something with you? In a public place very similar to where you’re gonna watch him play tomorrow? You don’t know why the fuck that’s attractive as hell, but it is. 

Yoongi grips your chin, eyes falling to your lips and brows knitted before claiming your lips even harder. And despite your bones vibrating to hell, you put your all into the kiss, relishing in the growing hardness you feel against your front. An animal starts to wake inside your core, and you almost feel like stroking it. Feeding it. Raising it only for it to consume you in return. 

“Fuck it, we’re leaving.” 

“Huh?” Dazed, you let your vision refocus as Yoongi chuckles at your hazy state. 

“Fuck this. I’m taking you home.” 

For some reason, the game makes you nervous today. Even while Taehyung strides into the gymnasium with you, there’s a lingering feeling swelling in your stomach, and you don’t have any reason for it yet. 

At least this is another rec center entirely. Because there’s no way you would’ve sat still knowing you had a clandestine meeting in the same place not even twenty-four hours before. 

But the activity already bustling around hardwood catches your attention. Not on both sides, since only one team is here, but they are active on the other end doing drills. 

Wow. They look really intimidating, matching jerseys that were clearly done professionally and warm-ups having a set routine. You wonder if this is gonna be a tough game for… Wait. That’s your brother under the basket. That’s them? 

Fucking hell, Yoongi was right.

Because you’ll already never get over how attractive he looks in athletic clothes.

But team jerseys? 

Seeing this man rock a basketball uniform with his toned arms and legs so visible makes you want to claw your way out of your invisible cage. 

When the hell did they even get those? And why is he already slightly drenched during the warm-up alone? 

As soon as you see him make a lay-up, you know for a fact that you shouldn’t be here. 

Yes, you’re gonna stay and yes, you’re gonna cheer for them all game. But you are absolutely gonna feel like jumping him, which will in turn make you wanna bolt and run all the way out of town every agonizing second. 

Shit, shit, shit. You’re gonna have to try your damned hardest to unstick your eyes from that man the whole time. Already, you can hear Taehyung’s teasing, and your groan is to lament your future state.

Your name suddenly rings across the gym, and four feet pause in your ascent up the bleachers. When you catch both him and Jimin waving you down from their courtside chairs, you tilt your head in intrigue. 

They want you to come over there? What the hell is this about? 

Sighing, you turn. “Guess I’ll go see what they want.” 

“Here,” Tae offers his hand. “I’ll save you a seat.” 

Your bag is transferred to his grip while you nod, and you step down onto the court, wondering if you’re even allowed to walk onto it to see them. And Jimin’s grin can be seen from miles away. “Come here!” 

You gingerly step onto shiny wooden floors, making your way over and becoming hyper aware that someone else notices your presence. But you’re so puzzled as to why there’s no one on the other side of the court yet because isn’t the game about to start? 

Where’s the other team? As you approach their row of chairs, your hands immediately find your hips. “What’s up?” 

Jimin’s eyes stay creased as your brother explains the reason he waved you down. A very stupid, very innocuous reason. “Can you keep score?” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why me?” 

Your brother uses his jersey to wipe sweat from his brow, and you wince at the brand new material getting gross already. “The girl that usually does it for us is sick.” 

“And you know the game,” Jimin quickly tacks on, rubbing at some tattoos on full display. Wait, are there more than you remember? When did he get more ink?

Your sibling asks another question you had in mind, “You aren’t gonna cover those?”

“Nah. Not today,” the man elongates in a stretch. “Just got another one. This one!” 

Ah, you were right. “I like it.” 

Jimin couldn’t look more proud. But enough of that because you really just wanna go back and observe the game from another place entirely. “Can’t y’all find someone else to keep score?” 

“We don’t think anyone else can,” your brother explains, looking over your shoulder. “At least, not the people coming to watch us.” 

Cool. You get to be met with heat and sweat from all these guys without compensation. How is this something you would say yes to? “Well. I don’t really feel like being a scorekeeper for free.” 

When your sibling laughs with Jimin, they share a look before he says so matter-of-factly, “Told you.” 

You’re sticking with that. If you’re gonna sit next to a bunch of smelly people, they’re gonna pay… you… somehow.

A ways down the row, you catch Yoongi dumping himself onto a random chair, head tilted back before he hangs it forward to wipe sweat from his forehead. 

And suddenly this temporary gig doesn’t seem terrible in the slightest. 

Because one, you can sit on a team bench that will have his fine ass right there. And two, this will give you a way to objectively focus on the game. You won’t have time to be distracted by a demon and his hair that’s gotten criminally long. 

“I’ll get us all dinner,” your sibling slices through your thoughts. “After we win.”  

“Fine,” you sigh, taking the end seat and shooting one more glance to the other side of the court. “Then I get to p—”

The air around you squeezes inward. And all sounds plunge underwater. 

Because you recognize someone you knew from a dark club walking onto the court, his team looking just as sharp and cocky as his eyes. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

You don’t notice the way Jimin’s hands flex, nor the way a familiar presence walks up to join your brother. 

All you can do is stare back. 

And without even realizing. 

You’re already rubbing your arm.

-

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tbc. :((

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a ha ha... so how do we feel? | taglist | discord!

a/n: okay, hello, loves. apologies this part took so damn long to post! can you imagine if i tried to post everything at once LMAOO yikes talk about too much at once. but i hope this part was enough to still be good on its own, and broken, pt. 2 will be... well. you can probably guess that's where a majority of my brainpower is going to go. a/n 2: thank you all for being here! it's been an amazing two years working on this series and i cannot tell you how grateful and appreciative i am to have such wonderful people alongside me. i hope this series continues to be there for you when you need it, bc it has become that for me, too. ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

[teaboot]

on a scale or 1-10, how would you rate bananas? I'd give them like an 8/10. (I'm eating a banana that's why I'm asking this (also because yellow))

10/10, personally.

Now hold up- do I like bananas that much? Enough for a 10/10 rating? No. But as no man is an island, no banana exists in a vacuum. A banana exists in the context of a world where a banana is needed.

Banana on it's own? Probably a solid 7/10. Easier to peel than a tangerine, though (personally) less tasty, with uninspiring texture. Taste and smell is cloying and infectious. Better than most but not perfect.

It's individual properties, though?

Soft, chewable, safe for babies and old people and folks without teeth. A good thickener for smoothies. Easy to cut and slice. An aesthetic addition to a sundae. Looks kinda like a dick, for easy comedy. The peel itself? A slapstick classic. The crown jewel of every cartoon depiction of garbage. Pre-packaged for transport and hygeine. An easy and convenient snack. Frozen, dipped in chocolate? Banana Popsicles. Sliced and dried? Banana chips.

Hell, even when it gets gross it's banana bread, or banana muffins. Banana pancakes. Banana-peanut butter sandwiches.

Name another fruit that does it better. Name another fruit that is so versatile, so low-maintenance, so iconic both in the home and on the stage. A more approachable fruit. A more classic fruit. Apple? Pomelo? Fucking Grapefruit? Get out of my fucking office

[etherealily]

ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

(I promise I will fix the images I made them at 3 am 😭)

For @g0lden-sky. I love you, and I hope this is what you meant in this ask <3. If it sucks, tell me.

Desc. : You really can't just stop knowing someone.

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"Well, fuck."

He's a strong man, yes, but it's been years.

He's a strong man, yes, but every fibre of his being was angling for a glimpse at you, just one.

Lemon nudged his elbow as if he didn't have fucking eyes. "Wonder what she goes by, now."

"Probably not Lemon.", he scoffed back. "She's probably out of the fucking business, mate, alright? We'll just slip past."

Were you summat boring, a desk job? Or were you a wife? Oh, god, what if he looked down, past the legs of passers-by and there was a ring on your finger, or a child clinging to you?

And so, he looked. He allowed himself a moment, and he scanned you. No child, no ring, no carpal tunnel. You were most likely still in the business. Alright, that's good, because that meant you were a rival, and resentment was an emotion he could work with.

Hate, he could work with. Disdain? Please. Cake-walk.

But whatever this was? The yearn for lost time? He struggled a bit. Wasn't in his training, was it? Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by your presence, one that's usually daggering to him.

Fucking phew. Great. Who cares? He could move on, finish the fucking job and then— "Oi!" Fuck, Lemon.

Weeding through the crowd, practically running, you slipped away from him once more, and he shared a look with his brother.

Tangerine's fists clenched and relaxed. He counted down from ten. He took deep breaths. He licked his lips. He tried not to have a fucking aneurysm.

"What're the chances I've become really fucking handsome now, and she was turned on to the point of fleeing?", asked Lemon, nudging him once again before they followed after you.

When they finally got to you — you did not make it easy — they found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun each, trapped against an abandoned freight elevator. Their hands shot up in surrender — not an easy thing to achieve, so kudos. It's been ages since they'd done that.

"You're not our target."

"Heard that one before."

Tangerine's hand nearly accidentally dropped (dangerous), with how hearing your voice after more than a decade had startlingly affected him. Pathetic, really. But he recovered, clearing his throat. "Well, unless you're an eighty year old bloke called fuckin' Maurice, you're not our target."

Your eyes narrowed — the same eyes he's not sure he's ever quite forgotten — before the guns lowered cautiously, steadily. "You need to off Maurice?"

"He's your target, too?"

Licking your lips, you shook your head, huffing. "Not exactly. 'M just supposed to break into his hotel room, into his safe, and get whatever's in there. AMN."

Any Means Necessary.

Lemon clapped his hands together, startling you and causing you to instinctively raise the gun at him once more. "Whoa. I— I was just about to say that this works out quite nicely, yeah?"

You and Tangerine scoffed at the same time. "How?"

"You'll need him..." — Lemon clicked his tongue and ran a thumb across his throat — "... out of the way. And we're being paid to do that, yeah? Makes sense to work together."

"No, fuck off, mate, not a chance in hell. We do our thing, she does hers.", grumbled Tangerine, yanking at Lemon's elbow. "C'mon."

"Do you really not trust us?", asked Lemon, gently, as though he were calming a bear and not a paranoid assassin with two guns.

Your glare softened, and you shrugged, ardently avoiding eye contact. "Would you?"

"Fair point. But we're not interferin' with each other, though, yeah? Just aidin'. C'mon."

Why you went was a mystery to all parties involved.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

He'd never really noticed how bloody blue his eyes are. Piercing. It's actually offending him, right now. Ugh. But what other choice did he have but to stay in the bathroom and glare at his own reflection after about ten ice cold splashes (and one warm one that he did not like) over his face while you and Lemon guardedly debriefed each other in a hotel room across the floor from the target?

Well. Yeah, he could be out there, where the conversations are being had, but no. He'd have to look at you again.

To be fair, it was his fault, he'd been nothing short of a prick to you the whole way to the hotel, with comments and scoffs at every fucking thing you said, so much so that Lemon had tried to convince you he was just severely sleep-deprived, and all but ordered him to go wash his face or summat.

And so, here he was.

His fingers slid over his jaw and flicked any residual droplets off his face before he sighed, flipping himself off in the unnecessarily swanky mirror. "Bell-end. Bell-end. Knob.", he gritted out, shaking his head.

When had he turned into such a dickhead?

He took another deep breath. Counted down from ten again. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door.

And what lovelier sight to be met with than the two of you kneeling on opposite ends of the table, glaring over the guns you'd placed there (for a show of good faith) like some sort of hostile, antagonistic coffee date?

"Right, what's all this, then?"

Grunting as he stood, and then laughing for god-knows-what-reason, Lemon thumbed at the door. "I'm doin' recon. Makin' sure he hasn't been tipped off."

"I can do it."

Lemon patted his chest, shouldering past him. "Nah, mate. Dibs."

"Lemon—"

"My codename, by the way.", informed Lemon, grinning back at you with a tiny bow.

"—I will shoot you in the fuckin' mouth."

