#tangerine atj

[queers-gambit]

Perpetual L's and Overwhelming Dubs

prompt: slutty stranger bathroom sex on a train.

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 3.7k+

note: are all our safe words pineapple? i need this man to rail me, you know, for science. yep, that's right, Cherry has a new fixation! aren't y'all so lucky?

warnings: author has brain rot, smut (public, strangers, unprotected), obviously cursing, PWP.

Japan was bright, you decided with a soft smile on your lips; looking around the train station glowing in neon lights; some blinking, some colored, all fluorescent. People milled around every inch of the place, all walks of life from school children to professionals with briefcases, talking on the phone, running to make their departure. Couples held hands, families took meals together, and a few meters away, a little girl screamed when her brother stole her Momonga plushie.

You must've been enraptured with all around you that your shoulder bullied into someone else's on the platform, making you gasp an instant apology in Japanese. However, the man you had collided with just offered you a stoic look up and down, letting his lips pull in a half-smirk, checking in English with a thick accent, "My apologies, love. You all right there?"

"Yeah, I-I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention," you bid with a small smile.

"'S all right, pretty ladies like you can run into me all day," he smirked, eyeing you up and down before following after his snazzy-dressed companion - who slapped his chest forcefully.

"Leave the girl alone, mate," the man reprimanded. "Sorry, miss, he gets it in his head he's God's gift to ladies."

"It's really okay, it was my fault for not watching where I was going," you assured the men, glancing at your watch. "I'm so sorry, but I really can't miss this train. Safe travels, gents!" You bid, offering a simple wave, then scurried off - trying not to double back for the man with a mustache.

God, was that man handsome! Like, illegally handsome. Hauntingly handsome.

You'd even go as far as to say he was devilishly handsome! Those eyes? Beautifully clear blue, alluring, drew you in and held you captive. His cologne? Absolutely heavenly, borderline intoxicating. And he was built like a fucking mountain - tall, broad, slender hips, bulging muscles that looked as if they would rip his button-up.

Shaking your head, you rid yourself of the body-heating thoughts about the stranger you had just barreled into. Being horny got you nowhere, but being perpetually horny... Was the biggest fucking L. Sure, you could rub one out; you knew where the clit was and how to stimulate to your own pleasure (unlike most men). But it was something about a man sweating over you, thrusting into you with abandon; creating a mess in your guts, mind, and chest.

Yeah... You needed to get laid, you were fucking drooling over some stranger you had a 23-second interaction with.

However, upon entering your train and locating a seat in the hopefully peaceful quiet car, you mindlessly downloaded Tinder to pursue at your leisure, but only a few swipes in and you were exiting the app and deleting it (again) from your phone. The train was ready to depart the station, you cracking a bottle of water, looking back on your two-week Japanese excursion your job had sent you on.

And now, you were finally heading to your last stretch of meetings, requiring you to purchase an overnight ticket on one of the available bullet trains. Seemed the fastest, simplest, and most affordable way to travel - skipping out on upgrading to first class. Economy was just fine, you decided, perhaps doubting yourself when your eyes widened when you caught sight of the two strangers you ran into on the platform finding their seats a few rows up. There was a third man with them now that was left slumped in a spare chair - probably drunk off his arse, based on the man's grungy, disheveled look.

You tried not to thinking about the handsome stranger, but he was just a few rows up from you! God, you could practically smell his cologne from here, letting your mouth water slightly.

Yeah, perpetually horny was the biggest L - like you said.

Your thighs squeezed together as you crossed them, hoping the pressure was enough to relieve the build-up of warmth in your belly and cunt. Your headphones were placed, your attention diverting out the window, and tried to imagine if nobody else was in this fucking carriage - he could take you here and now.

After a few stops, your empty water bottle sought revenge against your bladder and ushered you to the closest bathroom. It wasn't as tight a squeeze as airplane bathrooms, but it was still a small facility to use. When done, you washed your hands as a knock sounded at the door, calling in Japanese, "Just a second!"

After unlocking the door and opening it, you actually flinched back slightly when the man from early with the '70s pornstache was stood directly in front of you.

"Well, don't you look like hell," you mused slightly.

"All in a day's work, love," he answered, stepping out of your way to let you exit the bathroom. He looked you up and down, asking, "So, uh, where you headed?"

You told him your stop, asking him the same. He told you, your mind doing mental gymnastics to understand that you both had a good bit left on this train... Surely, anything could happen.

"I'll let you, yeah," you half-smiled awkwardly, moving out of his way fully to give him access to the restroom.

"You know..." He trailed, pointing at the empty lavatory, "Could fit two."

You chuckled, "Yes, but I'm finished now - you go on."

He hummed, glancing up and down the train car - spying through the windows of the conjoining connection each car had. When he faced you again, he took a slow, calculating step forward, "That's not exactly what I meant, sweetheart."

You feet took a slow, calculated step back to find the wall, his smirk broadening. "Then how about using your words like a big boy and tell me what you meant?"

"You look like a smart girl, sure you can figure it out, yeah?" He leered over you, either foot standing between yours, nearly pressed into you but far back enough that he could maintain eye contact.

You pouted at him, "I don't read minds."

"Not sure it's me mind yah gotta read," he perked a single brow, glancing out the window again. "Now, I'd love t'stand here and ravish you the way I've wanted since you bumped into me earlier, but maybe exhibition isn't your thing."

"Judging me now?"

Now, both his brows slowly rose. His teeth poked out from between his smirking lips, praising, "Naughty girl."

"Maybe you're the one a bit nervous, hmm?" You quipped, boldly reaching forward to palm his cock - already half-hard. "What's wrong, mister? Don't want people seeing you so, hm, submissive?" You gave a cheeky flex of your hand, his hips bucking involuntarily.

"You fuckin' minx," he chuckled, hands to your waist now. "Get in that fuckin' bathroom or I might just have to give this whole fuckin' train a show."

"Better start charging them all," you whispered, hearing his growl before pushing his chest back to give you a little space. "You do this often, then? Proposition strangers into dirty bathroom sex on public, moving trains? Hmm? In a foreign country? Seems terribly disrespectful, don't it?"

"Sweetheart, the thoughts in my head about what I want to do to this body - those are disrespectful," he smirked. "Wanna tell me I'm not truly tempting you? You would've left by now," he pointed out, making your chest feel warm from the embarrassment you felt suddenly. You smirked and twiddled your fingers at him in parting, turned, and just before you could step away, you felt his arms lock around your waist. "C'mon, darlin', don't be like that," he hissed in your ear, your visible smirk spurring him on. "Not about t'beg yah, princess, get this pretty li'l arse in this stall."

You folded.

Being perpetually horny was an L, sure, but being propositioned by a handsome, hulking, muscly stranger was for sure a Dub, right?

You turned in his arms, lips only centimeters apart; breathing the same air, hand on his chest to ease him back into the bathroom stall. He grinned in triumph, and the moment you were over the threshold, still maintaining eye contact, he reached around you to click the lock in place.

"C'mere," he growled, surging forward to bring his lips down to yours finally - and just like that, your panties were done for. You moaned instantly, feeling something akin to relief when his lips molded against yours; all but immediately sweeping his tongue against the seam of your mouth.

Letting him in was mind boggling; literally making static fill your brain as your hand lifted to hold the back of his neck, threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. His mustache was stiff, wriggling in an irritating fashion against your upper lip and nose, but you didn't notice - too engulfed in the way he domineered every rational thought. His hands both pressed tightly to your ribs, then waist, down your hips, around to your arse - like he couldn't make up his mind where he wanted to touch you. So, he chose to touch you everywhere.

He was intoxicating; feeling drunk on his taste, smell, touch. He was warm, his curls a bit greasy but still shocking soft, and his lips - plush, welcoming, anchoring. You didn't even know his name, but you didn't need to! All you needed was exactly what he was doing: holding complete control over your heart, mind, and cunt.

Your stranger pulled back suddenly, offering a skeptical look, "There's no boyfriend, fiancé, husband I'm gonna have to look over my shoulder for, right?"

"Not since about 6 months ago, no. Do I need to ask you the same?"

"'Course not," he mused with a grin, kissing you again - but just a degree softer. Now, both his hands rose to caress either cheek; his tongue wagging against yours in more controlled caresses. One hand dropped slowly to hold your neck, pulse quickening, and your stranger smirked, muttering against your lips, "Cheeky girl."

You pushed him back half a step, offering him a once over before confidently reaching down for the end of your shirt and pulling it off over your head. Your companions mouth fell open when you revealed yourself to him, smirking as you opened your jeans to show a hint of the lace panties you wore. You told him your name, earning a confused hum. "My name," you explained, "figured you need to know what to moan." His tongue swept over his lips. "Gonna just stand there?"

He chuckled, checking his watch, then started unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Tangerine," he spoke simply.

"That your safe word?" You asked, shucking your jean clean off after toeing out of your shoes. "Hm, mine's pineapple."

"'S my name, love," he chuckled, opening his button up to reveal exactly what you thought - plains of smooth skin over rigid, bulging muscles. "So you know what to scream," he smirked.

You paused, stood in your panties, bra, and socks, asking through a small chuckle, "You're telling me, your mother carried you all those months in her belly, pushed you screaming - bloodied - into the world, looked at yah, and said, 'yeah, he looks like his name should be Tangerine'?"

He peeled his top half naked, your throat swelling close; swallowing harshly to clear your mouth of the overflow of salvia. Slowly, he moved closer to you, once again leering over you. He reached out for your neck, not too tight or aggressive, but forceful enough to tilt your head back. "'S a codename, love," he explained.

"Ah, so can't reveal the government."

"Exactly."

"The fuck kinda job you got that requires codenames?"

"The dangerous kind," he smirked, "wanna keep running your mouth or put it to other use?"

You chuckled and reached for his trousers, holding his eyes with yours as you easily unfastened him and hooked your thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and suit pants. His mouth parted slightly when the cooler air hit his exposed cock, asking, "Safe word?"

He snickered, "Pineapple's fine, love," he sounded far too amused, watching you get on your knees in front of him, "but I doubt we'll need - Oh, holy, fuckin' good God," he seethed through clenched teeth when you eagerly took him in your mouth.

He was bigger than what you were used to - like a full double the size your previous partners had been. He was longer, thicker, and Goddamn, was he sweltering in your mouth. You wondered how long it had been for him, feeling your panties dampen as you felt exhilarated to show this man with a "dangerous job" exactly what your mouth could do - and why he'd never forget your name.

"Oh, there's a good fuckin' girl," he groaned, collecting whatever hair he could in a makeshift ponytail; looking down his nose to watch you. His cock was overwhelming, but you were determined to earn the pleasure he would surely bring; mouthing around his cockhead, using one hand to pump what didn't fit, the other alternating between holding his hairy thigh for balance and cradling his balls.

A few times, you held his eyes with yours as you removed his cock with a pop; licking his shaft up and down like it was a popsicle on the Fourth of July. His jaw would clench each time, sputtering his breath. His veins were pulsing, prominent under the skin; making your cunt contract as his throat bobbed as he swallowed harshly, groaning.

"Li'l too good at this, baby, Goddamn," he breathed, chuckling to himself as he retracted his hips while holding your jaw. "All right, all right," he chuckled, "made your point, love. Get up here 'fore I lose my bloody mind."

You pouted, "I quiet like it down here."

"Darlin', I'm about to bust - "

"Isn't that the point?"

He chuckled and reached down to help you up, instantly searing you in a wet, messy kiss as he backed you into the sink counter; tasting himself on your tongue. It was erotic, something you were vastly not used to - no man ever being okay with you kissing them after having their dicks in your mouth.

But no, this Tangerine fellow was obviously built different.

One hand anchored your waist, the other dropping to toy with your panties gently; petting the waistband before sinking his hand lower. You shuddered lightly when his finger swept through your wet folds, both groaning in pleasure when he sunk knuckle-deep. "Feels so good, love," he praised, your legs widening your stance to let him better access; hand fully disappeared into your panties. "So fuckin' warm, yeah," he breathed, increasing his speed so he pumped aggressively. He didn't need a second finger, he was chasing your orgasm - purely focused on the way you withered before him.

"Tan," you whimpered, gripping his assaulting arm as he found your g-spot and chuckled darkly.

"Got it, there, did I? Yeah, let's see what you've got, love, c'mon."