"Sorry, mate. Dibs is sacred. And so's childhood.", he added, lowering his tone.

He hated this.

He hated when his brother played shrink.

He hated when he started with his stupid Thomas the Tank Engine analogies.

But there was nothing on God's green earth that he hated more than the fact that he couldn't hold his liquor for shit, because he'd lost the drinking game with Lemon.

Which is why he was here in front of you, after twelve years, with the codename Tange-fucking-rine.

Shoot him now.

"I'm Tangerine, if you were wonderin'.", he mumbled, clearing his throat. "What's your codename?" He'd say anything to make sure fucking "Tangerine" wasn't the last thing to ring through the room like a tuning fork.

"Don't have one. I dunno. This time, didn't feel like it."

You looked down, then. What was that about?

"That's unprofessional."

You snorted. "So's collaboration.", you said, gesturing between the two of you, and then at the gun-laden table you were still kneeling in front of.

"Yeah, but collaboration is just dangerous, not stupid-dangerous, like 'no codenames' is."

"With you two, yeah, it is stupid.", you mumbled, searching through the collection of firearms for yours.

"That's why you're sticking to petty theft like a fuckin' Oliver Twist character, and we're quite literally deemed "the best" in the business."

"I'm sorry, Citrus.", you scoffed, standing. "What the fuck do you think my last job was?"

"Pickin' locks?"

"I had to do three cleanups back-to-back, because no one does it like me. A mil' each, easy."

He rolled his eyes. What a fuckin' braggart.

"Geezer's back from the buffet!"

Brilliant.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"No, no, we've got all the time in the world, we just have a bloody decaying body under our feet, so by all means, take your time."

"Tangerine, shut up, let her do her thing."

"We shoulda just left when we had the chance, instead we're here riskin' our arses because she can't crack into a bloody safe!"

"I'm done, alright?", you hissed, hands covering your eyes as the safe opened, the lights glinting off the contents and practically blinding you.

"Straight out a Tarantino film, innit?", remarked Lemon, whistling lowly, the gold of the safe reflecting in his eyes.

Saluting the body, you slung the backpack you'd stuffed everything into over your shoulder, standing. "Pay my respects to Mr. Maurice for me."

He had to get a fucking grip, honestly. He was barely keeping from screaming at you to stay.

But, no. You were absolute chaos for him, and he was chaos for you. It's best you never saw each other again.

"What was that about?", he murmured, after you left.

"Mm?"

"That one. Absolute piece of work, yeah?", he said, thumbing behind him, at the door you've just walked out of. "Seemed off, though.", he added, offhandedly.

"What, after fifteen years? Yeah, I s'pose she's off. She's different, more like."

"Twelve, and she looks tired."

"And what do I look like, mate? Been walkin' around the fucking floor like a fuckin' guard dog makin' sure this old coot finished his plate at the buffet and gave us enough time to set up ; I'm exhausted. And we've got the flight to bloody Bolivia tonight.", Lemon grumbled, shaking his head.

He couldn't blame Lemon, really. Sure, nostalgia was a thing, but it was one that, for normal people like you and Lemon, would pass in the blink of an eye. But when had Tangerine ever been fucking normal?

"Bit of a legend, was he?", remarked Lemon, flicking at the Rolex on Maurice's wrist. "They don't even make these anymore."

"If you grave-rob, I will fuckin' riot.", he muttered, distractedly.

"Mr. Fancy Pants over here has Marlboros and shite."

Marlboros! Nicotine! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck. Alright. Nicotine.

He hasn't had a cigarette in thirty-six hours, and on top of that, he saw you ; of course he'd be all worked up. No wonder. Alright. He can rest easy now.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

Fresh off seventeen kills and a migraine, Tangerine really did not have time for this absolute bull. Honestly. In the span of, say, two bloody weeks, you'd shown up twice, and he didn't like that.

He used to know you better than the back of his hand, and now?

Both of your hands are painted with unfamiliar scars.

"You gonna go say 'hi'?"

"What, with this thing hangin' off my arm?", he scoffed, gesturing at The Son of the fucking White Death. "I'd rather not parade 'im about, all unconscious-like."

"Mate."

He was still glaring at you, and it took a couple thumps to his shoulder to make him turn. "What?"

"Don't be a James."

"Here we fuckin' go.", mumbled Tangerine, shaking his head. "I swear, this bloke wakes up, you'll find his ears bleedin', 'cause you've been on and on about bloody Thomas The Tank Engine the entire fuckin' journey to Tokyo."

"Listen, James fucked up so much because of one thing. What was it?", asked Lemon, pointing his finger at him, with his other hand on his shoulder like a mentor.

"Bein' low-quality animation?"

"Pride. Pride. He was so bloody proud of his bloody red paint job that he—", he cut himself off, though, rubbing at his nape. "Alright, if there really is somethin' off with her, this is your chance to gloat that you're better at readin' people than me."

Huh.

See, that incentivised him more than being compared to some annoying red, animated train.

~~

"We must stop meetin' like this."

Your head swivelled around, and he's sure he could sort of see the faintest, dimmest hint of the spark he'd seen across from him on the see-saw all those years back...? He couldn't be entirely sure.

You smiled, which was a good sign, but the spark wasn't fully there, and he hated it. You moving to the window seat so he could sit by you, stretching? Proof you weren't a total cunt now that you're all grown up.

"You goin' to Tokyo, then?"

"No, connecting flight to Seoul and then I'm off. The stop before Tokyo.", you added, when he looked at you as if you'd explained it all in Greek.

He nodded, flicking at the headphones on the seat pocket once he wrangled them out of it. "Right."

"You're going to Tokyo?"

"Yeah. Been dragging this poor boy all the way from Bolivia to now bloody São Paulo, and then another connecting flight— god, it's exhausting. His old man's so rich, shouldn't he be gettin' a private jet or summat?", he sighed, his hand rubbing over his eyes in sheer fatigue.

"Wouldn't that be the first place his enemies look, though?"

"How about you stop with the logic, yeah? 'S annoying."

The two of you laughed for a bit, and the nostalgia shot him in the mouth. Didn't seem to for you, though, you were avoiding eye contact like you'd been caught robbing Maurice.

He tried his best to stay patient as you looked out the window, tried to focus on getting his arm off the armrest because the aisles were clogged up with passengers brushing past. He moved to the middle seat. One seat closer to you.

More silence. Why did he let Lemon talk him into this?

He didn't know what to say, but he knew what he wouldn't say. Summat dumb like "you're lookin' well", or "how you been?", or — god forbid — "long time, no see".

"So. What you been doin' all this time?"

God. So much for not being dumb.

A shrug. You were infuriating.

"Me? Lemon and I, we have quite a bit of fun, actually.", he continued. "Made a name for ourselves and that. What about you? You been doin' Burke, I s'pose?"

"Not "doing" Burke, but yeah, he's still my handler.", you chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek. "But just been doin' jobs, y'know? Just... whatever."

"Whatever?", he pushed, furrowing his brows. "Thought you had fun on the job. You alright?"

"'M fine."

Tangerine nodded, fiddling with the headphones again.

"If it was what I said in Dubai, I was just bein' a bastard, tryna get under your skin, and, to be fair, I was cranky 'cause I got no sleep.", he muttered.

"Well then, maybe go to sleep, then. 'S a long flight."

In his own seat, you meant. He could take a hint.

"Wow. Twelve years, and you still don't wanna look back.", he grumbled, standing up to leave.

But he couldn't. Not when you grabbed his wrist.

"What?"

Alright, mate, c'mon, now's your time to shine. Wow her.

"At me. You don't wanna look back at me, maybe see that you're bein' a bit of a bitch."

Alright, not the best start, callin' her a bitch, but it's alright, it's alright, we can recover.

"A bitch? For not wanting t—"

A quick flick of his wrist and suddenly, it was him grabbing yours. "Come with me, yeah?"

He was genuinely lucky you listened.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Alright, now that there's no witnesses if one of us bloody kills the other, can you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Listen, mate, we don't know each other anymore. I'm not about to have some makeshift therapy session in an airplane bathroom because we pinky-promised or summat when we were six!", you whisper-yelled, and all the air was knocked out of him.

The spark. It blazed. It was you —fucking finally — sitting in front of him.

"We actually crossed our hearts, but I won't take that personally.", he muttered, solemnly.

A moment, and he couldn't help the smile (though he was a worthy competitor against it) when you started snickering.

"Fuck, we were corny."

"Yeah.", he agreed, nodding. "But we were also best mates."

"Right."

"Pisses me off, though."

"What?"

"The fact that anytime I hear 'best mate', I'm immediately thinking of — and looking around for — you."

"I thought that was Lemon out there."

"No, he's my brother. Brothers are different, he means so much to me that we have no choice but to get on with each other. You, though.", he huffed.

"Me, though?"

He shook his head, flicking your forehead. "You, though.", he muttered, somehow managing to move closer and hold your jaw with one hand. "You're something else. I have a choice, and I'm still tryin' to get on with you. So get on with it. Spit it out."

"I have a choice, and I don't want to."

Ugh! Could you not back-talk him for once in your fucking life?! Why did he even try? What was even the fucking point?

You'd leave at Seoul, and if you were so inclined, you'd share a handshake or two, he and Lemon would be off with the bloke in Tokyo, and then you'd all be on your merry ways.

As it should be.

But then, a vision. A flash, and suddenly, he was seven years old again, grinning at you after the recruiters came and went.

"We're gettin' adopted."

"We're gettin' recruited.", he reminded. "You did so well."

"I choked, is what I did."

If he thought you seemed vulnerable now, he'd have melted for seven-year-old you.

"No, no, trust me, none of the other girls assembled that gun as fast as you." "You sure?" "I was watching."

He figured that maybe a similar segue may be able to fill in the silence. Even if you didn't respond immediately, at least you'd be stabbed with unsettling nostalgia that got you to open up.

"You were very quick with the gun. Back in Dubai."

Furrowing your brows, you tore your gaze away from the bathroom door and fixed it back up at him. "...Thank you?"

"'S not a compliment. 'S an observation."

"Observations can be compliments."

"Yeah, but not this one.", he shot back. A pause. "You bein' hunted?"

"No." No. Well, that's good. He didn't need to become a target, too.

"I was quick with the gun because it's a high-profile job. 'M not bein' hunted."

He let out a low whistle, nodding as he looked past you for a moment. "Just tryin' to make conversation.", he muttered, running his hands over his face, and then hair, and then suit, and finally deciding on firmly perching them onto the edge of the sink.

"Maybe don't."

When has he ever listened to you?

"Hey. If you could look at me, that'd be fuckin' fantastic. Yeah, there you go. Stop bein' all secretive and fuckin' tell me why you look like you're about to jump off this fuckin' plane."

It's like he'd never changed. Yeah, sure, he's taller, fitter, and the muscles he'd claimed to have when he was thirteen had seemed to take the hint and actually show up, but he's still the annoying little twat that would mock you for having feelings while simultaneously moving hell and back (to the extent of his abilities) to solve your problems for you.

So, for your best mate, you sighed.

"I'm tired, alright?! I feel like shit, and I dunno why! Alright? Probably something in the air."

Something in the air. God, you were getting on his fucking nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring for a moment, before nodding, reaching into his pocket. "You had any cigs lately?"

What?

"No."

"See, that's a problem, that.", he explained, pointing a ringed finger at you as if he'd just deigned you with the knowledge of the century, and you were supposed to give him your firstborn as thanks. "Nicotine solves half of all that."

The flame flickered in front of his eyes momentarily before he flicked the lighter off, handing the lit cig to you.

"Are you mockin' me?"

Jesus fuck, I'm caring, you absolute twat.

He moved closer still. Gripped your jaw even harder. Used said grip to shake your jaw after each word he said, to prove his point.

"All you are is your job. Your work. You don't think you're even a person anymore, and you're tired of that."

It was adorable, you glaring at him while he shook your jaw.

"Let me go."

"You're not sure who you are, and it scares you, because everyone else seems to."

You hissed his name, his real name, and he nearly dropped his hand from your jaw. The last person to ever utter his name had also been the first person to do so, twelve years later? That's some chaotic shite right there.

"You're terrified that you don't matter. And you're terrified that whatever you wanna do, whatever you wanna make of your life, you'll never fuckin' get it, because you've got Burke and your job on your fuckin' arse all the time. Yeah?"

He had to chill out about Burke. You'd catch on.

Your jaw clenched under his fingers, and the corner of his lip turned up just a tad. "Blink twice if I'm right.", he teased, his forehead nearly on yours.

"Fuck off."

He simpered at the force of your shove. Still no match for his assholic streak, his impishness, the absolute cheek and audacity imbibed in his blood.

"Ah, so I'm right on the fuckin' money, then.", he grinned, rubbing your bottom lip between his fingers, forming a pout. "I'll fuck right off after you admit it."

When you stayed silent, he offered you the cigarette once more.

"I don't smoke. Put that out. 'S not allowed, anyway."

"If it weren't allowed, they wouldn't have this thing over here, now would they?", he asked, tapping at the ashtray on the wall.

And then... look, whatever. He's an idiot. We've established this. He's an idiot, and he's a bit of an arsehole, let's be honest.

He didn't know why he did it, in all honesty. Bathroom's already really fucking cramped, so this was really not the best thing for him to be doin', unless he wanted to induce fucking claustrophobia.

Snogging an already pissed-off assassin in an airplane bathroom was right up there with the dumbest things he'd ever done in his life. For instance, two years ago, having to crash a child's birthday party because of mistaken identity.

"Oi, what—"

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?!

"Mm? Sorry, couldn't hear you over this snog, sorry? What?", he murmured against your lips. What a bastard!

"What's wrong with y—"

"I was right on the money, wasn't I? As I said, I'll fuck right off if you just admit it."

"FINE!"

"Yeah?"

"Fine! Yeah, sure, fuck off. You might be right."

"Wanna know how I know?"

"Some other member of the Fruit Bowl told you? Grapefruit or Lime, or summat?"

He chuckled at that, his hands on the back of your head, gluing your forehead to his. "No, it's 'cause I know you."

"Oh, please, fuck off, for fuck's sake! Twelve years, you haven't known me, please don't give me that bullshit, how thick d'you think I am?", you hissed.

He liked that you made no move to pull away.

But he didn't like what you'd just said.

His brows furrowed for a moment, and he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits right now, do you seriously think you can just stop knowing someone?"

"Twelve years is—"

"Nothing. Twelve years is nothing. Fuck. 'M not a sap, but you sure are makin' me out to be one.", he mumbled, his jaw ticking. "Listen, hey. I'm not about to entertain myself with whatever's wrong with you, or anythin'. Just... figured I've got Lemon, if shit goes south, who've you got? Not like Burke is gonna play therapist."

Licking your lips, you looked down. "Fuck off, alright? We've been in here too long. They're gonna think we're shagging in here."

"'S long as we're not smokin', yeah?", he mimicked, gesturing at the ashtray.

"It's not allowed."

"Neither was collaboration, but we did it.", he muttered, with a tiny pat to your cheek before he manoeuvred you to look up at him again. "You'll be fine. Alright? I've gone through this before."

"What'd you do about it?"

God, he was not going to beat the sap allegations, was he?

"Thought about you, alright? Not just you, o'course. Me, you, and then, after he was transferred there, Lemon, too. All of us in that foster home. Figured those three pint-sized-pricks would judge me for thinkin' life is hard now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're... we're fighters, yeah? Survivors and that. We'll be fine because we have to be. It's our part-time job."

He tilted his head down at you. Whoa. You were actually, seriously thinking about his word vomit.

"Now, back to that fuckin' snog.", he murmured, with a sharp jerk to your jawline with his thumb.

And then, again, unexpected but not unwanted, you found yourself in an airplane bathroom snogging a guy you didn't think you'd ever see again in your adult life, with probably twice the fervour he had. Pathetic.

It's like neither of you never learn. It's all temporary with him.

You'll part ways at Seoul, and he'll go onto Tokyo with that sorry-looking passed-out-kid and you'll probably never cross paths again, but here you both were, kissing like you'll have a thousand more in your life.

Always taking things for granted.

Exactly like he was back at the foster home, always doing what he wanted.

Always pissing you off.

Always knowing you to an annoying extent.

Always being your best mate.

God, pulling away was gonna hurt like a bitch.

[bianquitasunderworld]

Can please get tangerine smut? 🙏 Literally anything please 🫶🫶🫶

Parings: Tangerine x Reader

Warnings: Smut, Choking, Name calling (?)

A/N: i’ve never written for this man before so sorry if it don’t feel accurate to the character ‼️sincere apology to the British. I know this is awful compared to the Dave fic I promise I will work harder to please y’all. 😭

“F-fuck oh fuck-“ You moaned out as Tangerine thrusted into you from behind, his hand slowly reached up to wrap around your throat his grip tightening as his thrust fastened.

Your whines were heard all throughout your home. Tangerine’s grunts were only turning you on more and his filthy words were adding to all the pleasure you were feeling.

“There ya go love, just like that filthy little slut” he groaned into your ear, his grip around your throat loosened and his hand moved down your hips caressing them before he pushed you down into the mattress, he gripped your hips, he was using your body and you loved it.

“Tan-“ you could barely get any words out before he roughly shoved your head into the mattress holding your head down, muffling your moans. “Hush now love.” his british accent was thick, his voice was hoarse. “ya’ thas right, good girl”

“fuckin’ hell love”

[aekatty]

𝓓𝓲𝓿𝓮 ᯓᡣ𐭩

kiss below the line…

a/n: i hate him but at the same i ain’t mind letting him tap 😋 also using colored panels for now cause it’s cuter tee hee

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

18+ !! MINORS DNI

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

cw: p in v sex, oral sex, afab!reader, reader lowk a top here but sanji gets a tad bit of confidence towards the end, sanji know how to eat that kitty 🙏, reader a FREAK, call this man sanji freaksmoke ong 💀🙏, reader wears a bikini, no set arc, risky public sex, they fuck in a secluded area but still open to public, porn WITH plot

tags ✮⋆˙ smut, afab!reader x sanji, beach date, p in v bby, no set arc - no spoilers

now playing: dive - victoria monét

After a long strenuous journey of hopping from island to island, you suggested the crew stop at a tropical resort for a few days to rest and gather supplies for the Sunny. Liberating islands from tyrannical rule and going against from oppressive government is tiring…Well guess what? It’s time the Strawhats get a well deserved break!

“Hmm, yea sure,” your rubber captain shrugged.

“Wow, you didn’t really think that through did ya, Luffy?”

“No, you’re right. After a long battle, I’m pretty beat plus…”

“Plus?”

“A seafood boil sounds nice,” he laughed as he rubbed his rumbling belly.

Robin chuckled at Luffy’s expression, “Well, since us devil fruit power users can’t swim in the water, I wouldn’t mind indulging in a nice seafood feast cooked by our skillful chef.”

You suddenly see the pervy chef’s nose start to heave heavily, a few drops of blood trickling down his chin, “OF COURSE, ANYTHING FOR THE BEAUTIFUL LADIES OF OUR SHIP!”

His stance takes a 180 as he faces the men of the crew, “The men have to hunt for their own food.”

Zoro looks at him with annoyance, “Hey! Can I at least get some sake?!”

Luffy pouts, “No fair! I want to relax like the girls too!”

“Well, real men hunt for their own food!”

You sighed, “Sanji, relax, the guys worked hard at the last island. Cut ‘em some slack will ya?”

His demeanor changed as soon as you spoke, “OH MY DEAR, [NAME], YOU ARE SO RIGHT.”

“Alright, fine, since we’re going to have a seafood boil, I gotta gather some ingredients.”

“A spectacular feast created by our lovely cook, my mouth is watering just thinking about it, if I had any saliva…YOHOHOHO!”

“Then, it’s settled! Nami, set course for [insert cool island here]!”

“Right away, captain!” The beautiful tangerine-haired girl yelled back.

————

The summer sun shone upon the golden sand, the crystal blue water crashing upon the shore as the coconut trees swayed to the calming wind. The resort is occupied by many beach goers as children ran along the hot sand with beach balls, men clinked their beers, and ladies were served fancy mojitos. The smell of grilled meat lingered the air as barbecue parties took place nearby.

You reveled in the moment until hearing your captain’s booming voice destroy your peace of mind.

“WOOHOO!”

“LUFFY, DON’T GO IN THE WATER, YOU CAN’T-”

The rubber boy struggled to keep afloat in the water has he gargled for help, “HELP! HELP!”

“swim…” You facepalmed.

“I got it…” The green haired swordsman immediately dived into the water before rescuing your struggling captain.

“Captain, be more careful, will ya?”

He coughed up seawater, “Bleghhh, Zoro, I might throw up on you…”

“LIKE HELL YOU WILL!”

You decided to sit with the girls when the blonde cook approached all of you. He sported black swimtrunks, along with a half-opened tropical shirt while holding a tray full of orange cocktails, “Well, ladies, can I interest ya’ll in some ‘Sex on the Beach’ drinks to quench your thirst?”

The black-haired vixen smiled, “Thanks, Sanji. You really know how to read our minds.”

“Wow, these look refreshing, as expected from our cook!” Nami took a sip of the alcoholic drink.

“No kidding, I was starting to feel a bit parched myself,” you smiled.

Sanji covered his nose to prevent a nose bleed from coming out, “Ladies, Ladies, no need to thank me. Just doing my job.” He smiled to himself as he replayed the compliments in his head.

You looked at him with concern, “Hey, Sanji. How’s ingredient gathering going for ya?”

“Huh? Oh, I’ve been trying to catch some fish and crab for the last 30 minutes but I think the amount of people here are scaring them away.”

“Hmm, hey! I can help you look for a secluded spot for fishing!” You cheerfully suggested to him.

“Oh, I can’t let a lovely lady like you get up and help me out like this!”

You chuckled, “No worries, I’d rather walk around then sit down doing nothing.”

“Well…I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have extra help.”

————

You sealed the bucket full of prawns before setting it aside and sitting down on the dampening sand, “Wow, we caught a lot today! We’re gonna be eating tonight, aren’t we?” You looked at the remaining gold rays of light slowly disappear in beyond the horizon.

He laughed at your amusement, “I should start cooking soon if we’re gonna serve this on time for the crew to start feasting.”

You attempted to carry the heavy bucket of freshly caught prawns, but it proved to be difficult with the sandy environment preventing better movement in your legs.

He noticed your struggle with the filled container, “Need any help?” He walked towards your sinking figure in the moist sand, lantern in hand to illuminate the darkened atmosphere.

“Ah, no, no! It’s ok!”

“Come on, [Name]. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“No, really, I can manage-”

“I’ll just grab this part-”

“Sanji! It’s gonna-“

Splash

“…fall,” your once dried figures now soaked with sea water as both of you guys fell backwards into the incoming waves — his trembling body loomed over yours, salty droplets falling onto your face.

The sound of your increasing heart beat pounding in your ears from the closed distances between your bodies. Your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to his toned abs up close to your face, despite the evening darkness sweeping in to mask the dimming sunset.

You were embarrassed to admit it, but you always had a slight interest in the blonde cook. Sure, you were a little annoyed by his flirtatious attempts and his slightly pervy behavior — yet, in his times of seriousness that complimented his cool, stoic character, it was…quite attractive.

The amount of times you caught yourself staring at him as he cooked the crew’s meals with rolled-up sleeves, or chilling on the ship while lighting the butt of his cigarette. You had to resist the urge to bite your lip then and there.

But, seeing him on top of you while half naked and wet took the final slice of the cake.