You whined in your throat, leaning into his chest as your legs began to quake. You didn't get a chance to warn him, feeling that overwhelming urge to urinate - gasping loudly and needing him to support your body as his finger jabbed your g-spot to the point you were gushing into his hand.

"Oh, fuck yeah," he encouraged, stimulating you further; loving the feeling of your squirt in his cupped hand, "keep goin', good girl, that's it, yeah? I got yah, good girl, there you go."

You grunted when he slowed his hand to the point the heel of his palm ground into your clit. Feeling overstimulated, your hand slapped to his meaty forearm, meeting his eyes with a glare, begging, "Okay, okay, okay, you made your fuckin' point."

He grinned, "Didn't know I had that affect on you, love. Huh?"

"You could've offered to fuck me when I ran into you earlier and I would've bent over - right there and then," you whispered against his lips, licking into his mouth right after; making his own mind go blank.

"Feelin's mutual, doll," he nodded, using both hands to shred your lace panties from your hips with a shrill gasp. "Keepsake," he teased, showing you the ruined fabric before dropping it.

You offered him a coy look before turning around for him, not needing the instruction; meeting his stare in the mirror. Bracing yourself against the sink, you slumped over it, making him groan.

"Fuck, doll," he whispered, admiring the view and smoothing a hand over one bare cheek. "Just look at yah, ready fa' me, just drippin'," he bit his lip, giving a few pumps to his length as he looked you over; other hand toying with your weeping hole. He growled and slid his cockhead up and down your slit, both shuddering lightly; moaning in union when he notched himself at your entrance. His eyes met yours in the mirror, his mouth parted, slowly sinking forward to the fucking hilt - making you feel impossibly full.

"Oh, Jesus fuck!"

He chuckled, shifting his hips, "Keep it down, love, don't need anyone bangin' on the door, interrupting us, huh?"

"I'll be quiet when you get a smaller dick."

This made Tangerine genuinely snicker, "Fair enough."

"Fuck's sake!" You yelped when he suddenly pulled back, surged in, and started his own rhythm. Through the mirror, you saw the concentrated, cocky expression he wore; looking purely focused, mesmerized by the way his cock would disappear within you, only to reappeared - soaking wet, glistening.

"Feel's divine," he hissed, the grip on your hips sure to leave bruises. "God, this pussy's made fa me - grippin' s'fuckin' tight. Who was the idiot who let this go, huh?"

"Really wanna talk about my ex now?" You panted.

"Nah, don't need to - 's mine now," he grit, one hand letting go of your hips to bring down on the meat of your bottom. "Hear me? Huh? Fuckin' mine now," he pommeled your arse a couple more times. "Like that, huh? Don't you? Feel you fuckin' squeezin' me each time."

"Yes," you moaned. "Fuck, yes, yes, God, you feel fucking amazing."

"Keep talkin'," another slap that made you squeak.

You were nervous 'cause you never considered yourself the best at dirty talk, but still tried, "So fuckin' good, makin' me so wet. Fuck - never had cock like this, so good - so deep, so big. Don't stop," you whimpered, his feet repositioning to allow himself a new angle and speed to drill into you. "Fuck, yes," you moaned loudly, encouraging, "harder, please, yes, yes, yes! Just like that!"

The motions cause ripples across the flesh of your bottom, thighs quaking. You pushed your hand down your front, your partner groaning at the sight as you found your clit and started massaging; the contractions squeezing Tangerine's cock tightly. His one hand traveled around the front of you, sliding up to yank your bra from your breasts; palming one with fever before tweaking your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger.

"Fuuuuck, Tan," you whined, moaning. "Don't stop, please, 's too fuckin' good!"

"I've got yah, darlin', almost there," he grunted, folded a little more over your back so he could fondle you roughly. "Naughty fuckin' girl, lettin' me bend yah over like this - don't even know me. Just knew you needed my cock, huh, love? Ain't that right?"

"Yes," you moaned, orgasm fast approaching.

"Probably let me do whatever I wanted t'you, huh?"

"Fuck yes, whatever you wanted, however you wanted me!"

"At's a good girl," he grit. "Takin' me so well, so fucking good. Need this pussy again, hear me? Fuck," he panted, increasing his speed to an erratic pace, "need a taste, need yah t'squirt on me again. Need this pussy in all positions." He bared his teeth, increasing his speed, hissing, "Lemme hear you scream, love. Wanna hear my name. from that pretty fuckin' mouth, c'mon."

"T-Tan, fuck, Tangerine, I-I'm right there, I'm so close - OH FUCK!" Your orgasm made you reel back into his chest, milking yourself on his impaling cock. You gasped, mouth left wide as his hand constricted around your throat, his mouth hot against your ear; biting and licking as he grunted forcefully.

He gasped in your ear, moaning your name on a short repeat, shuddering as he stilled himself; coating your wet interior with his thick ropes of hot, heavy cum. Your eyes were closed, head tilted back to his shoulder; his lips actually soft as he planted several kisses along your neck (that he released) and shoulder. "Holy fuck, doll," he whispered, chuckling in disbelief. "'S a li'l too good."

You smirked, "Yeah, I've heard that before, you're not the first t'tell me."

"Ah, way t'ruin it, doll," he joked, making you chuckle breathlessly. "All right?"

"Mhm," you sighed, eyes opening. "You?"

"Never better," he mused softly, sighing as you both tried to regain your breath. He let out a single grunt as he held your hips, pulling his cock free; releasing a gush of cum from you both to drip from your cunt. As you both redressed, he eyed you for a moment, then mentioned, "Listen, love, uh... Don't miss your stop."

"I wasn't planning on it?"

"Good... Just..." He sighed, closing up his shirt. "Make sure you get off this train."

You stared at him for a moment, pondering, "This have something t'do with that 'dangerous job' of yours?"

"A bit."

You hummed, zipping your jeans back up sans panties. "Why don't you get off, too?" You asked softly.

"Can't, darlin', got a job t'finish."

You nodded, "Then be careful, yeah?"

He nodded in return, reaching out to pull you in close. He took a second to look you over, smirking slightly, "Worried about me, are yah?"

"I don't even know you."

"We'll change that," he eased. "Your phone?" You offered a small look before sighing, reaching for your phone, unlocking it, and offering it to him. He typed for a moment, a distant buzz heard from his own phone, then handed it back to you. "I'll call you up sometime, love," he smirked, watching you reach back to unlock the door.

"You better," you mused, letting him press one more searing kiss to your lips. You hummed, pouting slightly and telling him, "Behave, or we'll go at round two."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, darlin'," he pocketed your shredded panties with a cheeky grin.

"You still owe me for those," you pointed.

"Send a bill, I'll make it up t'yah."

You smirked, "No bill, but I'd take dinner."

To your honest shock, a sort of... Contemplating, soft expression took over his face, nodding, promising quietly, "I'll call yah, darlin'. Just make sure you answer."

[ part two: Shower Shenanigans ]

requesting rules and masterlist

Bullet Train masterlist

[etherealily]

ʀɪᴏᴛ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

This was from my poll .

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cussing, but SFW.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Situationship final boss.

(This one's for you, my twin @wintrrsoul / @wintrsoul)

..……......................................................................................................................

He may not have a heart, but he sure as fuck has a soul, and it's superglued to you, it seems.

It's in the way he's actually sort of worried you'll somehow end up in the general vicinity of his jobs and get obliterated.

It's in the way he doesn't like the fact that he can't just straight up tell you things about him.

"I like the colour blue." No, would lead to a question about how long he has and then he'd have to talk about a childhood he never had.

"I hate fast food." So, what do you eat when you're out on a job? Hang on, what do you do at your job?

See? No good.

But it's also in the way he nearly acquiesces to all of your requests. Like this morning's.

"Tell me your real name."

It's not even just that. It's the way you say it. Ask it. Your fingers are in his hair like you're scared he'll get mad at you and that's the only way you can insure yourself against him, or something. By showing him how gentle you are. It's barmy, but it's you, so he'll allow it.

"Tell me yours."

"You know my name."

Unfortunately for him, he does. He'd have actually loved to have looked you up and been unable to find a face to the name you'd given him, but it was you. Right there. Too trusting.

"The one you'd like to be called, I mean." He's stalling. He's deflecting.

"The one I'd like to be called? What is this, a test? I have to say 'yours' or summat?"

He snickers. It's a quiet one, and if you'd been anywhere but in his arms, you couldn't have heard it. "Humour me."

"Humour you? I'm afraid I couldn't come up with one if you gave me all the time in the world."

"No?"

"No."

"Shame, that.", he grunts, stretching as he turns to you. He's been up for hours. Luckily, you're too used to it to ask why he's fully clothed in a fucking suit this early in the morning. "You could have heaps of fun with it. Little activity, if you ever get bored of ghostwriting."

"I'm only bored when you're not here."

"I'm your only source of entertainment, then?"

"Cable without a subscription, yeah."

"I can't even fault that. That's a good analogy. See? You should write summat on your own. Instead of helping write for talentless pricks. Who get credit."

He's doing the thing he likes doing again. Giving you a couple of his rings to 'model'. He thinks it's funny, how they only fit on your thumb, because he has insanely heavy taste in rings.

"Not this again."

"Yes, this again! It's true, innit? Some loser who can't write needs you to do their homework for them, but they get the credit?"

"That's not how it works."

"It is, too, how it works. You told me yourself."

"All this because I asked you what your real name was."

"Not this again.", he mimics, ruffling up your hair. "Have you kept your promise and narrowed it down, then?"

"I have, actually, yeah.", you say, and he watches with a lazy grin as you sit up, the morning sun like a halo behind you, igniting your hair.

Though he's more focused on the fact that you're topless.

"Let's hear it, then."

"Nigel."

"Nigel? Like the fuckin' pelican from Nemo?", he scoffs, shifting to rest an arm under his head.

"Hold your horses, I've got more, I've got more. I've got Thomas."

"Like the tank engine? What's with you and creepy animations today, love?"

"I figure there's a reason your brother keeps talkin' about the show. Am I warm?"

He shakes his head. "You're in Antarctica.", he informs, watching you roll your eyes. Watching you. That's all he's ever done. And that's all he ever wants to do.

"I'll get it one day."

"Pray you don't. It's really hot, how pissed you get."

"I will get it, though, some day."

"Lie back down, relax. It'll come to you in a dream."

You do as he says, flexing your fingers to display his entire collection of (four) rings, glinting in the sunlight. "Arnold?"

"Fuck you, sweetheart, you're just tryna take the piss now."

He doesn't laugh much, or smile, for that matter, but he's sure one day you'll catch him off guard. Not today, though. Mm-mm. Because he feels like you're not about to let up today.

Call it a lover's intuition. But he feels like this might either be your last fight or your last fight. In short, either you never speak again, or he croaks and he really can never speak again.

"Where are you going next, did you say?", you ask, between sporadic, breathy chuckles.

"Tokyo." he reminds, leaning an arm back on the headboard while his other played with your hair like that was his next job and it paid in infinite quid.

"Can I know where?"

"Uh... just the train, it looks like."

You turn your hand around to watch the light bounce off his rings. "Will you send me another postcard, then?"

His eyebrows furrow. "Come again?"

"Like, the one you sent from Bolivia. It was tops. Alpacas and whatnot."

"I'm sorry, love — postcard?" Oh. Fuck. His brother. "Oh, yeah. Not much to do in a train, but if I find one, I'll send it over."

There's a sort of domestic silence, and for a moment, he's sure he can hear the rays of sun crash through the window, all tinkly. But that might just be the hangover.

"Why won't you tell me your real name?"

"Because I can't. You know that."

He sighs magnanimously, allowing you to rise to brush your teeth and freshen up or whatever you did to avoid the fact that his secretiveness pissed you off to no end. Which was fair, honestly.

"I just feel like we're past that point."

Any response he might have had dies on his tongue. That is fair. You have known each other near a year now. If he were you, he'd be peeved as well.

Once more, a silence flashes through the room, before he does, too, his arms crossed as he firmly leans against the doorframe.

He exhales deeply for a moment, before you spit out toothpaste, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. "Y/N."

"That's my name, yeah."

"Alright, hey—", he scoffs, moving next to you, watching you again in the mirror. "That's the last one of those you get, alright? Snappy responses or wha'ever. I'm not doin' that. The whole soft, concerned bit? Nah. That's not what we are, and we have rules. Yeah?"