“O-oh my god, I’m so sorry! I should’ve listened to you-” The blood rushed to his cheeks and ears to form an embarrassed blush before lifting himself off you.

“Hot damn….” You muttered to yourself.

“Uh…what?”

“Um- Uh, nothing,” you shot him a sheepish smile before lifting yourself up. “It’s all good, I should’ve just accepted your help,” you laugh awkwardly as you drag the fallen bucket.

“Ahem, that would’ve been awkward if anyone in the crew saw us,” he brushed his hand through his blonde locks before searching his pockets for his cigarette box.

You suddenly halt your process of dragging the prawn bucket, an invisible lightbulb lighting upon your head. You turn to the chef before smirking at him,“I wouldn’t mind giving them a show.”

You could practically see his eyes bulging out of his sockets at your flirtatious manner. Who knew the pervy cook would get nervous by one of the only girls in the Strawhats? You wanted to take advantage of this sudden burst of confidence…

You walked up to him, his face producing a red hue on his cheeks as he watched your figure close the proximity between you two. His heartbeat increased at the sight of your practically bikini-clad body swaying in the moonlight. He clutched the cigarette between his teeth…

You look up at his flustered face before stealing the lit cigarette from his lips, a seductive tone poisoned your words, “Can we stay here for a bit?”

The nervous cook gulped, “U-Uh um…why?”

He watched as you took a drag out of his own cigarette before putting it out — He never found anything so sexy in his life; not even when he saw a naked Nami back in Alabasta before.

You harshly pushed his toned figure onto the dry sand before noticing the now obvious bulge in his pants. You were quite pleased by the outcome of this situation as you watched the cook fall to his knees for you — he relished in the sight of you using him. It was kind of different from the way you seen him with other girls. Slowly, you hovered over his body; his eyes glued onto your bikini-covered chest as he felt his mouth become dry.

“I think you know the answer, Sanji…”

————

A needy moan escaped from the cook’s mouth as you caught his lips in a sloppy kiss, your tongue ravaging with his as you grinded your clothed heat on his crotch. His body had become so turned-on from your sudden dominant nature, your touches like a tempting devil.

“[Name]…fuck,” his hands moved to your hips as you continued dry humping his erection.

You caught his lower lip between your teeth, “You’re so fucking sexy when you say my name like that, wanna scream it more for me?” You watched his body shutter as you exchanged the movement of your hips with your rubbing over his hardened bulge.

“A-ah shit, mon chérie, quit teasing me…”

You bit your lip as you continued your edge on his clothed cock, ignoring his pleas for your pussy. You relished in the sight of the blonde begging for your attention. You rubbed his erection in a faster pace, grabbing the outline of his size — he groaned at your intense touch.

A sly smirk creeped onto your face as you guided his hand under your skimpy bikini top, his hand instinctively squeezing the soft mound of flesh, brushing over your now hardened nipple. A soft moan left your mouth as you felt his rough hand roll the pearl between his fingers. You slapped his hand away with a smirk on your face.

You slowly shoved two fingers into his mouth, feeling the warmth of his tongue sucking and licking them, “Wanna show me what that mouth can do?”

You remove your bikini bottom, revealing the transparent slick trail of your arousal connecting from your pussy to the dampened cloth. You toss it to the side before hovering your crotch over his flustered face.

You harshly grabbed his face, “Make me cum and maybe I’ll give ya a reward.”

“…Yes, ma’am…”

You cautiously lowered your hips onto his face before you felt strong hands hastily grab your hips and slam you down. A yelp came out of you at the sudden pressure of your crotch rubbing on his face.

The warmness of his tongue desperately overlapping over your needy hole as you bit your lip to conceal the sounds of your impending pleasure. The sound of the crashing salt water colliding with the sand had become quieter as the sun died down and the moonlight became brighter.

The sound of sloppy wetness overtaking your hearing as he fucked his tongue inside you. You face twisting from the overbearing sensation of pleasure took over your body as you grinded your cunt further into his face, the feeling of his nose rubbing against your sensitive clit, the smell of your arousal radiating off your warm body.

He lapped his tongue over your erected bud as sucked you off like a starved man. He groaned as he pulled your hips harder onto his face with need, his grip tightening around you. — He became obsessed with the taste of you and he was wanting more.

He slid his hands over the fleshy mounds of your ass before spreading them apart for better access. The speed of his tongue fastening had jolted the nerves of your body, your back arching from the overstimulation on your abused clit.

“S-Sanji! Oh god, keep going!” You cried out in pleasure. The moist sounds of his mouth connected with your saliva-coated cunt.

“Mmm’ Mon chérie, cum on my face,” he groaned as he swiped his tongue over your pulsating hole.

Your core tightened as you felt your approaching climax form into a pit in your stomach, “Then, you better savor it while you can, Blondie.”

He swore he could’ve felt his cock twitch in his swim trunks at the sound of his nickname slipping from your lips. God, the things you do to him…

You swayed your hips to the movement of his hungry tongue as the muscles of your increasingly tightening before you felt the imaginary coil unravel and relax. Your milky liquid leaking out your pulsating hole, smothering over the cook’s face.

He released the suction of mouth over your erected bud with the sound of a pop. His chin had been covered in his own saliva and your arousal. He huffed and puffed as he caught his breath. The taste of your cum lingered as on his lips as he licked them without shame.

“Good boy, I think it’s time I give you your reward,”you shifted your body off his face, the feeling of the cold grainy sand resting below your knees as you lowered your face over his crotch.

A surprised moan escaped the cook’s tainted lips as you pressed light kissed over his erection, the taste of ocean salt overtaking your taste buds. You could practically feel his wanting cock straining along the restraints of his wet as it ached for your touch.

You grabbed the hem of his trunks, peeling the fabric to reveal his touch-starved cock — it had a slight curve to it, the circumcised tip supporting a swollen redness as it leaked precum, his shaft with a few veins trailing down to his nicely-groomed happy trail of blonde hair surrounding it, his balls desperately awaiting to be emptied from all the edging you did to him.

“Nice cock, dude.”

“Haha, very funny, [Name],” he sarcastically rolled his eyes.

“I’m being serious, Sanji,” you swipe your index finger over the dripping slit of his tip.

A grunt escaped his lips as you flicked his sensitive cock in a teasing manner; Your hand running down his shaft before slowly fisting his cock in your hand. That fucking smug smirk painted on your face that drove him insane the entire time.

Your hand moved up and down faster as you watched his face twist from pleasure, his body jerking from the sudden jolts of electricity running in his body from your touch — You swiped your tongue over the flushed head, savoring the taste of the transparent liquid as you continued your pace on his shaft. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth as you rubbed and squeezed his sensitive balls in the process; god, he was about to burst then and there.

He gripped the sand below him as you brought him to the edge of his orgasm, you enjoyed the amount of overstimulation you brought to his cute face as his curly brows scrunched together in pleasure. You bit your lip as you felt his cock twitch in your hand before-

“Sanjiiiii! [Name]! Where are you?? I’m hungry!!” You hear Luffy’s voice in the distance.

The cook looked back at you in horror, in fear that both of you guys were about to get caught by your captain. Luckily, you were out of sight from your rubber captain due to the steep rock wall that separated you and Sanji from him. You shot him a devious look as you continued your movement on his needy cock, “Gonna answer?”

Oh, fuck you.

“W-We’re still busy fishing so g-go away!” He yelled back with nervousness.

He bit the inside of his cheek as you engorged his cock into your mouth, the salty taste of his precum filling your taste buds as you slobbered over the tip and shaft.

“Well, hurry up already!!” the hurried tone of your captain’s voice echoing in the distance.

The cook groaned in annoyance, “SH- SHUT UP AND BE PATIENT OR ELSE ITS VEGETARIAN FROM NOW O-ON!!!”

“AGHH FINEEEE…”

A small snort escaped through your nose as you heard their short banter. Sanji was such a cutie patootie when he got mad at the crew you thought to yourself.

That’s probably why you enjoy seeing the cook moaned and whimpered as he submitted to your touch, wanting more of your attention from you. <3

He felt as if he could cum to the vibrations of your gagging alone as you struggled to swallow his cock whole, hitting the gag reflex that sat in the back of your throat. What didn’t help was when you caressed his swollen balls, squeezing them as if they were putty in your hands. They tensed at your touch as they added onto the ongoing stimulation on his messy cock.

He bit his lip while grabbing tufts of your hair as he felt the euphoric climax slowly creep towards his tip as you continued sucking him like a summertime popsicle.

Just when he was about to release his seed, you halted your action; releasing his cock with a pop as it bounced towards his abdomen. His cock twitched with impatience as it awaited more of your stimulation. The tip redder than before as it begged to release its seed.

He huffed, “Mon chérie…wha… what are you doing?”

You hovered over him before whispering in his ear, “I’m gonna ride you, that’s what i’m gonna do.” You bit his ear before aligning yourself over his cock.

You slammed on his cock, causing both of ya’ll to gasp in pleasure as you felt the gumminess of your walls swallow his size. He grabbed the fat of your ass as you bucked your hips up and down.

“Oh god! Oh yes!” You cried out as you felt him match his hip movements with yours.

Your pussy was practically a perfect mold for him as you sought to reach that euphoric feeling of edging to your arrival. You became obsessed with the feeling of his tip kissing your cervix as each thrust became deeper and rougher. You swore you saw a tear well up in his ducts as you watched his face become a moaning mess.

“Hah, oh fuck! K-Keep going at this speed, I might cum inside you…” He squeezed your ass harder as he kissed and sucked the skin on your collar bone.

“S-Sanji- hah!” You felt his lips lick the soft flesh of your chest as he moved his hands towards the underside of the fabric triangles, pushing them upwards to reveal the dark pearls of your cherries.

“Sanji!” You screamed his name as you felt the warm sensation of his tongue lap over your erected nipples. Now you’re the one being a victim to overstimulation.

He groaned as he made out with your right nipple while pinching your left one, the friction leaving you speechless as you were left in a moaning mess. He clenched your the soft mound as he felt your moist walls squeeze around his cock.

“You’ve been teasing me this whole time, I couldn’t help but retaliate…” He left your right boob with purple marks around your now tender nipples. He shifted his attention towards your left boob as he sucked and bit your dark pearl, enough to send electricity towards your pussy.

“Mmm’ you taste so divine, Mon chérie…This is way better than some seafood boil.” He loved the way you clenched on his cock as he sucked your sensitive nipple.

No amount of crashing ocean waves nor the sound of seagulls squawking under the illuminated night sky could muffle out the sounds of sloppy slaps and moans of the heated moment you both shared. You cried out his name in hiccups as he continued the movement of his hips guiding his cock towards your cervix, increasing his speed.

“Sanji, Sanji, Sanji…i’m gonna cum!” You were going dizzy at his hypnotizing movements.

“Fuck, me too…Can I cum on that pretty face of yours, Mon chérie?”

You nodded as you felt that familiar tightening feeling in your abdomen of your impending orgasm had . The thought of releasing on his cock was racing in your mind as you wanted to savor the sensation the next time you had the “urge.”

You gripped his shoulders as you arched your back to the ripping feeling of your toe-curling release, a cry for pleasure escaped your lips as you felt your abused walls clench around him. — thick, white…it poured from your used hole as it coated on his twitching member, waiting to come as well.

He groaned at the sight of his cock being covered in your slick, like a used sex toy. He fisted his cock, your cum serving as lubrication to relieve himself.

He chanted your name in mutters as he took in the sight of your fucked-out face, sporting a tomato red and a trail of saliva dripping down your chin as you huffed and puffed for air. His hand instinctively stroked faster as the aftermath of your face around him even more. He let out a groan as he felt the nerves in his shaft jolt as ropes of hot cum spurt from his reddened tip.

You smirked as you watched the white fluid land on your face along with your hickey-covered chest. You didn’t want to lie when you felt surprised by how much spilled out of him—embarrassing amount continued to drip onto the sand from his now sensitive cock.

You bit your lip, “Didn’t tell me you had that much in ya.”

His face became flushed, “It’s not my fault, I was pent up from how much you edged me today!”

“You’re really hot when you’re hard at work, I couldn’t help seeing you in such a submissive state,” you stuck your tongue at him.

His heart skipped a beat at your embarrassing words, “MY LOVE, I’LL LET YOU DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO ME IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY.”

And…he’s back to his usual self.

The chef’s ears perk up as he hears rustling from the nearby coconut trees. You noticed his reaction before your attention redirected towards the origin of the sound.

“What the hell, where am I?

The mosshead looked towards your direction as he noticed the two figures in the distance, immediately recognizing the both of you.

Both you and Sanjj’s mouth dropped open before you guys scrambled on the sandy floor, readjusting your swimsuits and jumping in the cold salty waters to wash off the evidence. In the back of your mind, you wanted to cry of embarrassment; the thrill of almost getting caught was exhilarating itself. However, getting caught a a different story.

“Go away, moss head! We’re trying to fish in peace over here!” The blonde cook yelled at the swordsman.

Zoro smirked, “You sure this is fishing, cause last time I checked, you’re supposed to have your clothes on.”

Both you and Sanji looked at each other with an embarrassed blush on your face before quickly diverting your faces knowing the opposite direction.

“Zoro, you can’t tell anyone…” You softly pleaded.

The swordsman yawned, “I don’t really care, I was tryna find curly brow since Luffy was getting antsy about the food.”

“Oh and I was wondering where you kept the sake.”

The cook facepalmed himself, “You fucking drunk…it’s in the wine cabinet now go away.”

The swordsman yawned again, “Wow, thanks I guess. I’ll let yall do your thing but hurry up cause the captain looks like he’s about to munch on our emergency food (chopper).”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll get started once [Name] and I bring our shellfish catch back to the ship.”

You sighed in annoyance, “Let’s just get out of here.”

As the three of you walked back, the little devil on your shoulder caused you to land a nice smack on Sanji’s ass. He turned around with surprised look on his face while rubbing the impacted area. You shot a smug smirk at the cook before doing the “p in v” gesture with your fingers.

He smirked before giving you a wink. You quietly giggled before whispering in his ear, “Let’s do this again, but more private.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

May I ask for a request of tangerine x reader who works with Tan and Lemon. Idiots in love type. And on a mission one takes a bullet for the other or does something stupid during a mission to keep the other safe? and then when they are in the clear they get into a big argument about how stupid the other was and like all the yelling and arguing leads to slipping out a love confession. You can choose who gets injured tan or reader.

Also, I could totally see Lemon in the back just watching them argue sipping on some water that isn’t poisoned.

hii sunshine! love love love it! thanks for requesting, hope you like it 💌 @thewinterv I combined this with your request, hope you don’t mind 🤍

HONESTY HOUR.

tangerine x implied fem!reader

word count. 792

warnings. couple blood mentions

Missions were always complicated with Tangerine. Not because he’s difficult to work with or unskilled, but instead it was your feelings towards him that made working with him so tricky. Confusing feelings pertaining to the unspoken, unacknowledged connection between you.

And because of that, you never knew where you stood with each other. You each knew there was something there, a spark as such, but neither of you would dare speak on it. These repressed emotions have been marinating for far too long, the approaching expiry date much like that of a ticking time bomb. 

Today's mission was particularly challenging: you and Tangerine were tasked to retrieve something —you still were unsure of what exactly— while Lemon retrieved the other. You’d all often split on missions, though today two diversions were needed, and without a moment to think on it, you found yourself following after Tangerine. 

In hindsight, it may have been stupid – the current bullet wound in your lower arm acting as a giant looming ‘I told you so.’ As soon as you and Tan were rushed into a trap —a setup— it all kind of went blank, and you fought on autopilot without a single comprehensive thought. 

You were hardly aware that you were hit until Tangerine noticed it – the trail of blood leaking from your arm and on the floor in an inconsistent pattern. 

“What the fuck have you done?” Tan yells, eyes widening as he rushes over to you – jumping over the small pile of dead bodies.

“I don’t know,” you shout back, looking down at your arm in panic. “I don’t know.”

“Oh fuckin’ hell,” he continues his yelling for some apparent reasoning. “God, this is a fuckin’ disaster,” he says, moving a hand to cover the wound in your arm, his palm firm over the small hole – trying to apply pressure. 

“It’s starting to hurt,” you wince, tugging your arm away. The adrenaline beginning to wear off.

He holds onto your elbow with his other hand, keeping you still and stopping you from pulling from his attempt of help.

“Keep bloody still, man,” he furrows, eyes narrowing at you for a brief moment. “Knew you should’ve gone with Lemon.”

“Well if I did, you’d be dead. So you’re welcome,” you retort, eyes squinting at him in that same frustrated way.

“Yeah, well too late for that now, ain’t it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snark, snatching your arm away – holding over the wound in the same way he did. “Don’t have to be such a dick to me all the time, okay? I’m trying.”

“You never fuckin’ think. You always throw yourself in danger and I have to come and bail you out,” he scoffs, staring you down. 

“I never ask you to.”

He chuckles, the sound amused. “Oh, come off it.”

“I don’t need you to treat me like I’m a little princess,” you retort once more. “I don’t need your help, okay? I’m fine on my own.”

“Well maybe that’s our fuckin’ problem then,” he says, voice far calmer now. 

“What does that mean?” you ask, tone softening like his. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, exhaling heavily. “Forget it. I don’t care anymore,” he scoffs. “We gotta get back to Lem and get you sorted.”

And as he goes to leave, walking past you, you grab a hold of his arm to halt him. “What do you mean by that?” you question, eyes darting over his face.

“Nevermind.”

“No,” you tug his arm, extending your neck to meet his eyeline. “Tell me.”

He sighs, purposely avoiding your eyes. “I care about you, alright?” he confesses, speaking almost reluctantly. 

You move to stand in front of him, making him face you – forcing him to look at you. You smile faintly at him, the softness in your eyes silently prompting him to say what else he was thinking.

“I like you, okay? I don’t wanna see you hurt,” he admits. “Happy now?”

You nod sincerely, smiling at him. “That’s why I always go with you… sounds stupid, but I want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Yeah?” he says softly, a faint grin lining his lips. “So what’re you saying?” he chuckles, pushing you into a confession like you did him.

“I’m saying,” you pause. “I’m saying I like you.”

“You do?” he takes a step closer.

And before you have a moment to reply, you hear footsteps approach, the presence snapping you from this little honesty round with Tangerine. “Oi, there you fuckers are,” Lemon shouts, spotting you both. “Got shit to do, now chop chop.” And when he sees each of your faces, he can’t help but laugh. Both of you looked so guilty. “About to finally do it, weren’t you?”

I fear this may be total ass

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

PAIRING — tangerine x f!reader

CONTENTS — drabble; blind dates; tan’s a bit of a dick here; but so’s our reader; blood and implied violence; coarse language; reader is horny, okay? and i’m not sorry; one (1) brief reference to hate sex.

SUMMARY — your blind date is a walking red flag (he’s literally covered in blood), but you’re going through a dry spell and god damn it if he’s not the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

WORD COUNT — 958

NOTES — please excuse me, i am just obsessed with aaron taylor-johnson lately and i am in such a mood this friday night 😩 also, idk if i’ll write more for this guy solely because his codename is so damn dumb lmao! but i guess never say never 🤭

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

This is the last time you ever say yes to a blind date, even if it has been ages since you were properly and thoroughly laid. Where the hell did your friend even find this guy?

The man sitting across from you in this quiet little cafe is certainly handsome—and definitely overdressed in his expensive-looking three piece suit that compliments the colour of his eyes… well, what’s left of the thing anyway… his jacket looks almost to be in tatters—but he’s all cagey and jittery. His eyes keep darting around the place, and he hasn’t made full eye contact with you once.

He didn’t even introduce himself when he arrived (nearly half an hour late), just slid into the seat on the other side of the table, draping his checkered coat over the back of the chair.

“Wanna tell me why you’re covered in blood?” You ask, arms folded over your chest. The tea you’d ordered for him has gone cold long ago, but he still lifts the cup by the handle and takes a careful sip. He grimaces, but shakes his head.

“You don’t wanna know, luv,” he says, signalling the barista to make him a fresh cup. You want to bury your fingers in his dishevelled hair and yank. At the unimpressed look on your face, he tuts and practically barks, “What? I should say that I came here straight after killin’ some poor bloke, then?”

“Fucking hell, you killed a guy?” You scoff, taking in the blood splattered all over his shirt and smeared on his skin. Some of it is his, you note, but he doesn’t seem phased—nor does anyone else as the barista comes around with a new steaming hot cup of tea. She casually places it on the table before walking away without another glance at either of you.

“No, darling,” he snarks, so condescendingly sarcastic you want to splash that tea right into his pretty face. He gestures to his crimson-stained collar, which lies open enough to give you a good view of his smooth upper chest, “I’m tryin’ to start a new trend. You think the designers will go for it?”

“Figures. Out of all the men I could’ve been set up with, I get set up with a murderer.” But that doesn’t stop you from wondering how that moustache would tickle if you kissed him. Or if he kissed you… in more unorthodox places.

“And yet you’re still fuckin’ sitting here, sweetheart,” he rolls his eyes, sighing when he takes a sip of his warm beverage before mumbling, “Mm, that’s more like it.”

“What’s your name then?” You huff, lifting your latte to your mouth, needing to do something to stop you from actually biting your lip, to calm the fire raging inside you. A fire that can surely only be extinguished by sinking your teeth into his neck—

“Well,” he seems to hesitate a bit here, “people call me Tangerine.”

“Tangerine?” You sneer, slamming your coffee cup back down onto its saucer with a loud clank, your latte sloshing over the rim and spilling onto the table. “Okay, that’s fucking ridiculous. I’m not calling you that.”

“Aw, come on, luv,” he tuts again in disapproval, grabbing some napkins from a nearby dispenser and wiping up the spill, muttering sarcastically about your lack of table manners. The sight of those clunky rings on his long, thick fingers makes you shiver. “Also, that’s bloody rude. Are you actually surprised you’re single?”

That’s the final straw, you can practically hear the camel’s back snapping. You stand up abruptly, the legs of your chair screeching loudly against the linoleum.

The guy finally looks right at you, cocking an eyebrow.

“Giant waste of time. Not gonna sit here and make small talk when we both know this isn’t going to work out,” you practically growl, winding your scarf around your neck and grabbing your coat. “Where’d you grow up? How many siblings do you have? Ugh, barf. I’d rather you fucking kill me.”

“I have a brother,” he offers casually, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, really?” You ask, not believing him for a second as you grab your purse and loop your arm through the strap. “And what’s his name, Clementine?”

His neatly trimmed moustache twitches, one side of his mouth quirking up into something resembling a smile.

“We call him Lemon, actually,” he smirks as he pulls out a vibrating phone from his pocket. “Speaking of—” he presses the phone to his ear, “Lemme call you back.” Pause. “Tsk, sod off! I’m on a fuckin’ date, bruv. The job’s done, I can do whatever I want with my free time.”

Shit. You curse mentally at that smirk, both taunting and delicious in the worst ways possible, wondering why you haven’t marched out of the cafe yet. On top of everything, the moustached fucker takes a phone call from his brother, who is named Lemon, in the middle of you telling him off?

“Eh, she’s got a bit of a temper, to be honest.” And as a matter of fact, you’re about to blow a god damn gasket, but then his eyes slide to yours. His smirk widens. “But Jesus, Lem—”

You shake your head. No, don’t do it, you bastard. His eyes are positively gleaming.

“—why do I find it hot as hell?”

Damn it.

Yep, you heave a mental sigh. You’re totally gonna fuck him.