"I know we had rules, and you've broken far too fuckin' much of them, but I can't break one?", you retort, unscrewing the lid of your stupid fucking bottle of Listerine. God, why did everything you do today set his teeth on edge?

"No, you can't, 'cause your ghostwriting doesn't kill anyone except your dreams. My job does. I'm not gonna receive a phone call sayin' that you're hangin' from some ceiling or some streetlight or summat somewhere, yeah?", he reminds, sternly, with a finger pointed at you, a hand on his hip, the whole shebang, before he turns back into the warmth of the bedroom, folding his suit's sleeve, now.

"Your job.", you scoff, under your breath as you gargle and then spit.

He cocks his head, raising a brow as he spins right the fuck back around. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"'S what I thought.", he mutters, adjusting his tie, running his hands through his hair, standing in front of the window on the other side of the room — you know. Basically do anything to take his mind off how fucking frustrated he is.

You're being mildly unreasonable. But he supposes he can't blame you. "Contract killer" isn't a profession you can segue into a conversation. In your head, he's much nobler. A CIA agent.

"Fuck. You can't have a normal mornin', can you?"

'And you can't have a normal reaction.', you think.

"I heard that."

You snort, shutting the bathroom door behind you as you come back out. "I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking summat, I know you were."

"I was thinking you should shave."

He's glad you're back to the jabs at him, because he can shake himself out of this odd prophetic revelation he's supposedly having about his death or your loss of interest in him. Either/or.

He grins when you finally come out, flicking your forehead as you cross paths so he can take his turn in front of the sink. He really needed some fucking shut-eye on the plane there, but for now, washing and scrubbing at his face should keep him awake enough, and— what the hell were you doing?

He dabs his hands in between a plush hand towel by the sink, as he watches you trying to get dressed, from the bathroom mirror. "No. None of that."

"I have work."

"Oh, yeah? Funny. Sit."

"I told you, I've got work."

"There's a couple hours till my flight, and I'm sure incompetent authors can wait. Sit down."

"What, it's all according to your 'timetable', then?!"

He hates this. He hates the way you've just said "timetable" like you're accusing him of lying to you.

He doesn't care about the lying allegations, but he does care about how much audacity you seem to have, even though you know that he has a gun on him every time he kisses you.

It means that you know he's, for some odd reason, toned down around you. Not even remotely likely to hurt you.

And that's not good.

"I don't see any angry fake-authors knocking at your door right now, so yeah, yeah, it's according to my timetable. Stay. Get back in bed, alright?"

"Sorry to disappoint, but I actually have to go now, so."

He knows you're bullshitting. He's seen you when you're actually late, and that pretty little fuckin' vein in your head is nowhere near popping.

This is the only way you can get back at him for talking to you like that, and you're taking the chance.

How dare you do exactly what he would do if he were you?

"Hey.", he calls, but you're still rechecking that all your bullshit's in your bag. So, naturally, he moves behind you, his hands on your shoulders pulling you back while swivelling you around to face him.

"Why, hello, there. Go deaf or summat?", he muses, holding onto your face with both thumbs at your jawline.

"What?"

"Tell you what. You get to pick my codename for this job. Alright?"

"What?"

"Yeah. You already got some ideas, then?"

"What's the catch?"

You've abandoned your task of shoving things into your bag, and he can't have you achieve the satisfaction of coaxing a smile out of him twice in a row, so he kisses the side of your cheek and your shoulders to hide it.

"No catch."

"There's always a catch with you."

"Like what?"

"You'll reject everything with some bollocks reason."

"Nah, I'll give you a fair chance. Shoot."

"Like Dave? Or James? Or Aaron, or summat? It's like, casual, unseeming. Jane Doe, but for blokes, whatever it is. "

"John Doe. Right. But what if there's some poor bloke with the same name and description?"

"I just think the odds are terribly small."

He nods against your hair. Alright, that was fair. "Maybe my brother's done some weird shite.", he remarks, suddenly.

"Why do you say that?"

Mainly because his brother has just texted him, the absolute prick.

"He hates codenames, so he's probably sending a ridiculous one to piss me the fuck off."

🍋

Fucking what?

Excuse me?

CN. 🍋

CN. Codename. His codename was fucking LEMON?!

"I can't bloody well be James or Aaron now.", he mumbles, rubbing his hand over his jaw as he glares at the phone. You hear him, somehow.

"Why not?"

"My brother's codename for this job is apparently Lemon."

"Lemon? Like, the—"

"Yeah, like the fruit."

You snort. "So, what, you have to match, now? Uh... Melon? That would be matchy-matchy, no? Lemon-Melon."

"You're lucky you're hot, or I'd have shot ya just for that.", he comments, moving hair from your shoulders. "Look at me."

"No." It's a tease, he can tell by looking into your mesmerizing, beady little eyes.

"Why not?"

"Told you, you need to shave."

"And do what? Go clean-shaven like a fuckin' prepubescent?"

"No, I think you should get rid of the beard, go with the moustache only."

He lets out a sharp laugh of incredulity. "Not a chance in hell." He already knows he's going to do it. He's not too proud to cater to the female gaze once in a while.

You shrug, and he gestures for you to sit back down on the bed.

"I still don't believe you, you know."

He huffs, groaning as he runs his hands across his face. "What the fuck do you want from me, love? I'm not givin' you any form of identification, which, if that is what you want, is fuckin' stupid, considering the amount of times I've been inside you!"

You stare back, indifferent.

You have a habit of doing this - you leave him all huffy and red and angry and you just look at him like you don't give a crap, and it's unnecessarily sexy.

"Come on, we cross paths once in a couple months. Your job, sorry to say, is much less urgent than mine, so ju—"

"I don't even think you're tellin' me the truth."

"What? About my job?", he spits, exasperated.

"What sort of CIA agent is this flexible with their routine and, like...", you mutter, gesturing around at the hotel room.

"The good sort. You don't believe me?", he questions, sucking on the back of his teeth to hide his amusement.

"Don't you get government benefits or summat? Shouldn't you have a house?"

He raises a brow, and his mouth quirks for a second before he bursts out laughing. See? He knew you'd catch him off guard and make him laugh some day. So much for that not being today. "Government benefits. You're a riot."

"You're also not supposed to tell anyone that you're a CIA agent."

"No?", he asks, tilting his head. "Oh, I'll have to kill you then, don't I?"

"Please do.", you mumble under your breath, still acting like you have better places to be. And, in all honesty, you might. The vein is this close to popping now, so he may have been wrong about your lack of things to do.

He raises both brows as you sit there.

"Are you really still fuckin' angry?"

"I just want to know your name, what am I gonna do? Write it into a story?"

"Knowing my name will prove I'm a CIA agent, then, will it? How does your mind work?", he hisses.

"Lose the suit."

"What?" Oh, you were playing his game, with the subject changes, and he didn't like how hot that was, either.

"The suit. It's trash. That shade of green is trash. Go with blue."

"Go with blue? I need to go with blue, now do I?", he sputters, shoving you further back onto the bed, his medallion chain dangling in front of your eyes as if he were about to hypnotise you with it. "You're a riot.", he says, his fingers digging into both your cheeks.

"You said that already."

"You're gonna miss me, that's what this is." He says it like an insult, and, in this odd dynamic between the two of you, it very much is. "You're losin' your cable-with-no-subscription."

"I'm just saying the green isn't classy, not even remotely."

The grip travels to your hair, and suddenly, you're eyelashes apart. "Yeah?"

"It's trash."

"Mm.", he nods, in mock consideration. "Right."

There's a moment of silence.

"You know, if I die on that bullet train, you'll regret being such a cunt today."

"I think if you die, you'll regret spending your last morning being a cunt to me."

"So we're both cunts?"

"Apparently."

"Oh, darling, we're made for each other, then, yeah?"

You roll your eyes, and he kisses you.

Like always.

..……......................................................................................................................

Seriously.

He may not have a heart, but he sure as fuck has a soul, and it really is superglued to you, it seems.

It's in the way he's pretty sure you're making the worst stylistic choices for him ever — an extremely expensive wristwatch on a mission where he'll get multiple peoples' blood on it, but he'll let you pick anyway.

It's in the way he's sure it's supremely dangerous to text you in between jobs but he'll do it anyway.

How's by you, then?

Fine. How's the train? Did you do the coin thing?

No, haven't had the chance.

Who's the target? Or whatever.

If I could tell you that, we wouldn't have had the conversation this morning, would we?

Are you on a break or summat? How are you texting me?

He grimaces, looking up at the man out of breath opposite him.

Break. Yeah.

Did you go with my codename?

Ladybird, he thinks his name was. Can't remember, doesn't need to. The only codename he needs to remember is the one you set for him.

"Move.", he grumbles, shoving his foot away.

"Lady love?", he retorts back, nodding his head at the phone.

"Summat like that. What's it to you, virgin?"

The Insect chuckles at that, and he grimaces. His laugh's not like yours, and it's kind of disgusting to him, now. Fuckin' wanker.

Yes, I did.

How do I know you're telling the truth? Do you and your brother have name-tags?

No. Turns out, he wanted me to be Lemon. Told you he doesn't like codenames, so that was his form of revenge.

No way!

This is so unnecessarily fun, he wants to kill himself. He's about to be murdered by some Russian underworld crime-lord for losing a briefcase of money and a bell-end of a son, but he's here, talking to this girl about why his codename had to be a citrus fruit variant for this particular job.

He was really fucking priority-less.

But he's not going to acknowledge how much he needed this conversation.

Instead, he glares up at Ladybug. Or was it Ladybird? Oh, right, he doesn't care.

"I didn't even say anything."

"Again, shut up, virgin.", he scoffs, eyes darting back down to his phone.

Told him he's Lemon and that's that. I'm Tangerine.

Did you say why?

Yeah, like you said. 'Cause it's sophisticated.

Good job.

There's some old guy here tryna fuck up our chances at getting our paycheque.

He sounds like a right fucking arsehole. Stealing jobs from younger people like that.

He hides a grin at that, nudging the man with his foot.

"For what it's worth, you seem like a right fuckin' arsehole, and I'm glad you're gonna fuckin' die with me.", he declares, shoving the phone into his pocket. He knows he doesn't need to say goodbye or anything. Not with you.

Especially not now. Not when he could actually die.

It's just bad form.

Buggering hell. He's dressed head to toe in you, essentially. The suit. The watch, fuck. The rings -though they were his initially - have you all over them. The fucking facial hair. And he's still on the fence about who you even are. To him, that is. Who you are as a person? He's researched every drop of information about you. And sadly, he knows there's heaps more that he hasn't found out yet.

"That's nice.", replies The Insect.

Fuck. This wanker has Lemon's phone. Lemon's whereabouts are unknown. And he's sitting here, catching his breath like he'd never taken a beating before, and thinking about you. Idiot.

But honestly. All Tangerine could do was wait around, really.

"What kind of a name is Tangerine?", asks the tosser named Ladybug.

"Back off, my girl came up with it."

My girl. That's new. Moving on.

"Your girl's your handler?"

"My brother and I don't have 'handlers', we're outside contractors. Why do you have a handler? Loser."

"You know, you have the insults of a twelve year old boy. 'Loser'. 'Virgin'."

"Fuck you, mate."

The Insect shakes his head, chuckling as he picks off some semi-dry blood. "So. Why 'Tangerine'?"

"It's sophisticated."

"In what world?"

"The one you're about to leave if you don't fuck off."

He groans and clenches his teeth in absolute fucking agony as he moves to sit more comfortably. Oh, if you were here, you'd both laugh at him and help him get fixed up, wouldn't ya?

"Just curious."

"Yeah?"

"Do they even know what Lemon looks like?"

Huh. The Insect seemed to have some sort of sixth sense that was unexpected of him. He's going to impersonate his brother, apparently.

They could both die for this. Especially with the fake fucking case, and The Insect's god-awful British accent.

Fucking hell.

He rolls his eyes and yanks the phone out of his pocket again, scrolling, scrolling, scroll— ah, there you are.

I told him he was an arsehole.

Yeah? What'd he say?

He said 'your girl can go fuck herself'.

And what did you say?

'I'll go fuck my girl myself.'

Bullshit.

He loves making up stories and telling them to you, because you believe them all and eat it up.

He knows that by "bullshit", you mean the thought of him ever calling you "his girl", and he honestly can't fault that. But you are. Always have been. He just wishes you'd know that, without him having to tell you.