And the son of a bitch gives it to you so damn good, you only feel partly silly for repeatedly calling out the name “Tangerine” in the throes of heated bliss.

You make a mental note to send Beetle a thank-you care package. Y’know, later. When you can feel your legs again.

fin.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[auroracalisto]

day #22: "i'll be home for christmas"

tangerine x gn!reader, 1k words a/n: i mention that you like cheese ball and when i say that, i mean this thing (this thing also says msg but i think the recipe we use has something else... idk). i hope it's not just a southern west virginia thing. it's my favorite thing at holidays. i know it looks freaky and child me used to REFUSE but these and tollhouse butter crackers... cheese ball hates to see me comin', y'all. also, did you know that "i'll be home for christmas" was initially written in regards to soldiers overseas who wouldn't be home to celebrate christmas with their loved ones? crazyy.

I'll be home for Christmas You can plan on me Please have snow and mistletoe And presents on the tree Christmas Eve'll find me Where the love light gleams I'll be home for Christmas If only in my dreams

Before you, he never truly cared for Christmas, or any holiday for that matter. It just didn't strike him as anything special. But then he met you, and it was like something within him changed. You seemed so... excited for simple things like gifts and merry-making, and by God, he'd make sure he'd make you the happiest person in the world if he could help it.

But work was work. He couldn't just avoid it, and he especially couldn't turn down suck an incredible paycheck. Hell, this job may have been difficult, but who the hell would've thought it would have lasted this long?

Typically, his jobs lasted a few days. Maybe a week or two, tops. This one was going on three weeks, and nearing Christmas. It was as if whoever this damned man had wanted him to miss Christmas—wanted him to miss the morning lying in bed with you, kissing you, making you feel like you were the only person in the world.

He didn't often hate his job, but right now? He wished he would have some cozy office job where he'd be home no matter what. Every holiday, he'd be by your side, decorating and drinking and participating in whatever merry making you wanted. Damn, he'd even try baking cookies and creating that weird cheese ball thing you'd mentioned from your childhood. It looked more like a thing that could grow legs and walk away, but he'd give anything just to be home with you. To be with you instead of sitting here growing restless with his brother grumbling on about how he wished he was home as well—not that he could blame him.

Tangerine patted his thigh with his hand and reached for his phone. He dialed your number, a frown on his lips. He sat on the edge of his hotel bed, knowing that he wouldn't be home. There'd be no way, regardless of how much he wanted to be. But he'd lie. A little white lie never hurt anyone, right?

"Hey, love," he said as soon as the receiver picked up.

"Hi, Tan," he heard your voice come through.

He smiled a bit to himself. "You, uh, doin' alright?" he asked. "Takin' care of yourself, yeah?"

Lemon glanced over at him, raising a curious eyebrow. Tangerine just waved him off with a pursed lip."

"Yeah," you said. "Tan, how's the job coming? Are you almost done?"

Your voice is soft on the receiver—must be poor service from his end.

"I miss you."

The words strike him silent for a moment. He sighed softly and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I know you do, love," he said. "I'm sorry. I'll be home soon, I promise."

"How soon?" you asked.

"I'm aimin' for Christmas Eve," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. He could hear Lemon protesting the little lie, but Tangerine simply waved him off and then proceeded to flip him off.

"Christmas Eve. You don't sound too sure," you replied.

He breathed through his nose and closed his eyes. Why were you always so good at seeing through his words? It was almost like you were a psychic. Either that or Lemon was fucking texting you that he was lying.

Tangerine cursed at his brother, throwing one of the hard hotel pillows at his face. It hit him and Lemon let out a shout in protest.

"Tangerine," you said, his code name drawing his attention back to the phone.

"Right. Sorry, love. I, uh, it's not lookin' too good, sweetheart. I'm going to try and make it back as soon as I can, but I can't make any promises right now."

"Really?" you sadly said.

"Yeah, really," he said. "You know, maybe I can dream about being home for the holidays."

You scoffed softly. "What, like the Bing Crosby song?"

"What song?" he asked.

"Um," you paused. "'I'll Be Home for Christmas.'"

"Bing Crosby?"

"The singer, you dipshit," Lemon quipped from his side of the hotel room.

Tangerine rolled his eyes. "How's it go, love? Remind me."

"I'm not singing it to you," you said, "but I'll send it to you."

He snorted softly. "Yeah, you do that," he said.

Tangerine glanced toward the clock on the wall—it was nearly two in the morning. He sighed softly. He knew you were a couple hours behind him, so he wasn't keeping you awake, but he knew you still needed to go. You had a life beyond him (or at least, he hoped you did—jokes, jokes).

"Look, love, if things change, I'll be the first to message you," he said.

You sighed softly on the phone. "Do that," you said. "I miss you, Tan."

"I miss you more, love. Honest."

"I know," you said. "Just... be safe. Come home soon. We can always celebrate when you get back."

His brows furrowed. "How would we celebrate Christmas after the holiday?"

You snorted softly. "I don't think Christmas is just a day," you said. "I feel like as long as you have the people you want to celebrate with, it can be a holiday. The number doesn't truly matter."

He hummed softly at your words. "Want to invite Lemon?"

"If you want Lemon, sure."

He grinned. "Sounds like a plan, love. I'll save a day of Christmas just for you, though."

You scoffed over the phone, but he just knew you were smiling.

"I love you," Tangerine softly said. He knew Lemon heard it, and he'd say something later, but all he wanted was for you to say it back.

Perhaps it was his only wish of the night as he heard the words "I love you" over the phone, and a wish for him to have a good night.

When you hung up, he dropped his phone and looked toward Lemon.

"If we don't finish this fuckin' job in the next two days, someone is gonna bloody die, and it isn't me."

Lemon rolled his eyes. "Stop bein' so fuckin' dramatic. We'll finish the job and you can be back home playing house with your little beau."

Tangerine grumbled under his breath and laid back in his hotel bed, looking up at the popcorn ceiling.

"Damn. Remind me in the future to take all of December off."

Lemon raised an eyebrow. "You plan on taking all of December off just for a holiday?"

"Nah, mate, not just a holiday. For them."

[tokkiwrites]

CARE FOR SOME COOKiES?

in which Tangerine has had a not so healthy obsession for the girl next door for a while now & he finally gets what he wants.

tags: neighbor tan, smut, mean (kind of) dom tangerine, afab reader, sub reader, degradation, bdsm themes, dumbification of reader, unprotected sex (p in v) + more. just filthy filthy smut :p

the way her soft locks fell onto her round shoulders, covering her pretty neck. the way she always sheepishly tucked a piece behind her ear every time she saw him. it wasn't hard to see that he was long gone now.

the small crush has turned into something more. he hates it because he'd rather not want to fantasize about her all night long, but the thin walls provide him with utmost sounds when she touches herself late at night. it's not his fault she is so pretty and delicate, oblivious even to how she makes his heart beat so fast and how quickly he gets hard only at the sight of her.

he is taken out of his deep thinking state when the sound of someone knocking on his door causes him to jolt out of his seat.

"fuckin' hell, mate. who is it at this hour..?"

he rubs the bridge of his nose before opening the front door, ready to tear through whoever thought it was a good idea to bother him at 9pm on a Thursday night.

"the fuck ya wan-" he stops before he could finish his sentence, as behind the door was his dream come true of a woman. the smell of warm brown sugar and her jasmine perfume mix in the air, invading his lungs.

"hi, neighbor! care for some cookies?" she lets out the cutest giggle ever known to man, and tangerine feels like he could eat her then and there. she was dressed in a floral pink dress that reached her mid thigh, her hair in two messy pigtails, and splotches of flower scattered on her face and the top of the dress.

he looks at her up and down, quirking his eyebrows up before smiling and finally saying something. he was so lost at the sight of her. and he wasn't the only one in that position. y/n could barely mutter the words when she first saw him, only in a pair of dark sweatpants. no shirt, no nothing. just his perfectly messy curly hair and his way too good-looking mustache.

"hey, luv." tangerine tries to play his usual, confident and cocky self, which works because as soon as those words left his mouth y/n's legs felt like jelly, she swears her stomach just did a backflip.

"ya baked cookies, huh?" he teases.

"i mean...i tried! promise i didn't poison them!" she tilts her head up, trying to hand him the plate full warm strawberry crumble cookies.

"thanks, luv. care for a cup of tea? i think it'll go perfectly with your cookies."

she could die right now, cheeks oh so red, much like the strawberry jam in those cookies.

"that'd be nice-- I'd like that." she hums, nodding her head in agreement as tangerine motions her to enter his apartment.

it smelled so much like him. It felt like a big warm embrace, much like the ones she was fantasizing about all those nights she couldn't keep quiet.

" It's so pretty in here!"

" yeah, 's my mates work, Lemon. He has a keen eye for...decor, i suppose."

another giggle slips through her rosy and round lips. it feels like someone punched him in the stomach. and head. and heart. and gave him a magic potion because the effect this girl had on him was truly incomprehensible.

"uh- why don't ya sit down, darlin', yeah? and ill make us both some tea."

"sounds great!" she scurried into the nearest armchair, settling the plate of cookies on the coffee table right in front of her.

after some moments pass the tall bloke returns with two mugs filled with warm tea. as he places them down on the table he sits down opposite of y/n, his eyes never leaving her thighs, barely covered by that dress.

"so-" he makes a pause before smiling up at her "why'd you bring me the cookies?"

y/n smiles shyly before finally blurting out her thoughts.

"you always seem so grumpy, especially when you come home from work. and you seemed lonely... n i just wanted to sweeten up your week just a little bit."

someone better give this man an award for self control, because it takes so much will power for him to not just ravage the adorable bundle in front of him.

nonetheless, he leans his elbows on his knees and rests his chin on the knuckles of his hands. "oh?"

"that so?" he asks, a little chuckle after that.

"yeah...please dont get mad that i called you grumpy! and implying that you have no friends! its not what i meant, i just-"

"i know, luv, its fine. thank you for thinking about me. but you don't have to fill that pretty little head of yours with worries, yeah?"

that's it, she might as well let her heart jump out of her chest and run a marathon, because the way her heartbeat was increasing every second wasn't normal.

"can you at least try the cookies..?"

"yeah, darlin'." he smiles before reaching and grabbing one of the small cookies. heart shaped? god, even the cookies she makes are just as adorable. he bites in and his tastebuds are immediately flooded with the taste of strawberries, his eyes widening in response.

"a-are they bad?" y/n asks, anxiously

bad? that small bite tasted like heaven. he swears this girl is some kind of love witch.

"god, y/n. are you kidding? these are bloody amazing." after that, he started stuffing his face with more cookies, crumbs getting caught in his mustache.

"I'm so happy you like them..." her heart skips a beat, as she sips from her tea, so in trance that she manages to slip the cup through her fingers, splattering the tea all over herself and tangerines leather armchair.

"oh my god!" she yelps, embarrassed of herself, blood rushing to her face

" ya okay, luv?" tangerine worried, gets up from his place, grabbing a rag and quickly leaning in front of y/n "wasn't too hot, yeah? didn't burn yourself?"

"m fine, just embarrassed.." she puffs out her cheeks "even ruined your chiar."

"hey, darlin, don't worry, its leather, one wipe with water and its okay, yeah?

he reaches in and stars wiping her wet things with the rag, his rough fingers brushing agains her blushed skin. as he reached her inner thighs, he looks her dead in the eyes, only to find a flustered y/n looking at him with those doe eyes of hers that drive him mad.

without even thinking he presses his other hand onto her thighs, pulling himself up and hovering over her, his hands now gripping the arm rests of the chair.

how much he's dreamed of this, to see her all red and flushed under him, unable to say anything.

"y'okay, doll?" he smirks rather darkly, his face inching closer to hers.

she bites the inside of her cheeks, nodding as she couldn't believe what was happening. was she dreaming? was she imagining things? she caught herself off guard as she whispered bashfully "you can kiss me.."