You're constantly on his mind, why can't you fuckin' read it, too?

I do have to go, now.

"You have to go? Where?"

A voice message. God, is it fucking amazing to hear one familiar voice that doesn't want to bloody kill him, maim him or torture him for not taking care of their son or their briefcase!

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me, Tangerine."

And then, it happens. You coax a full-blown laugh out of him. "That's growin' on me, y'know? I'll bring back a whole box of 'em and force-feed it to you."

"Get your brother lemons, too, then."

His brother. Fuck. "If I find him."

"What do you mean?! Is he okay?"

"Listen, love, I'll call you later, alright? I've got to go sort out this Lemon situation."

"Alright, yeah."

"I'll send you a postcard."

He doesn't know why he just said that, seeing as his survival would be nothing short of a miracle, and he's giving you false hope on a catastrophic level.

God, he was a pathetic little cunt. Wearin' his girlfriend's pick of jewellery and clothing and accessories and even moustache? Of course, it made him look good, but still.

And now he's sitting here, worried that he's lied to you, inadvertently.

There's a fuckin' limit, yeah?

"Oi.", he calls, tired and reluctant, but this has to be done.

"What?"

Tangerine licks his lips as he leans against the rumbling wall of the train car, arms crossed, muscles flexed. He wipes off a spot of blood from his nose, sniffing before he speaks. "If shite goes downhill. "Hits the fan", as your people would say it.", he mumbles, unable to fucking believe that this is what he'd come to.

His fingers rub desperately at his temples.

You (or Ibuprofen) would do a peak job at that, actually. But neither are in sight.

"Mm?" The Insect's dusting off the proxy briefcase as he responds, glancing at him from over his shoulder. "You lightheaded?"

"No, I've got a fucking migraine thanks to that ten quid water bottle you threw at me, mate!", he snaps, clenching his fists so he doesn't sucker punch this proxy-Lemon again.

He clears his throat. "If shite goes wrong, uh, would you help me send a postcard, to my girl?"

The Insect guffaws for a moment, fixing up the case as he turns, before raising both brows in astonishment. "You're serious?"

"Why the fuck would I joke about my girl?"

He holds up his hands in surrender, the briefcase glinting slightly in the fluorescent train lights. "I didn't even think you actually had a girl."

"Well, I do , alright? And if I die, just tell my brother to send her a postcard, uh, with my name on it."

"Tangerine.", he comments.

"No, you absolute stupid git, my real n— Lemon'll know what to do."

"What if he dies, too?"

Tangerine's eyebrows furrow, and his lips purse. "You're a real ray of sunshine, aren't ya? Fine, if he dies, too - he better fucking not have - you get my phone. Find my girl's address, send her a postcard with my real name."

"What's your real name?"

"Oh, fuck off, it's all in my phone. 'M not tellin' you now, and then if somehow we both survive, there's someone out there who knows my real fucking name, how much of a muppet d'you think I am?"

"Alright, alright. Done. What if I don't surv—"

"You better fucking survive!"

The train door jolts open right then, and honestly? The Insect's so lucky that happened.

"If your British accent's a stereotype, I will throw you under the train.", he growls under his breath as they both step off to 'prove' that the case is still with them.

He'll get a postcard to you, dead or alive.

At the very least, you'll get a story out of it and you can write some books on your own.

Ha. Ghost-writing.

God, you'd have loved that joke.

Ugh, fuck his luck to hell.

[andy-15-07]

Love in the Chaos

pairing: Aaron Taylor Johnson x female!reader

word count: 1155 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Aaron Taylor Johnson Masterlist

"Y/n, have you seen my blue shirt?" Aaron called from the bedroom, his voice slightly muffled.

"I think it's in the laundry basket, love," you replied from the kitchen, where you were meticulously arranging a charcuterie board. Tonight was date night, a rare and precious occasion for you and Aaron. After months of juggling work, school runs, and the whirlwind of raising two young children, you were finally escaping for a few hours. Your parents had graciously offered to babysit, and you were determined to make the most of it.

"Ah, you're right," Aaron reappeared, the blue shirt now in hand. He grinned at you, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "You know, sometimes I think you have a secret organization system for all our belongings."

You chuckled, "If only! It’s more like controlled chaos." You glanced at the clock. "Kids are finally down, right?"

"Sleeping like little angels," Aaron confirmed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a gentle hug. "They were surprisingly easy tonight. Maybe they sensed our desperation for freedom."

"Let's hope it stays that way," you said, leaning into his embrace. "I’d hate for Grandma and Grandpa to have a wrestling match at bedtime."

"Speaking of which," Aaron said, releasing you and grabbing his wallet from the dresser, "I should probably run to the store and grab that bottle of wine we talked about. Red, right?"

"Perfect," you replied, gesturing to the charcuterie board. "And maybe some fancy cheese. The kids won't appreciate it, so we can indulge."

"Consider it done," Aaron said, giving you a quick kiss before heading out the door.

You surveyed the kitchen, a smile playing on your lips. The babysitter was coming in an hour, giving you just enough time to get ready without rushing. You finished arranging the charcuterie board, adding a few sprigs of rosemary for a touch of elegance. Then, you headed upstairs to get ready.

As you were changing, your phone buzzed. It was a text from Aaron: "Found the perfect wine. And I may have also picked up some dark chocolate. Just sayin'..."

You smiled, replying with a string of heart emojis. He knew you so well. A quiet evening with good food, good wine, and even better company was your idea of heaven.

A little while later, Aaron returned, a bottle of wine and a bag of groceries in hand. "I also grabbed some flowers," he announced, presenting a small bouquet of vibrant lilies.

"They're beautiful," you said, taking the flowers and inhaling their sweet fragrance. "Thank you."

"You deserve them," Aaron said softly, his eyes filled with affection. "You deserve a night off."

The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of the babysitter. Your parents came in, beaming and ready for their mission. After a quick briefing about bedtime routines and emergency contacts, you and Aaron were finally out the door, hand in hand.

"Where are we going?" you asked as Aaron led you to his car.

"It's a surprise," he said with a wink. "But I promise you'll love it."

He drove for about twenty minutes, taking you to a charming little Italian restaurant tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. The restaurant was dimly lit, with cozy tables and the soft murmur of conversation filling the air. It was the perfect setting for a romantic date night.

"This place looks amazing," you said as you were shown to your table.

"I knew you'd like it," Aaron replied, pulling out your chair.

You settled into your seats, feeling a sense of calm wash over you. It was so nice to be out, just the two of you, without the constant demands of parenthood.

"So," Aaron said, after you'd ordered drinks, "what have you been up to lately? Besides being a supermom, of course."

You laughed, "Well, work has been crazy busy. But I finally finished that big project I was telling you about."

"That's fantastic!" Aaron exclaimed, raising his glass. "To your success!"

You clinked glasses and took a sip of your wine. The conversation flowed easily, as it always did between you and Aaron. You talked about work, your kids, your dreams for the future. You laughed, you reminisced, and you simply enjoyed each other's company.

As the evening progressed, the conversation turned more personal.

"You know," Aaron said, his voice softening, "I don't tell you this enough, but I'm so grateful for you. You're an incredible mother, an amazing partner, and my best friend."

Your heart swelled with warmth. "Thank you, Aaron," you replied, your voice thick with emotion. "I feel the same way about you. You're my rock, my support system, and the love of my life."

He reached across the table and took your hand, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "I love you, Y/n," he said, his eyes locking with yours.

"I love you too, Aaron," you whispered back.

For a moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, connected by an invisible thread of love and understanding.

After dinner, Aaron surprised you with a walk along the riverbank. The moon was full, casting a silvery glow on the water. You strolled hand in hand, enjoying the peacefulness of the night.

"This is perfect," you said, leaning your head on Aaron's shoulder.

"It is," he agreed. "Just like you."

You smiled, feeling completely content. This was exactly what you needed – a night to reconnect, to recharge, to remember why you fell in love in the first place.

As you walked back to the car, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt about leaving the kids. But then you remembered something Aaron had said earlier: "Happy parents, happy kids." You knew that taking time for yourselves was essential for the health and well-being of your family.

When you arrived home, your parents were waiting for you, both kids fast asleep.

"They were perfect angels," your mom said with a smile.

"Thank you so much for watching them," you said, feeling a wave of gratitude.

"Anytime," your dad replied. "You two deserve a night out."

After your parents left, you and Aaron went upstairs, careful not to wake the kids. You changed into your pajamas and snuggled into bed, feeling tired but happy.

"Tonight was amazing," you said, turning to face Aaron.

"It was," he agreed, kissing you softly on the lips. "We should do it more often."

"Definitely," you said, closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep, feeling loved and cherished.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of your kids giggling downstairs. You and Aaron exchanged a look, a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. The date night was over, and it was back to reality. But you both knew that the memories of the evening would stay with you, a reminder of the love and connection that bound you together. And that, you realized, was more valuable than anything.

[0stentatiouss]

𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔

Tangerine (Bullet Train) x Reader / Y/N | Smutty one-shot

He gave you three rules when he took the job. The first — do exactly as I say. But you broke that one today, didn’t you? Now you're back in the safehouse with blood on your hands, wrists bound with his tie, and Tangerine crouched between your legs — not to punish. To remind. With his mouth. His fingers. And a promise you’re too wrecked to doubt.

!NSFW! | Please do not engage if you're a minor

Masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: a hot British man, smut, profanity, oral (f receiving), edging, orgasm denial, bondage, mocking dirty talk, overstimulation, desperation, and many very hot words.

how many words: 6.1k (yes, I know, I got too carried away, gotta keep this fandom alive. Oopsie, not oopsie)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The first thing you notice is how fucking quiet it is.

No radio crackling with static. No hum of ventilation pushing stale air through rusted vents. Just the old ceiling fan above, its blades warped from years of neglect, ticking like a bomb with every uneven rotation. It spins slowly, laboring against the heat, as if each turn might be its last. The room is thick with the scent of sweat and gunmetal—a metallic tang that clings to the back of your throat, sharp enough to make your pulse stutter even though the fight’s over.

Technically.

The door behind you is shut. Locked. The floor beneath your boots is a graveyard of cracked tiles, still dusted with debris from where he’d shoved a bookshelf against the entrance—precaution, he’d said, voice clipped.

But he hasn’t said a word since.

He’s at the window again, framed in fractured afternoon light, his silhouette carved against the glass. Same posture as the last time you nearly got yourself killed: shoulders rigid, jaw locked tight, eyes fixed on the city below like it owes him something. The sunlight spills gold across his back, catching the dampness at his nape, the single dark curl that’s escaped its usual discipline and now clings to his skin.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. You watch him in the shattered mirror propped against the far wall—his reflection distorted, fractured into jagged pieces. He hasn’t looked at you. Not once. Not since he hauled you out of that alley by the scruff of your shirt and spat blood onto the pavement like it was poison.

You should say something. Anything.

But what the fuck do you say to a man like Tangerine when you’ve just made him look like a goddamn fool?

The silence stretches, thin as a tripwire.

Your mouth is bone-dry. You’re still half-suited in your gear—utility vest hanging open, dust ground into the fabric, the sting in your thigh a constant reminder of how close you came to catching a bullet instead of just a scrape.

And he’d been the one to stop it. Again.

Which is why the quiet is worse than shouting.

You remember the first time he agreed to watch your back. You’d been jittery, pacing the length of some shitty motel room, words tumbling out of you like loose change.

He hadn’t bothered with reassurances. Just three rules, delivered in that low, gravel-cut voice of his:

"One—you don’t lie to me. Not ever."

"Two—you don’t fuck off alone, not even for a piss. You stay where I can see you."

"Three—you do what I say, when I say it. No attitude, no backtalk. I say drop—you hit the goddamn floor before your brain catches up."

You’d laughed then. Tossed back something smart like, "What are you, my handler or my dad?"

He hadn’t smiled. Just looked at you with those cold, assessing eyes and said, "Dead girls don’t get to make clever jokes, sweetheart."

You think about that now. About how you did wander off. How you didn’t drop when he barked the order. How you’d bolted left when he’d snapped right, convinced you’d seen an opening, convinced you could handle it.

And instead, you’d ended up pressed against the reeking side of a dumpster while he traded fire with a rooftop sniper—blood on his teeth, fury in every syllable of your name.

He moves now, turning from the window with that slow, deliberate grace that always makes your stomach knot. His jacket’s long gone, discarded somewhere in the chaos. His waistcoat hangs open, buttons undone, the crisp white shirt beneath rumpled and streaked with grime. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with tension. His knuckles are split, the skin raw. There’s blood on his collar—not his, not yours.

But the way he’s looking at you?

You owe him.

You swallow.

"Tangerine—"

His gaze cuts across the room like a blade.

"Don’t."

One word. And it flays you.

You straighten without thinking, spine locking. Something flickers in his expression—disdain, disbelief, maybe both. He steps closer, each footfall measured, deliberate, like he’s counting the seconds between your heartbeats.

"You got somethin’ to say, sweetheart?" His voice is a low rasp, edged with something dangerous. "Go on. Enlighten me. Tell me how it all went tits-up despite you ignoring every fuckin’ word outta my mouth."

Your lips press into a tight line.

"I thought I saw an opening," you mutter. Weak. Pathetic.

He barks a laugh—sharp, humorless. "Yeah. Saw an opening all right. Right between your goddamn eyes."

You flinch.

He notices. Doesn’t care.

"You know what pisses me off the most?" He’s closer now, close enough that you catch the scent of gunpowder and leather, the faint copper tang of blood still clinging to him. "Not that you threw yourself into the fire. Not even that I had to clean up the mess. It’s the look on your face right now."

"What look?"

You can’t help, but look away.

Shame burns under your skin. Hot and deep and curling like smoke in your lungs. He’s not wrong. That’s the worst part. Every word hits. You had told yourself you were helping. That you'd made the call because you had instincts. That you weren’t some stupid girl playing action hero. But that’s not how it looked. That’s not how it felt, pressed to the pavement with his hand on the back of your neck, his body shielding yours from gunfire, fury practically pouring off of him like heat.

He’s right in front of you now. Too close. The air turns thick, suffocating. You can smell the smoke in his clothes. The blood. The sweat. The ghost of his cologne buried under it all — sharp citrus and something darker beneath. Something that smells like ruin.

"I gave you three rules." His breath ghosts over your cheek. Not quite touching. Not quite not.

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t know — but because your throat’s closed up around something raw and ugly.

"I said, don’t lie to me," he murmurs, low and steady. His voice isn't raised. He doesn’t need to raise it. It’s more dangerous this way. The calm before something breaks.

His fingers ghost up to your jaw — not touching, just tracing the space around you. Testing your nerve.

"I said, don’t go off alone. No wandering off like you’re in some fuckin’ spy film."

Your chest rises. You can’t stop it. He sees it.

"And the third one?" he asks, quiet as a confession. "Say it."

You hesitate. Your gaze flicks up to his, just for a second.

His eyes are sharp. Focused. Blue, but darker now — all the humor scraped out of them. What’s left is something razor-edged. Something... deliberate.

"Do what you say. When you say it," you whisper.

He watches you. Not moving. Just... watching.

Then he nods.

"That’s right," he says. "And yet here we are."

He takes a step around you. Slow. Measured. Circling now — like you’re something to be inspected, studied, judged. Your spine straightens before you can stop it. Every part of you screams to move, to shrink under the heat of his attention, but you don’t. You stand your ground.

Even when he’s behind you.

Even when he leans in — voice brushing the shell of your ear.

"Tell me, love," he says softly. "Are you tryin’ to piss me off?"

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

"No."

"But you do it anyway."

He moves again. Around. Back in front of you now. The way his eyes rake over you isn’t hungry — it’s calculating. Like he’s pulling apart every impulse in your body just to see what breaks first.

"I think maybe," he says, tilting his head, "you’ve forgotten how very fuckin’ real this is."

His fingers flex at his sides — slow, controlled. You feel the shift in the room like a pressure drop. Like something old and heavy has rolled into place.

"And I think maybe," he continues, taking one more step forward, "you’ve been gettin’ away with too much."

You inhale sharply — then curse yourself for the sound.

Tangerine smiles. Slow. Crooked. Like a shark that’s finally caught the scent.

"Thought so," he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He just lets the moment sit there, thick and humid and awful, your pulse thrumming in your throat like a warning bell.

Then, finally — softly, so soft it shouldn’t be scary — he says:

"Take your vest off."

The words hit harder than a shout ever could. Not barked. Not forced. Just laid there between you, like a test. Like bait. And somehow, that’s worse. He isn’t angry in the way people usually are. He’s angry in the way a storm holds back on purpose — lets the sky stay quiet just long enough to make you pray for thunder.

You don’t move.

Not right away.

He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t even look like he needs to.

You feel stupid. Small. Hot all over, and not just from the heat.

This wasn’t how you thought today would end — not crouched in a half-collapsed safehouse, stripped of your pride and common sense, with blood on your shoulder and Tangerine standing three feet away like he’s about to rewrite your nervous system.

You had a plan. You always do. You were going to prove you weren’t just some wide-eyed liability. That you could anticipate, adapt, handle yourself.

By the time you hit the ground, he was already over you — cursing, dragging you by the arm, pressing you down with his full weight until the shot cracked past your ear like thunder.

You were lucky.

You were stupidly lucky.

And the worst part — the very worst, most unbearable part — is that you can’t even be angry at him for being angry.

You broke the rules. And you remember what he said when he gave them to you — not just the words, but the tone, like he was giving you the only thing he had to offer:

“I don’t fuckin’ babysit. If you don’t follow orders, I leave you behind.”

He hasn’t left you behind yet. Not physically. But the way he’s looking at you now?

Like you’re one more disobedience away from being someone he doesn’t have to protect anymore.

You shift your weight. Not enough to move — just enough to feel like you haven’t frozen completely.

His eyes track the motion. Still silent.

The vest is heavy on your shoulders, caked with dust, sweat clinging beneath the straps. It’s uncomfortable. Claustrophobic. But you don’t take it off.

You’re still holding onto something — pride, maybe. Or fear.

You don’t want to give in too easily. You don’t want to lose. Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it? Not a debrief. Not a punishment.

A test. Of power.

And you’ve always hated being told what to do.

Even when part of you wants to obey.

You try not to let your breathing change. Try not to let your eyes flick downward — to the knot of his tie, now loose around his collar. To the sleeves of his shirt, pushed up over his forearms, exposing the scrape on his left wrist. The small streak of blood at his temple. The ring on his finger, subtle and scuffed.

He doesn’t move a muscle. Just watches. Like he can hear every argument in your head, and already knows how it ends.

And for one ugly, breathless second, you realize something that makes your pulse stumble:

You want him to make you.

You want him to take that choice out of your hands entirely. Because then it wouldn’t be weakness. Wouldn’t be surrender. You could tell yourself you didn’t have a say. That you weren’t already aching to submit, just to feel something clear and clean after all this fucking noise.

But he won’t.

That’s not who he is.

He’ll wait. Until you decide.

Until your pride cracks under its own weight and you give him what he asked for. Until you hand it over.

So you do.

You lift your hands. Slow. Reach for the buckles on the vest. Your fingers tremble — just a little. Not enough for him to comment, but enough that you know he sees it.

You peel the vest off and let it fall to the ground beside your feet.

He nods once. Doesn’t praise. Doesn’t smile. Just…

Waits.

And now you’re bare in a way that has nothing to do with armor. Your tank top is thin, sticking to your spine. Your mouth’s dry. Your knees don’t quite feel like they’re holding you up anymore.

Still, he says nothing.

And the silence is louder than anything you’ve ever heard.

He nods once when the vest hits the floor — like it confirms something he already knew. Like you passed the first gate, but barely.

Then, finally, he moves.

Two slow steps toward the corner of the room. His shoes grind dust into the tile. You follow him with your eyes as he reaches for the only freestanding chair — a squat, heavy thing with scuffed wooden legs and a warped cushion that’s seen better decades. Probably used to belong to a kitchen table. It groans when he lifts it.

He drags it to the middle of the room. Right under the lazy churn of the ceiling fan, where the sunlight leaks in through the slats and paints long, golden stripes across the floor. No theatrics. Just deliberate motion.

He turns the chair to face you. Then he sits.

Not carefully. Not stiffly. He drops into it like he owns gravity, thighs spread wide, elbows braced on his knees, posture loose in that way that always makes you feel too visible. The air between you tightens. The fan ticks overhead, barely moving the heat. There’s a faint stain on the tile beneath the chair — something old and rust-coloured. You can’t tell if it’s blood or water damage. Maybe both.

You’re suddenly very aware of how little is left between your skin and him.

Under the vest, you’re in just a tank top — thin, ribbed cotton clinging to your skin, soaked with sweat from the run. No bra. You hadn’t expected to need one. You wore it because it was easy to layer under gear, because it kept you mobile — not because it covered much.

Now, in the heat and tension, it’s practically see-through. The fabric stretches tight across your chest, nipples outlined starkly, the curve of your breasts more visible with every breath you take. It clings to your back, sticks to the slope of your spine, leaves your shoulders bare.

You feel… exposed. In a way that makes you straighten your posture, as if standing tall could somehow preserve a shred of control.

But his gaze? It drags over you slow — deliberate — and makes it clear: That top won’t save you.

He pats his thigh.

“Come here.”

Just that.

And when you hesitate — not long, but long enough — his expression doesn’t shift, but the room does. It feels like it shifts. Like the oxygen content dropped.

“That hesitation?” he says. “That’s what nearly got you killed today.”

His voice is quieter now. Controlled. But the threat isn’t gone — it’s just changed shape.

You walk. Slow. Steady. Toward the chair in the center of the room — not just a chair anymore, but a spot. A fixed point where something about to happen has already been decided.

You stop between his legs. The air between you electric.

He doesn’t reach for your face. Doesn’t grab your arm.

He goes for your wrists.

Not sudden. Not soft. Just certain.

His hand wraps around one first — firm, steady — before sliding down to catch the other, bringing them together like it’s already decided. There’s no hesitation in him, no flicker of doubt. Only the kind of precision that comes from years of using his hands to bind, break, or end.

And then comes the tie.

Not just some office accessory. Not just fabric. It’s thick — double-stitched silk, dark navy with the faintest herringbone pattern that only shows in the right light. The kind of thing you don’t notice until it’s around your skin and too late to stop it. It’s still warm from his neck.

He unloops it with one hand, smooth and methodical, like he’s folding a weapon back into place. The other keeps your wrists in place — motionless — and when the silk brushes your skin, it isn’t soft.

It’s tight.

You expect restraint. But not this — not the precision of it, not the bite. He winds it once, twice, three times around your wrists, high enough that it forces your forearms close. Then pulls. Hard.

The knot locks like a cuff. No slack. No give. No way out.

Your breath catches.

It isn’t painful. But it’s not gentle, either. There’s no room for wriggling, no margin for second thoughts. He binds like someone who’s done it before — like he’s had to make people stay where he put them, and isn’t interested in repeat offenses.

His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow — deliberate. The gesture could almost pass for tender if it weren’t laced with something colder.

A reminder: he's letting you breathe.

You glance up.

He’s still seated, legs apart, posture deceptively loose — but there’s a tautness under his skin now, something coiled. His jaw is dusted with stubble and set firm, like he's bitten down on the urge to speak and is letting the silence do the work. His curls are damp around the edges, sweat clinging near his temples. One sleeve of his shirt is bloodied at the elbow, rolled high and careless, showing the muscle and tension under his skin.

His eyes? Calm. But flat. Like the surface of a lake right before the body drifts up.

You test the tie — instinct, nothing more — and it holds. Of course it holds.

His gaze drops to your bound hands. Then flicks back to your face.

One eyebrow lifts — faint, sardonic.

"You always this twitchy, or just when you know you’ve cocked it up?"

He glances at the space just beside him — the open tile next to the chair, where the light is falling soft and golden. And you know.

That’s where you’ll be.

Down there.

That’s where this is heading. You can feel it in the air — in the way his hand lingers at your bound wrists, thumb ghosting over your pulse like he’s timing something.

You don’t know what.

Not really.

But when his gaze flicks past you — to that strip of cool tile bathed in gold beside his chair — your stomach turns. Not from fear. Not exactly.

"You don’t strike me as the quick learner type," he says, voice calm. Conversational, even.

It doesn’t feel like a dig until he keeps going.

"Bit stubborn. Bit slow to take instruction." His thumb presses into the edge of the knot. "But you’ve got potential. Underneath all that noise."