"what?"

her eyes widened as she heard what she said, whole body now cemented in place by embarrassment.

"n-nothing, i-"

"do you really want me to, luv?"

she chokes on her breath, a timid yes slipping past her lips.

"i wanna hear ya say it, doll. what do you want me to do, huh?"

"want you to k-iss me." she couldn't believe herself.

this was it, the moment tangerine has been waiting for months. he has her now, and it'll take certainly more than a kiss to satiate his deep hunger for her.

"oh, luv. I'm so thankful you asked me to. i didn't know how much i could hold myself back."

he licks his lips, scanning her again, all stone still and flustered under him.

"when I saw you...the way you look right now. did it on purpose? huh? wanted to get a reaction out of me?"

she breathes heavily, before nodding her head, the hem of her wet dress twirling between her fingers.

"my sweet girl. you've no idea how little you need to do just to get me goin'."

"i d-do..?"

"you don't seem to understand, luv. you're deep inside my skin, my veins, my bones. you're everything my soul has yearned for all this time. since the moment i saw you."

he growls before finally leaning down and kissing her with an insatiable thirst. grabbing her by the hips he swiftly changes their position, placing y/n atop of his lap.

the feeling of his calloused palms all over her skin was indescribable, it was just like those many dreams she had of him. after a few more minutes tangerine pulls out of the kiss, a string of saliva connecting their lips.

he smirks, tracing y/n's skin with his fingers before speaking up.

"you wanna keep goin', love? want me to stop?"

"no! p-lease don't..."

"as you wish, doll. promise ill be gentle, yeah?"

he's interrupted by y/n's soft voice "please, don't.."

she gulps before finally continuing "don't be gentle...w-ant you to use me. p-lease?"

he scoffed, feeling himself getting harder and harder "that so? wanna be my little abuse doll?"

"y-yes.."

"y'know, y/n, never thought you'd be like this. i mean, you look so innocent and bubbly. but i guess..." he trails off before wrapping his large hand around her throat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear "-thats just a mask, yeah? you're actually a dumb pup who wants to be used, no."

y/n whimpers, eagerly nodding her head and leaning into tangerines touch. "y-es" she manages to choke out, before she feels a strong tug on one of her pigtails, pulling her to the floor, kneeling at tangerines feet.

"then get to it, doll." he smirks before motioning y/n closer to his crotch. "c'mon, dont make me ask twice."

she places her palms at the hem of his pants, before pulling them down alongside his boxers. she jumped slightly as she saw what was expecting her. she couldn't believe her eyes, how is she going to fit all that in?

"what's wrong, luv?" he asks almost on a mocking tone.

"t-too big."

"you'll manage." he pats her head before tugging at her hair again. she whimpers at the gesture before leaning in closer. looking up as if asking for approval, she wraps her lips around the tip of his thick shaft.

"fuckin hell-" he bites his lower lip as he simultaneously pushes y/n's head further down, making her whine on it "yeah, just like that. c'mon darlin..." his head falls back, hips buckling up into a steady thrust, the only sounds filling the room being tangerines groans and y/n's soft moans.

the few minutes that flew by felt like more to y/n, her jaw wincing in pain from the size of tangeries shaft. even so, it fit perfectly in her mouth, he thought -- oh, how much he dreamed of this moment, having her like this, on her knees ready to take him. his mind went hazy as he felt his orgasm approaching. grabbing y/n by the back of her head, he pushed in further, thrusting one final time before finally releasing himself in her warm mouth.

after coming down from his high, he looked back down at y/n. "fuck." he muttered as he felt himself harden again at the sight: her rosy cheeks tainted by tears, lips swollen, semen and drool covering them and her chin.

"you're so pretty like this, luv. so pretty with your mouth full" he chuckles before swiftly picking her up and setting her on the armchair, tangerine towering above.

"did i do good..?" she flutters her eyelashes, averting the man's gaze. he smirks, leaning down to trail his lips along her neck up to her ear. "so good, doll." his rough palm settles on y/n's tigh, slowly inching it closer to the hem of the panties she was wearing.

"y'okay, luv? you wanna continue?" he stops himself for a little "sure you wanna do this?"

there was a short pause before she finally spoke, "Please." he furrows his brows before smiling cunningly. "Please what, darlin?"

"Please...need you in me-" she whimpers, rubbing her blushed thighs together. he scoffed before finally ripping off her white panties clean off, pulling her down so her head was almost on the seat cushion. "All right, doll."

his fingers danced around her thighs before finally reaching her bud, glistening from how wet she was. he glides his fingers down her lips, letting out a low growl. "fuck, doll, you're so so wet. for me, yeah? my pretty fuck toy..."

"j-just for you, tan..." she leans into his touch, prompting him to plunge his digits into her warmth. she moans, a shiver running down her spine. his hand stars to move slowly -- one finger, then two...the third brought her to a haze, she'd never felt so good, let alone from just someone's fingers.

"there...think ya ready, luv?" he asks, positioning himself in front of her entrance. a soft "yes" left her lips before he pushed in, groaning from the tightness. y/n wraps her legs around his waist and digs her fingers into the leather of the armchair.

"f-fuck, doll-" he moans, indulging further into her, his lips wrapping around her neck and palms roaming her breasts. after a few strokes, he grabs her ankles, pulling her down fully on her back, legs now on both sides of his head.

she sobs, his large shaft hitting so deep inside of her it made her see stars. "o-oh my god-" she whimpers as tangerine becomes more erratic and brutal, plunging into her aggressively.

one hand was wrapped around y/n's ankle and the other rapidly around her throat, making her gasp, pleasure clouding her already blurred mind.

after some more minutes of tangerine ruthlessly using y/n as he pleased, she was reduced to nothing but a drooling, incoherent mess, just as he always imagined.

"in m-me-" she mewls "i want y-ou to finish-- in me.."

tangerine was feeling himself getting closer to reaching his orgasm, both hands now gripping tightly on y/n's plushy thighs. "i want you to cum on my cock, doll." he grunts "c'mon- for me."

her legs twitched, whole body going limp as she finally finished, her walls tightening around his winching member, causing tangerine to release, painting her inner walls with white ribbons.

they both pant, none of them moving a muscle. after a couple of minutes tangerine pulls out, making y/n gasp at the emptiness. "filled you up so good, eh luv?"

a bright red blush creeps on her stained cheeks, as she tries to close her legs but to no avail. "think you dislocated my legs, actually." she lets out a gentle giggle as tangerine picks her up from the armchair.

"Let's get ya cleaned up, darlin, then we can finally eat those cookies."

⁽⁽ଘ( ˊᵕˋ )ଓ⁾⁾‎ 토끼's NOTE : sorry for any grammatical errors its also my first time posting here AAAAAA !!! this has 2585 words. hope u guys liked it cuz it made me feel some type of way lmao

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"YOU HAVE ME ALL TO YOURSELF, PRINCESS"

I WROTE ANOTHER FIC WITH TANGERINE

I hope you like it! 💙😌☝

Your boss had told you to take the bullet train from Tokyo Station, where you would meet your contact in the dining car.

Supposedly, he knew where you could find the son of the White Death, who had disappeared a month ago.

As planned, you boarded the bullet train at the indicated station, and after showing your ticket to the conductor, you walked with a firm step to the place where the person you were supposed to speak to would be.

You touched your ear, making sure the communicator you had attached there was on and that your business partner and best friend, Natalie, could hear you perfectly.

"How will I know who it is?" you asked in a low voice so that the other passengers wouldn't think you had suddenly gone crazy

"The boss said he'd be wearing a blue suit," she replied quickly. "He shouldn't be hard to find. He's the only Westerner you'll find on the entire train."

"First, that was very racist," you blurted out. "And second, why blue?" Couldn't he have chosen a more discreet color?

"What the hell do I know, dude," your friend complained. "Ask him why he chose that color when you see him, but first make sure he tells you the last known whereabouts of someone you and I know, okay?"

"Okay," you said, as you caught a glimpse of a man's broad back, clad in a blue suit jacket. "I have to go, I found him," you announced. "I'll call you with the news as soon as I can"

"Okay, be careful, and for God's sake, don't trust him."

"I don't trust anyone," you replied, repeating your mantra once more.

When she hung up, you headed over to the contact and sat next to him at the bar.

You ordered a drink in perfect Japanese so as not to arouse suspicion, and he glanced at you, just as you did at him.

Whatever you were expecting, you were sure you weren't expecting someone like him.

He was wearing a dark blue suit with a shirt of the same color, but a lighter shade that matched his eyes, which rested on you with curiosity and intensity, as if he could tell who you were just by looking at you.

He took a sip of his drink, and you did the same with yours when the waiter placed it in front of you.

"I guess you're my contact," you began when you found your voice

"And you're the girl I have to help."

"Excuse me, help?" "You asked, frowning in confusion. I thought you were going to give me the whereabouts of the son of the White Death, and we'd each go our separate ways

"I wish it were that simple, darling," he smiled, showing off his British accent. "My boss told me I should help you find him, in case he's still alive." He pointed at both of you. "So from this moment on, you and I are partners."

"I work alone," you blurted out, his smile widening at your displeasure.

"I did too, until," he looked at the watch on his wrist. "Ten minutes ago," he quickly calculated. "Believe me, love, I'm not exactly amused by this situation either," he said. "But if this is how it's supposed to be, it will be done."

"What do you gain from all this?" "You questioned, leaning your gaze on him.

"Money, and a new katana," he added. "The last two were left behind because of my last job."

"Sure," you huffed, tired of him bragging about himself and what he'd done every chance he got. "If we're going to be partners, you have to tell me your name."

"Tangerine," he blurted out, and you laughed helplessly.

"Tangerine? Like the fruit?"

"Yeah, like the fucking fruit," he grunted, draining his drink.

"And if you're Tangerine, what am I, Lemon?"

"You can't be Lemon," he muttered very seriously. "Lemon is my brother."

"Oh, come on, don't fuck with me," you snorted. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm serious. Lemon is my brother," he repeated. "He's not here because he's doing another job elsewhere." He gave a half-smile. "So you're lucky, you have me all to yourself, princess."

"Yeah, how lucky," you smiled, gritting your teeth with feigned joy

You stopped to wonder if this was all a hidden camera prank, and you found yourself searching for someone suspicious who could be part of the group of actors who had organized the whole show, but you didn't find anyone.

"Tell me what you know about him, about his last whereabouts. Anything could be relevant," you said, taking another sip of your drink.

"He doesn't like leaving the house," Tangerine began. "From what we know, he's the typical Japanese teenager who only thinks about getting home and spending all day playing video games or thinking about jerking off every three minutes to a porn video," she explained, shrugging her shoulders. "If he wasn't the son of who you and I know, that kid would be an average Asian"

"In short, you don't know anything about him," you said, causing him to hold his hand to his chest, clearly offended.

"I've told you what…"

"You haven't told me shit," you interrupted. "Those assumptions I could have figured out the information myself just by looking at his KakaoTalk account," you snorted. "What I want is real data, dates and times he entered and left the school, security camera recordings, something that tells us where he was last and therefore where we should start looking"

He stared at you for a few seconds before speaking again.

"Clearly we haven't gotten off to a good start," he gave an amused smile. "But we're in this together, honey, and I'm not leaving your side until we complete this job," he reminded you. "So you better try to make the situation as bearable as possible"

"Speak for yourself," you snorted. "I'm very nice to everyone."

"I must be the exception," he replied, laughing. "We should start thinking about finding a place to sleep." He smiled. "You don't want to sleep in the hallway, do you?"

"Of course not," you said, finishing your drink in one gulp. "Let's find that spot."

"I wouldn't mind sharing a bed with you if necessary." He gave a smirk, causing you to shake your head.

"You're… you…" You clicked your tongue tiredly. "I don't even have adjectives to describe you."