You swallow.

He’s not asking for permission. Not giving you instructions. He’s just speaking — like this is all inevitable, like you already agreed to whatever this is going to become.

Then he shifts — not standing, not even fully rising, just leaning forward into the space you’re in now. His spine unfurls slowly from where it was curled over his knees, and suddenly he’s closer. Not upright, but forward, forearms braced against his thighs as he draws your bound wrists toward him.

Your hands hover at chest height now — yours, not his — and the angle forces you to tilt forward just slightly to stay balanced. It puts your face near his, too near, so that when he speaks next, his breath does brush your cheek. Cold and precise.

“And after today?”

A pause.

The knot tightens just slightly between his fingers.

You brace for it — the scolding, the threat, the command.

But instead, he huffs out a small, near-silent breath. Almost a laugh.

"Let’s just say," he murmurs, "you’re not exactly startin’ from the top."

Then he lets go of your wrists.

And gestures — not sharply, not clearly. Just tips his chin ever so slightly toward the floor beside his chair, where the light hits and the tile waits.

No command. No sentence.

Just the implication.

And somehow, it’s worse than being ordered.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

You stand there with your wrists bound, skin hot and pulse fluttering beneath silk, and try to pretend this is still a negotiation. That you’ve got some say in the matter. That just because he didn’t say it, doesn’t mean you have to do it.

But he doesn’t fill the silence.

He just sits there, one arm slung over the back of the chair now, the other resting on his thigh. Head tilted slightly, watching you with the kind of detached focus usually reserved for a chessboard or a body. Like he’s already planned three moves ahead — and your pride is just a pawn waiting to fall.

The tile beside him catches a streak of gold from the window. Dust floats in the air above it. It’s nothing. Just floor.

But somehow it feels like a cliff.

Your legs won’t move at first. Not because you’re frozen — but because some stupid, shame-wet part of you still wants to win. Wants him to demand it, drag it out of you with clipped words and sharp teeth.

But that’s not how he works.

You know that now.

So you lower yourself.

Slow. Controlled. Like if you do it carefully enough, it won’t count as giving in.

Your knees touch the tile first — hard and cold, the stone biting through the thin fabric of your trousers. You shift to one side, closer to him, thighs brushing the inside edge of his chair. The position is awkward — vulnerable. But you keep going.

Down onto your hip. Then your back. Arms still bound against your stomach, knees bent, the stretch of your spine arching just enough that your shoulder blades meet the floor.

The fan clicks overhead. That’s the only sound.

And then — a shift.

You hear it before you see it. The creak of the chair as he rises, slow and deliberate. No rush. No sound but the scrape of his shoes on the tile. The scrape of the chair legs being pushed back. A pause — just long enough for you to feel the emptiness where he was sitting. And then the space fills again — this time with him, above you.

He crouches low between your legs, the stretch of his body controlled, dangerous. A scuffed oxford plants beside your hip. The other presses into the tile near your thigh. His knees cage you in. His vest gapes open slightly now — revealing the sweat-darkened curve of his shirt beneath, the line of his collarbone, the top of that bloodied sleeve. He's all sharp shadows and heat.

The chair was never meant to hold him.

It was just a throne — a test.

Now he wants you beneath him.

His hand finds your thigh — warm, broad — and presses. Not cruel. But unyielding.

He shifts your legs without asking. One over his shoulder. The other bent outward, leaving you exposed in a way that makes your throat tighten.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t comment on the way your hips shift under his hand, the way your breath hitches as his palm slides along the seam of your thigh. Your pants are still on — tactical cut, scuffed at the knee, waistband clinging to the sweat just above your hipbone — but the implication’s there.

He adjusts your legs like you’re a thing. One over his shoulder. The other angled outward to the side. Not all the way open — not yet — but enough to make your lungs forget how to pull in air properly.

You feel the pressure where his shoulder presses between your thighs. Feel the warmth of his breath, his shirt brushing your knee.

He doesn’t undress you.

Not even close.

He just… waits.

Not cruel. Not patient either. Just quiet. Controlled.

He looks down at you like he already owns everything he hasn’t even touched yet.

And you don’t know which is worse — that he hasn’t taken anything from you yet, or that your body’s already giving it up anyway.

Your wrists are still bound.

The silk digs in now — tighter than before — where he pulled the knot clean after you flinched. They rest across your torso, the backs of your fingers brushing your ribs, as your body shifts against the floor.

It’s cold. The tile beneath you is rough and sun-warmed in some places, ice-cold in others. You feel every uneven line of it. Your back aches from the angle, hips tilted just enough to expose the waistband of your pants — slightly askew from how he dragged your legs apart.

He doesn’t say a word as he lowers himself.

You inhale sharply as his hand moves between your legs. Not to undress you — not yet — but to press.

The heel of his palm slides along the seam of your pants. Up. Then back down. A test. A reminder. You’re fully clothed. Bound. Under him.

And he’s the one deciding when — and if — you get anything more than this.

“Mm.” The sound escapes him, deep and short. Almost clinical. “You’re fuckin’ buzzing already.”

You don’t respond.

Your voice’s gone tight in your throat, caught somewhere between yes and please and shut up.

He smirks.

And then he drags the zipper down — slow. Metal teeth parting with a rasp that might as well be thunder in your ears.

Your hips twitch. He presses them back down with one hand.

“Not helpful,” he mutters, without looking at you. “Stay still.”

You do.

Because you don’t have a choice. Because the sound of the zipper and the way his hand slips beneath the waistband is enough to pin you harder than the tile ever could. His fingers hook into your pants. Slow. Like it’s nothing urgent. Like he’s just unwrapping something that already belongs to him.

You lift your hips without meaning to — reflex, desperation. It earns you a short breath of laughter.

“Oh, now you’re helpful.”

He drags them down — tactical fabric scraping over your thighs, catching on your calves, tugging your underwear along with it in one smooth, practiced pull. You’re bare from the waist down in seconds. The air hits your skin like a slap. The tile’s colder now. Sharper. You’re too exposed to breathe properly.

He sits back just enough to look at you.

Takes his fucking time doing it, too. Eyes dragging up the inside of your thighs, over your hips, lingering where you're already wet — not touching. Just seeing.

And the look on his face?

Not angry. Not reverent. Just… disappointed and lustful. Like you’re a lesson he has to teach again, and again, and again.

“Messy little thing,” he mutters, almost to himself. “And for what? You didn’t even do anything worth gettin’ wet over.”

His fingers come next.

Two of them — middle and ring — slipping down without warning, without invitation. They glide through the heat of you, collecting slick with maddening slowness before trailing back up. They don’t press in. Not yet. They circle your clit instead — lazy, deliberate strokes that make your thighs jerk and your breath catch in your throat.

Your whole body jerks.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t react. Just keeps going — the same slow circle, again and again. Not enough pressure. Not enough speed. Just enough to drive you out of your skin.

His free hand presses down on your hip, holding you flat. His thumb brushes a faint, rhythmic line over your thigh like he’s bored — like he’s passing the time, not touching you.

You whimper. It escapes before you can stop it.

He raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t stop.

“Oh, now you wanna behave?” he says, voice all mockery and low heat. “Now that I’ve got your legs open and your hands tied, suddenly you’re fuckin’ obedient.”

He leans forward.

His mouth hovers just above you now. You feel the breath. Warm. Damp. Cruel.

“You want it?”

You nod.

He clicks his tongue.

"Not good enough."

You barely register the shift — not until his mouth is on you.

There’s no warning. No teasing preamble. Just the sudden, searing heat of his tongue dragging through your folds in one long, filthy stroke that tears a sound from your throat. Your back bows off the tile before you can stop it — hips jerking up, thighs clenching around his head in a desperate, unthinking reflex.

It’s too much. Too good. And then it’s gone.

He pulls back instantly, lips wet, breath ghosting over you as you gasp for air, still trembling.

His grip tightens on your leg — hard now — fingers biting into the soft flesh above your knee. You feel your pulse fluttering wild beneath his thumb.

Then—a slap. Sharp. Stinging. Right to the inside of your thigh.

Not cruel. Not punishing.

Just a reminder.

"Did I say you could fuckin’ move?"

His voice is rough, dark, curling around you like smoke. You shake your head, lips parting on a silent plea, but he doesn’t give you the chance to speak. His hand slides higher, possessive, pressing you back into the floor as he lowers his head again.

This time, he doesn’t go straight for where you need him.

No—he teases.

His lips brush the crease of your thigh, his mustache catching against your sensitive skin, the coarse hair sending shivers through you. His tongue flicks out, tracing a slow, torturous path just beside your clit, close enough to make you whimper but not close enough to give you relief.

"Already soaked," he mutters, his breath hot against your skin. "Pathetic."

You let out a broken sound, hips twitching, but his free hand slams down on your stomach, pinning you in place. His blue eyes flick up to yours, sharp as shattered glass, gleaming with something between amusement and disdain.

"You want it?" he asks, voice low, mocking.

You nod, desperate, fingers twisting in the silk of his tie where it binds your wrists above your head now.

He tsks, shaking his head. "Not good enough."

Then—contact.

His tongue drags over your clit in one slow, deliberate stroke, the tip flicking just enough to make your entire body jerk. He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves, and you bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.

He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t give you more. Just keeps that same maddening rhythm—slow circles, lazy flicks, his lips brushing against you like he’s savoring the taste. His mustache scratches at your skin, rough and intoxicating, the contrast of soft lips and coarse hair making your thighs shake.

You whimper, writhing, but his arm presses harder across your stomach, keeping you still.

"Barely touched you," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. "And you’re already fallin’ apart. Thought you were fuckin’ tougher than this."

You choke out a sob, hips lifting, but he growls—a deep, warning sound—and suddenly two fingers are pushing inside you, stretching you open with a slow, merciless thrust.

"This what you wanted?" he rasps, curling his fingers just right, making you clench around him. "You thought you could run off like some reckless little shit and then come back here and get rewarded?"

His tongue flicks over your clit again, harder this time, and you cry out, back arching.

"No," he says, pulling back just enough to watch you squirm. "You don’t get to come until I say so."

His fingers pump inside you, slow and deep, while his thumb circles your clit in tight, punishing little strokes. You’re gasping, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, your entire body coiled tight with need.

"Look at me," he orders.

Your eyes snap to his, and the sight is maddening—his lips glistening, his mustache damp, his blue eyes burning with something dark and possessive.

You hold his gaze — barely. Your whole body’s trembling under the weight of it. His face is wrecked with slick, his mouth red and glistening, his mustache damp from your skin. The curl of it scratches against your thighs every time he moves. He looks like he’s just gotten started.

And he has.

Because instead of mercy, he drags his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up — one long, slow lick that leaves your spine arching off the floor. It’s not rushed. It’s deliberate. Cruel. He’s tasting you like you’re something he might critique afterward — something indulgent, but undeserved.

"God, you're sweet," he mutters against you. “And you really think you’ve earned this?”

Then he spits — slow, filthy — directly onto your clit. The wet sound makes your head jerk back.

You gasp — full-body, bone-deep.

His tongue follows immediately, spreading it with a lazy swirl, lips dragging close behind. He flicks — once, sharp — then sucks with a drawn-out pull that makes your toes curl, your bound wrists strain.

Your back arches. “Please—”

He hums like you’re interrupting him. Then pulls back just slightly, tongue barely grazing now, just the tip, tracing precise little half-circles around your clit without ever touching the center.

It’s torture in the most exquisite sense.

The air is cool where he was, and warm where he is. Your cunt pulses, empty and aching, clenched around nothing. You need him to do more — just a little more — but he doesn’t. He stays there, tongue soft, feathery, patient in the worst possible way.

Your wrists twist in the silk — helpless, bound tight against your stomach. You want to beg, to plead, to just move, but your voice won’t obey you. Your body’s not yours anymore — it’s his. Strung high on every flick, every curl, every low sound he makes against your skin.

You're so close it hurts. Too close.

You try to say his name — just a broken syllable — but it crumbles on your tongue.

He hears it anyway.

And he laughs.

Low. Cruel. Mocking.

“Oh, sweetheart. That desperate already?” His voice is a rasp against your thigh, still damp from his mouth. “Barely touched you. Haven’t even earned it yet.”

He shifts, mouth dragging back down to your clit — and this time, he doesn’t lick. Doesn’t suck. Just breathes. Hot and maddening, hovering right there. So close your legs shake.

You gasp, hips jerking up again, and he moves fast — arm pinning you down across your hips like steel.

“No,” he growls. “You stay still, yeah? You don’t get to fuckin’ chase it.”

You writhe anyway. You can’t not — not with the way his fingers curl, press, withdraw, push in again like he’s reading your reactions and choosing every one he likes.

“All that squirming,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your thigh. “You keep that up, I’ll stop. Leave you soaking and sore with nothin’ to show for it. You want that?”

You shake your head — frantic, tears slipping now. Your legs quake against the hold he has on you.

“Thought not.”

Then finally — finally — he seals his mouth to your clit again. Wet, slow suction. His tongue flattening, then flicking with obscene patience. Like he’s not trying to make you come. Like he’s trying to watch you fall apart trying not to.

“You think this is what happens when you break rules?” he says, nuzzling between your thighs, breath hot and damp. “You think you get my fingers, my mouth, my fuckin’ time, just because you look pretty and make a mess?”

His hand snakes beneath your ass, lifts your hips — just enough to change the angle — and then he’s tongue-fucking you, slow and deliberate, like he wants to feel every twitch, every clench, every pathetic sound ripped from your throat.

His tongue curls inside you, then pulls out with a slick drag. Then back in.

Your legs are shaking now, and he holds them apart easily, pressing your knees wider with both hands, thumbs stroking up the inside of your thighs like he’s calming a tantrum.

You’re not even speaking anymore — just gasping, eyes glassy, body wracked with pleasure you’re not allowed to finish.

"Aw, you're close, aren’t you?" he says, voice full of mock pity. "I can feel it. The way you're fuckin’ clenching around nothing. Poor girl."

And then — tongue to clit. Direct. Pressure. Rhythm.

Small, tight circles, the kind that undo you fast. The kind that feel so close it starts to hurt. He keeps going. Tongue moving just right, lips closing around you to suck once, then again.

You cry out — louder this time — your body arched, trembling, so close you’re practically coming just from the promise.

Then—

He stops.

Everything.

Pulls back with a wet sound and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand again, like he’s done cleaning up a spill.

You’re wrecked — slick and soaked and shaking, your wrists pulled tight, your legs wide and utterly abandoned.

Tangerine looks down at you. No sympathy. No softness.

Just a smirk.

“Still don’t know how to follow simple fuckin’ orders.”

And then he stands. Quiet. Unhurried.

Leaves you there.

Wet. Empty. Denied.

Exactly like you deserve.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH

[mencantaleer]

tangerine smut attempt

Possible bullet train spoiler

Alternate line where tangerine does not die.

Set after beating white death.

Synopsis: Just the reader taking care of her boy after he comes back from a complicated day.

Female reader over 18 years old, 2797 words. mdni!

Warnings : rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), submissive reader, degradation (whore, slut), compliments, mild humiliation, a little tangerine fluff.

I really wanted to write about ATJ but after seeing bulleta train I was tempted to write about Tangerine, I'm not an expert in writing so if there are mistakes or suggestions I'm open to hear them (as long as they are respectful).

I finished writing it at 3 a.m. so I apologize if there are any spelling mistakes, my English is very basic so I tried to translate it the best way I could.

I hope you like it <3, enjoy.

Since you are tangerine's girlfriend you are used to see him coming home with a body full of wounds due to his “work”, you are tired of that although you also find it exciting to see your man full of blood and with a stress that you know you will help to relieve. You love to be fucked hard by Tangerine after every assignment but you are not willing to risk losing him, the train incident reminded you of how fragile life is, that same train where you met him and although you were ready to kill him the fact that they were trapped in the bathroom changed your perspective (you still blush remembering what happened in that cubicle) and how after that he spared your life, a favor that you would return by saving his by pushing him to the ground to deflect the bullet that the fool carter had fired.

Luego de esta situación entablaste una relación de amigos con derechos que se vio opacada por los celos de Mandarina que al ver que un chico te cortejaba no dudó en pedirte que hicieran oficial lo que tenían, lo cual aceptaste sin dudar.

And now we're back here again as you choose lingerie since your boyfriend's wild one ended up breaking the most you had, you look all over the store until you notice a black lace set with floral details, the straps are thin and form a criss-cross design in the center of the chest, adding a sensual touch. The bottom is also lace, with straps extending from the sides, crisscrossing along the abdomen, exposing much of the skin. It's simply perfect, without wasting any more time, you pay for it and head back home until the sound of an incoming call from Tangerine appears on your cell phone screen.

Her voice sounds frazzled but calm

“Hey, it's me, are you busy?” -Tangerine lets out an exhausted sigh.

“No, is something wrong love?"-you reply.

“Nothing, just… you know how it is. Jobs, beatings, all that stuff that always comes along.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? Are you in danger?"-you murmur as the worry rises in you.

“No, no, it's nothing like that. I've had a heavy and tiring day. I think the best thing would be to relax at home with a shower and a drink, and if it's possible to spend some time with you, that would be the best thing that could happen to me today.”

“I understand, don't worry about anything but getting to the apartment alive, I'll take care of the rest” you said as you hurried to get everything ready for her evening.

Tangerine let out a relaxed laugh at your concern, which made her tired body feel slightly rejuvenated.

“I'll be there alive, I promise. Just wait a bit, in 30 minutes it'll be there, I love you, it didn't take long.”

And with that, Tangerine hung up the call and prepared to go home while you went into a kind of crisis trying to make everything perfect for your reunion with him. A quarter of an hour later, you heard a light knock on the apartment door.

“I'm coming,” you said as you hurried down the stairs, before opening the door, you arranged your coat in such a way that it didn't show what you were wearing.

Finally, you opened the door and turned your head, finding your boy there.

-Hi honey,” his tone was agitated.

His tired gaze meets your loving gaze, and despite the exhaustion, a small but tender smile forms on his face. He looked exhausted, his suit was wrinkled, and some dried blood stains decorated his face and cheeks. But still, he was there, standing before you, with what little he had, despite having had an exhausting and violent day. He stood there for a few seconds in silence, just looking at you and enjoying your presence after a long and exhausting day. Finally he spoke, his voice calm and exhausted.

“May I come in?”

“Of course I do"-you reply as you step aside so I can pass.

Tangerine crosses the threshold with heavy, exhausted steps and leans against the door as she closes it with an exhausted sigh. Her gaze briefly meets yours and she silently thanks you for your understanding and support. Finally, he forces himself to straighten up and walk slowly into the apartment, looking for a place to sit down and relax at last.

Let's go to our room, you'll be more comfortable there- you mentioned while you took him to your room, you immediately discarded the idea of sharing a dinner together, maybe another time, now all your boy needed was love and to forget about what he had done.

Tangerine moved quietly and allowed you to escort him to the room, keeping slow and heavy steps because of the exhaustion he felt. When he reached the room, he allowed you to go ahead of him to finally sit on the bed, letting out an exhausted sigh as he slumped his shoulders and rubbed his face with his hands.

“I'll prepare the bathtub with special salts for you to relax” you offered as you sat down beside her to caress her face.

Tangerine is grateful for the consideration of the prepared bathtub and while she appreciates the intention, she is reluctant to allow herself to be pampered, maintaining a façade of toughness and reserve in the face of her emotional and physical wounds. However, his efforts to maintain that facade are visible to your perceptive gaze, knowing deep down that he actually longs for that moment of relaxation and pampering.

“You don't have to bother with me…” he says as he watches you deeply….

“I don't mind taking care of you love, I just want to make you forget about today” you whispered to her.

Although Tangerine tried to hide it, it was quite obvious that what she wanted most was to feel your love and care at that moment. Even though she tried to keep her feelings at bay and show toughness, there was an undertone of vulnerability in her exhausted look. Although his facade might have suggested that he didn't want to be coddled, he actually craved to feel your support and affection in the midst of that exhausting and injury-ridden day he'd had.And if you wanted Tan to leave that life before now you were more than determined to convince him, it tore you apart to see him so haggard.

“How can I help you Tan?” -you asked as you watched him sit up to sit on his bed.

-“The only thing I need right now is you, help me forget about today,” says Tangerine as you feel his lustful gaze on you, at the same time he starts to fill your neck with wet kisses.

“I thought the evil cockroach would finally talk to me about his feelings"- you say while smirking at the same time you straddle him.

“Come on honey you really thought I would talk to you about how I feel dressed like that, don't think I didn't notice you wearing lingerie under that coat"- he said while kissing you all the time.

“How did you notice?” you asked as you felt your skin bristle at the contact of his mouth against your collarbone.

Tangerine let out a weak exhausted laugh at your question. Though she was trying to maintain her facade of serenity, an amused and exhausted smile forms on her face at the obviousness of your question.

“Not that it was too hard to deduce, honey…. I could tell by the way you moved when you entered the apartment, plus the way the coat contracted in some specific areas, even though you tried to be discreet, it was very obvious to me…”

And what are you going to do now that you know? -you moaned as you felt the bulge that had already formed in your boy's pants.

The first thing I have to do is ask you if you want me to go on because tonight I'm not exactly going to be gentle,” you could tell how desperate he was to claim you as his own.

I never asked you to be gentle,” your voice was full of nothing but desire.

And that was all Tangerine needed to finally get rid of your cumbersome coat, being stunned at the sight of what you were wearing

“you're fucking gorgeous honey” he murmured as he kept looking at you.

“do you like it, why I picked it out with you in mind” you said as you started to move over his bulge.

“It's amazing.. And… I can't deny that… it turns me on so much…” he said as he started to run his fingers over your skin

“Use me as you please, today I just want to help you let off some steam” You moaned as you felt Tan's fingers pinch your nipples.

His voice fills with a more dominant edge, an acknowledgement of dominance at the proximity of your bodies. “I'm going to use you for what you are, my plaything, my whore” he adds with greater concentration, as he tugs at your panties ripping them in the process.

“Only yours… all yours…” you roll your eyes as you feel her fingers moving inside you.

Tangerine watches your eyes, as you close them in excitement, she moves one of her hands to your neck and squeezes, keeping control of the situation. “You want that, don't you?” she adds with concentration, keeping her fingers moving and bringing you closer to orgasm. ‘You want me to treat you like a whore…is that what you want?’ she adds, keeping concentration and hardness in her voice, ”Of course you like it, I can feel it by the way you squeeze my fingers dirty slut.”

You frowned at the cluster of sensations and then nodded, “Yes, yes I like you treating me like your whore, go on please.”

He rubbed your clit in slow circles, feeling you squirm at his touch. “You like that don't you, it makes you horny when I talk dirty to you” he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire. “I can feel how wet you are for me.”

He slid a finger inside you, feeling your walls clench around it. He slid it in and out, gradually adding another and then another, opening you up. “Fuck, you're so tight,” he moaned, his cock aching at the erection you were causing him with your moans. “I love the way you feel around my fingers.”

Tangerine curved her fingers, searching for your G-spot that would make you see stars. She found it, and knew she had you right where she wanted you. “Cum for me, baby,” she commanded, her voice strained with pleasure. “I want to feel you come apart around my fingers.”

“So keep going please” you begged as you felt yourself about to come.

He continued to touch you mercilessly, pressing your clit with his thumb as he fucked you with his hand. He could feel your body tense, your moans as you approached climax. “That's it, let yourself go for me,” he urged. “Cum all over my fingers and I promise I'll fill you up all over your holes today.”

That was all you needed to finally cum on him, you could feel your walls clenching around his fingers, your juices coating his hand as you cum hard, just as he had commanded.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” he gasped, slowly pulling his fingers out of you. “You're amazing, baby.”

“I told you I would be there to please you today,and I don't break my promise,“ you mentioned as you knelt before him-”May I suck you sir?”

Tangerine felt a shiver run down her spine as she heard your request. She couldn't believe how insatiable you were, but she enjoyed every moment of it. He unbuttoned and pulled down his pants to make it easier for you, his cock bounced in front of your face, he was hard and ready for you. “You want to taste me, baby? I'm all yours,” he said, his voice low and seductive.

He watched you as with your hands you reached for his cock.

“Fuck, you look so sexy like that,” he growled, his eyes fixed on your face. “I can't wait to feel those lips around me.”

Tangerine placed her hand on the back of your head, guiding you closer to his cock. He could feel your warm breath on his sensitive skin, and it made him throb with anticipation. “Take it easy, baby,” he instructed, his voice strained with desire. “I want to savor every moment.”