Tangerine's smile widened as she followed you down the train aisle to the first-class seats, thinking about how this job was fucking shit, but it was less bad if you were with him.

And you'd never admit it, but you thought the same thing.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x fem!reader

Summary: You meet a sexy, dangerous, stranger on a train. And he somehow ends up kidnapping you?

Genre: Hurt and comfort, fluff, angst (kinda?)

Warnings: no actual kidnapping lol, canon type violence, crying, protective!tangerine, aloof!tangerine?, pet names, blood, swearing (duh)

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

You have never been this anxious on a train until now.

A man dressed in a fancy navy suit covered in blood has just pinned himself to the wall of the train, your back pressed to his chest as his hand covers your mouth tightly.

"Tsk, luv, t's ok," he whispers hoarsely, his accent thick, "If they see ya, then they'll kill ya," he continues, "I don't like this anymore than you do, doll, but I can't let'em kill an innocent girl can I? So you'll have to stay quiet for me, you understand?"

You squirm in his arms, which is the only way you can think of asking him to let you go. You want to promise him you won't tell a soul about the gun-shots you heard or how he had pinned you against him, but you can't make a sound behind his hand. So, you make the quick decision and bite his palm hard enough for him to drop his hand with a small hiss. 

However, you aren't quick enough to make a run for it since his hand grips your arm and spins you around. You slam against the wall, your chest against his, and you look up into his eyes.

Shit, you think, they're the loveliest blue you have ever seen.

"What the fuck, darlin?" he says, gripping his arms around you now. He's staring at you with a stern, rather intimidating, expression and you feel conflicted.

"I-" you stammer, entranced by just how handsome this man is. Suddenly, you hear louder, closer, crashes and then the sounds of gunshots and your freeze. You find yourself looking up at the man for reassurance.

He doesn't give you any.

"Bullocks," he curses under his breath and looks around you. You follow his gaze but see nothing. When the man looks at you again, his eyes look only a little reluctant, "I am sorry about this, darlin'."

You don't have time to process what he means because he's slamming the side of your head into the wall, hard, and then everything turns dark.

* * *

When you wake, you blink. You're laying in the back of someone's car. You groan, touching your temple gently and sensing a little dampness. You sit up only to realize you had been laying on someone's lap. 

You look up and your eyes widen. It's the same man only this time he's absolutely drenched in blood and bruises litter his skin. His hairline is wet from sweat, which only ends up accentuating his curls, and he looks at you, sensing your movement, and smirks. 

"Hello, luv," he says and you shoot up, scrambling to the opposite side of the car. Your heart beats almost pounds out of your chest as you stare at him with large, frightened eyes. His voice is a little harsh when he says, "We ain't gonna hurt you."

You look towards the driver. He's a dark-skinned man with dyed platinum hair who looks just as disheveled and bloody as his friend. "Y'know perhaps she'd fuckin' believe ya if ya sounded like it?" 

"Fuck you," the blue-eyed man snaps, his eyes narrowing. He pauses a moment but then looks at you again and says, just a little softer this time, "I promise, on this fuckin' jackass's head, you're safe with us." 

The driver rolls his eyes. "Real classy," he mutters.

"Who are you?" you find the bravado to ask, your voice hoarse. You move your arm, you're adrenaline calming, and you feel a sting.

When you look down you see there is a fabric wrapped around your forearm but it's still seeping blood. "How the hell did this happen?" you think as you move your arm cautiously.

"I'm Tangerine, and he's Lemon." The man, whom you just learned was Tangerine, says. He looks at your arm, "Sorry luv, you got hit a little when the train crashed. Must've hit your head again too because you didn't wake for a while. Thought you'd died."

"Oh," you whisper, "and why did you kidnap me?" you ask after a moment, looking around the car — which looks like a taxi. Something catches your eye. Tangerine’s sleeve is ripped up. You look down at your arm and realize the fabric binding your wound matches his shirt.

He patched up your arm with his shirt. 

"Kidnap you?" Tangerine exclaims, mouth curling upwards into a sneer, "No, we just saved your ungrateful arse," his tone is harsh and Lemon tuts, snapping his head to look at his friend. 

"You're being fuckin' scary, mate," he warns, "can't ya see she's scared." 

"I'll shove one up your," Tangerine starts but then he turns to you and his words die in his throat. You're holding your arm, tears brimming in your eyes as the reality of the situation sinks in. You stare at Tangerine, watching his expression shift and he almost looks concerned.

Almost. 

"As I said, doll, you are safe now," he assures you, calmer. He looks you over with a small smile, "We're takin' ya home where we'll help clean your wounds and you can sleep. As soon as we know you're okay, then we'll take you wherever you want to go. We aren't kidnapping you, sweetie, I promise."

You nod, wiping at your tears, as you lean against the car window. You don't want to talk anymore. The car ride is silent until Lemon parks the taxi in front of a house. Tangerine is the one who helps you out and then he slaps his hand on the hood and Lemon, from inside the taxi, nods. He drives away and Tangerine turns to you. He crosses his arms. 

"This way, luv," he holds open the door and you follow him inside. You clutch your arm and admire the interior decor; all modern and fancy, as Tangerine leads you to a small bathroom near the stairs. "Come 'er," he whispers as washes his hands. 

You walk in timidly, watching his movements. He's calm as he focuses on the water and he feels your staring, "Can you jump onto the counter alone or do'ya need my help?" Tangerine asks with a smirk.

Cheeks aflame you use your non-injured arm and lift yourself onto the marble counter and wince when Tangerine rolls up his sleeve and presses a cotton-ball to the bruises and cuts that litter your face. 

"Mmm," he hums as he works, his eyes focused only on the way you flinch. "You gotta sit still for me."

"It hurts," you whimper when he moves to look at your arm. Tangerine doesn't seem amused.

"I know, darlin'. But, if I can't look at it then I can't help you, can I?" he says calmly. He looks at the wound, the fabric of his chemise abandoned on the bathroom floor, and frowns. "Fuck, I have to stitch this up for you."

Your eyes widen, "You?! Are you a doctor?"

Tangerine's movements pause and he narrows his eyes as he stares at you intensely. "Ya, didn't ya see my nameplate on the door?" It's sarcastic and you don't find it funny as your lip quivers. Tangerine sighs. "Now listen here. No tears, alright? I know you'll be fine. The pain'll only last a minute. Trust me."

Trust him. How odd a sentence for some random stranger who had basically kidnapped you. Still, you nod and let him stitch your wound.

Tangerine had lied. It was painful for more than just one minute, but when he pressed his lips to your forehead for a mere second after the ordeal, the pain was instantly a distant memory. 

His thumb caresses your cheek and, for the first time all night, he smiles a little. Tangerine drops the needle onto the face-towel near your hip and runs his bloody hands under water, washing them again. You wipe your blood from your cheek, the mark his thumb had left, "Sorry," he chuckles as he takes your arm again and this time he applies some vaseline to the wound and then wraps a gauze, non-stick, bandage around your arm. "You were brave, princess. I'm impressed." 

"Thank you," you whisper, looking into his eyes.

"You're welcome, and don't mention it," Tangerine's sweet smile is replaced by a smirk as he pats your thigh, indicating you can jump down now. He runs a hand in his curls and checks his own appearance in the mirror. "Seriously, don't mention it," he insists absentmindedly and then looks at you from the corner of his eye, "And unless you want to see me shower, love, I suggest you leave now. Wait in the room."

He says it so casually but you feel like your heart could explode. You nod and quickly walk out, closing the door behind you.

"Oh, would you happen to have some aspirin?" you wince and then ask timidly. You hear shuffling. When the door shuffles open you see Tangerine's hand come out and he hands you a medicine bottle. With a small thank you, you take it and walk down the hallway. Tangerine hadn't told you where his room was, or where you could find water for your aspirin.

You almost slam into Lemon, who's wiping his hands on his jeans and he seems surprised to see you. "Oh, I see my brother took care of ya, did he?" Lemon smirks and looks you up and down.

"Brother?" you whisper. 

Lemon looks amused, "Yeah. We're twins," he says casually. 

You stare at him, confused, but just nod in agreement. Lemon chuckles and sees the aspirin in your hand. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and guides you to the kitchen. "Love seeing people's reactions when I tell 'em that," he smirks and runs you a glass of water. "So, what's your name, bird?"

"Y/n," you say as Lemon hands you the glass and you take the medicine. 

"Cheers," Lemon claps his hands and looks you up and down, "So, did Tangerine say where he wanted ya to sleep?" You shake your head a little sheepishly and Lemon rolls his eyes, "no bother, here, you can just sleep in his room."

"His room?" you squeak as Lemon plucks the glass from your hand and ushers you into the hallway and up the stairs this time.

Tangerine had said to wait in the room, and you had assumed he meant his room, but now you aren't so sure. 

"Yup," Lemon says with a smirk, popping the 'p' playfully as he opens the door to what you assume is Tangerine's room. It's a decent sized room, dimly lit with an organized desk and navy blue sheets. All the furniture in this room looks expensive. "He saved you, you're his responsibility."

Lemon pats your head and then leaves with a hum. You stand in the room, still dressed in your dirty, blood-covered clothes. You're too afraid to sit on any surfaces so you stand and look around.

Just as you almost pick up a picture from Tangerine's desk, he comes in with a towel wrapped around his waist as he shakes his hair out from his shower. Your eyes widen; his chest is painted in scars. 

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" he sneers, pausing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," you hurry to explain, suppressing your tears as you're overwhelmed by this entire situation, "your brother said I could sleep in your room—that I was your responsibility," your voice comes out small and meak. Tangerine rolls his eyes.

"Bloody hell, there's no need to cry, darlin'," he says a little rudely and your eyes widen. Your hands shake by your sides, tears brimming in your eyes as you take in his words. 

"No need to cry?" you start, your voice rising, "No need to fucking crying? Are you fucking serious?!" 

Tangerine seems surprised by your outburst and he just stares as you word vomit all over him.

"First, the train I was on to visit my sister was fucking attacked and then when some asshole knocked me out I wake up in some random taxi, injured and bruised, as two random men—including said asshole that perviously hit me—can't give me their real fucking names, or any coherent answers as to why I'm there. They bring me to their home, stitch up my wounds—which I do thank you for. But then they act all normal and calm and I'm just not supposed to feel like crying? After all that has happened?"

You take a breath and then continue, "You could really be a little nicer to me, you know! I'm filthy and still in pain a-and I just want to go home but I lost my phone," the dam suddenly breaks and tears rapidly stream down your cheeks. You shake and sob, covering your face with your hands and arms as embarrassment takes over. 

You feel Tangerine walk closer but he doesn't hug you, instead he looks at you and says, "I'm not good with feelings, darlin'," he admits, "I would comfort ya if I knew how. Can you look at me?"

You shake your head, still feeling embarrassed, "This is so humiliating," you choke on your saliva and Tangerine sighs, wiping his thumb under your lips. He shushes you and without another word turns around to rummages through his dresser and hand you clean clothes (which consists of one of his band-shirts you assume is from high school and sweatpants that haven't been worn in twenty years). 

"C'mere," he says and hands them to you along with a towel. "Shower is downstairs, as you know. Can you shower without wetting your arm?" he asks and you nod quickly. You'd have to. The alternative is help or no shower, and you want neither of those.

"Cheers. Then, when you're changed you can come 'er and sleep. I'll sleep on the couch downstairs. Tomorrow we'll find a phone you can use and call your family. You'll be okay," he says it so calmly it's almost eerie but you can't help the comfort his words bring. 

You nod and turn to walk away and once the door shuts behind you, Tangerine lets out a small breath. He runs a hand in his hair and pinches his nose.

If Lemon saw him now, genuinely concerned over some random girl's tears, he'd laugh at him. But, Tangerine can't shake the image of you crying from his mind. All he wants is to make you stop and hold you close. He wants to protect you from the horrors of the word.

God, he's so fucked.