When your lips closed around his penis, he let out a low moan, his fingers tangling in your hair. “That's it, take me deep,” he encouraged you, moving his hips slightly forward as he rammed into your mouth. “You're doing great, baby. Fuck, you feel amazing.”

Tangerine lost herself in the sensations, closed her eyes as she concentrated on the feel of your mouth around her. She could feel her orgasm approaching and knew it wouldn't be long before she would cum in your throat. “I'm going to cum, baby,” he warned, his voice strained with pleasure. “Swallow it all for me, like a good girl.”

With one last lunge, Tangerine unloaded, his cock throbbing as he shot his hot seed down your throat, droplets of cum falling onto your tits.

“Fuck Tan that was so good"- you mumbled as you dropped onto the bed trying to steady your breathing.

“We're not done yet Principessa. I still have so much more in store for you. “Tangerine stood up still.

“You fucking bastard, you're insatiable” you said with a smirk.

-Don't talk to me like that or I'll have to fuck you until you beg for forgiveness, love.

“Surely you can, I wouldn't want anything to happen to you for all that effort old man?”

Tangerine could sense the teasing in your voice, and that only made him more determined to please you. He gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your soft skin as he proceeded to ram into you with renewed vigor. “You think I can't continue? I'll give you more, see if that changes your perspective,” she growled, her eyes locked on yours.

Tangerine rammed deeper and harder, his balls slapping against your ass with every movement, creating obscene sounds. “I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight. “She could feel her own orgasm building, but refused to let you go until you begged her to cum.

“Fuck, you're so close,” she gasped, her rhythm becoming erratic. “But I won't let you cum until you scream my name and beg me to let you do it.”

“Mhmmm” you moaned unable to control yourself.

“Words baby, use words if you want to cum or I am capable of leaving you like this” he threatens and you know that the very idiot is capable of following through with what he says

“Please love, I need you so much” you cried out, your voice full of desire. “I can't take it anymore.” “I need to cum, please Tan, let me cum.”

With one last thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could, rubbing his hips against yours. “Now, baby,” he commanded, his voice strained with pleasure. “Cum for me now.” His cock throbbed as he cum deep inside you. He could feel your walls clench around him, your juices mingling with his as you cum hard, just as he had commanded.

As he felt your walls close around him, he let out a guttural moan, and soon after he released. He filled you with his hot seed, his body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.

“Fuck, that was fantastic,” he gasped, slowly pulling out of you and collapsing beside you on the bed.

“I hope I helped de-stress you” you say while still catching your breath.

“You did very well, accepting everything I gave you,” he murmured. “You know,” he began, his fingers gently caressing your cheek, ”when I look at you, I feel like the luckiest person in the world, everything about you captivates me in a way I've never experienced before.”

He leaned over and gave you a tender kiss on your forehead. “I feel so lucky to have you in my life. You bring out a side of me that I never knew existed, a side full of love and devotion.” “I've never felt this way about anyone before, and I know what we have is special. You have shown me what it means, I love you Y/N.”

“I love you too tangerine” you replied as you snuggled into his side before you both fell asleep.

[eefos]

HD pics of Aaron in Kraven the Hunter.

[lenacosse]

not to be dramatic but this interview saved my life

[moonlightspencie]

honey, i’m home

Description: Tangerine misses his girl after a long job.

Pairing: Tangerine x fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ only!, oral (f!recieving), p in v, somno (implied mutual consent)

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: not proofread bc i didn’t wanna

Tangerine slid his key into the lock, turning it slowly with a click. Then the deadbolt above it, extra careful to make it silent.

He pushed the door open, padding in as softly as he could, not even bothering to shut it until he’d disarmed the alarm system just beyond the entrance. As soon as he heard the tiny beep that indicated the alarm was off, he closed the door, locking it again. He reset the alarm, then turned to toe off his shoes and hang up his jacket.

He glanced around the home, noting that everything had been shut off for the night, save for a salt lamp in the living room. He peeked around the corner of the hallway, seeing nothing but a tiny bit of light peeking out from under the bedroom door. Probably her diffuser, he thought to himself.

He tiptoed down the hallway, breathing a little heavier with each step closer to the door at the end. He put his hand on the knob, gripping it gently as he turned it, opening the door. He was careful to go slowly as to not make a sound since the door could tend to get a bit creaky.

He stepped inside the room as soon as he could fit from behind the door, smiling to himself a little as he saw the diffuser running, filling up the room with the smell of lavender.

He ran a hand through his hair as his eyes drifted to the bed, and the woman in it. He almost groaned seeing her half-covered by the blankets in the nightgown he loved so much. She looked so pretty and peaceful like that, her chest rising and falling slowly with every breath.

He tugged on his tie, loosening it a little before fully pulling it off. He set it on a nearby dresser. Then, he pulled off his vest, leaving it with the tie.

He walked closer to the bed, careful to stay quiet as he pushed up his sleeves and unbuttoned the top four buttons of his shirt. He reached forward as soon as he got close enough, slowly pulling the covers off of her body. His eyes trailed the top of the comforter as it revealed her to him, inch by inch. Her soft, white nightgown draped over her chest and stomach. Her panties on display from where the gown had ridden up. Her plush thighs, and the rest of her pretty legs. All for him.

He let out a breath, palming himself through his trousers, hard just from looking at her. He slowly crawled onto the mattress, carefully pushing her legs apart.

He kept an eye on her face as his hands moved up her legs and got a hold of her baby blue panties, pulling them slowly down her legs, tossing them across the room. He groaned softly, his eyes drawn immediately to her perfect cunt.

“Fuck,” he muttered gently, lowering himself down between her legs.

He started kissing up her thighs, sucking the supple skin into his mouth every few kisses. If he could died between her legs, he was sure he’d die a happy man.

His mouth trailed up further and further until his lips were ghosting over hers, breathing in her scent. She was already a little wet, and he was determined that it was because, even in her sleep, she knew he was nearby. He pressed a soft, open mouth kiss to her cunt, wanting to feel the silky flesh on his lips more than anything.

He swallowed after the kiss, feeling totally wrecked by her already. He reached his hand up, sliding two fingers between her folds before opening her up, licking a long strip from her hole to her clit. He moaned into her, swirling his tongue around the little bud before sucking it into his mouth, his cheeks hollowed out. He focused his tongue on her clit, his fingers sliding to her entrance, teasing around the hole before sliding one in.

He swore he could pass out as he heard her let out a breathy moan, slowly starting to wake up. He smiled against her, curling his finger inside of her, relishing the feeling of her walls, soft and spongy, against his skin. He ground his hips against the bed, needing to get some kind of friction with how painfully hard he felt.

“Tan…?” she mumbled softly, her back arching off the bed a little.

“Hey, m’love. I’m home,��� he said, his voice reverberating through her pussy.

She moaned softly, her hand immediately moving to tangle in his hair. He smiled, licking her softly before he slightly lifted his head up.

“Hope you don’t mind, darlin’. Couldn’t help myself with you laying here all pretty. I missed ya,” he said, watching her face.

She shook her head. “Don’t mind. Please don’t stop.”

He smirked. “Glad to oblige ya, love.”

He moved back in, kissing her leaky cunt once again before sitting up on his knees. She watched him with hooded eyes as he started undoing his belt.

“It’s been too long,” he muttered, undoing the button on his trousers, zipping them down.

“Too long,” she nodded, her eyes on his hands as he pushed the material down his thighs.

He didn’t even bother taking it all off, pushing down his briefs next, letting his cock spring free. They rested near his knees as he dragged the head of his cock through her folds, groaning softly.

“M’fuckin’ sensitive. I think my cock might’ve missed you more than I did,” he gritted out, pulling her hips forward.

He could have cum on the spot from the sound she made as he pushed his tip inside of her, soft and needy and fucking desperate. He leaned himself over her body, propping himself up on his forearm as he pressed into her, kissing her temple.

“Love you, darlin’.”

“I love you.”

He smirked at her voice, snapping his hips against hers, his cock buried to the hilt. She moaned, gripping hard onto his arm as he started fucking her into the mattress, no longer worried about being so gentle with her.

“That’s my girl,” he groaned into her ear.

He relished in the feeling of her walls squeezing him, too tired to keep herself relaxed for him. He knew he wouldn’t last long like this, but he didn’t expect to anyways. He hadn’t gotten to properly fuck her in almost a month: he didn’t care if he came right away. He just needed to be inside of her.

“Come on, love,” he grunted, his hand moving between their bodies to rub her clit harshly.

She whimpered, holding onto him like her life depended on it as he brought her to the edge. He moaned into her ear, kissing down her neck sloppily.

“Fuck,” she whined, her body starting to tense up.

Tangerine groaned loudly. “That’s it, baby.”

He practically whimpered as she clenched down around him, cumming hard on his cock. Her walls pulsed, drawing him dangerously close to his own climax. He put it off as long as he could, wanting to fuck her through her release, but he could only do so much.

“Shit, baby,” he grunted, pulling out just in time to make a mess of her stomach, his hips jutting into his hand as he finished. “Fuck.”

He looked down at her body, her pussy soaked and messy, her tummy not much different.

“God, you’re pretty like this,” he said softly, leaning back on his knees to look at her. “Messy girl.”

She whined softly. “I missed you.”

“Missed you more, love,” he smiled softly, brushing his hair away from his face. “Promise I’ll fuck you proper tomorrow morning.”

He leaned down to kiss her lips once, determined that he wouldn’t be taking another job for at least six months.

[spidermiguell]

What you do to me— Tangerine (18+)

—fem!reader x tangerine (wc; 3.5k!)

—synopsis: Rival hitmen, hired by opposing hands, constantly crossing paths but never pulling the trigger. Not on each other, at least. Now you’re both on the same train in Tokyo, chasing the same silver briefcase, and you know it was only a matter of time before things came to a head. You just didn’t expect it to be inside a locked bathroom stall, his hand around your neck, breath hot in your ear, and years of tension finally snapping into something raw and uncontrollable. Tangerine knows you’re dangerous. But he’s learning just how badly he wants to be ruined by you.

—warnings: unprotected p in v, slightly public ? (bullet train bathroom), gunplay, assassin rivals, very brief mentions of blood !

—song recs while reading : what you need — the weeknd + again — noah cyrus + xxxtentacion

Tangerine had a long-standing rule: never get personal on a job. Especially not with competition. But rules had a funny way of going to hell the moment you showed up. You were everything he hated in a rival. Unpredictable, relentless, always three steps ahead and smug as hell about it. He wanted to believe the jobs you pulled were just lucky breaks, sloppy shortcuts, but even he couldn’t lie to himself that hard. You were a ghost with perfect aim and no conscience, and every time your name came up on an assignment, something in his chest twisted, because despite everything—the clashing contracts, the bodies left behind, the taunting messages you sometimes left in lipstick or bullet holes—he was starting to think about you more than he should. And that pissed him off more than anything.

The messages, at first, started simple. A kiss in red on a mirror, right after you took out a mark in Istanbul seconds before he got there.
“Too slow, pretty boy.”

It wasn’t subtle—and it sure as hell wasn’t professional. He told himself it was just a provocation. Mind games. But the kiss mark stayed burned into his memory longer than it should have, and when he finally wiped the glass clean, his hands shook in a way he couldn’t explain. Then came the shell casing in Prague. One of his own, engraved with “Miss me?” and balanced perfectly on the edge of a windowsill. The way you left your mark wasn’t just bold—it was personal.

You knew his work. Studied it. Mirrored it. Mocked it. And he knew what that meant, deep down. You weren’t just trying to piss him off.

You thought he was hot.

And fuck if that didn’t turn something over in him, violent and immediate. His ego hated it. His instincts screamed to shut it down. But his body? His brain? They burned with the idea of you. That swagger you walked with, the slick confidence of someone who didn’t need to prove a damn thing but still enjoyed showing off. You made murder look like art. You made violence look good.

He’d caught a glimpse of you once, slipping away after a job in Venice. Tight clothes, blood on your cheek, a cigarette dangling from your lips, and a smirk that could’ve stopped traffic. You didn’t even run—you strolled, like you wanted him to chase you. Like you knew he would.

And that was the thing. He wanted to catch you.
He just wasn’t sure if it was to end you, 
Or to get you under him.

Either way, it wasn’t going to be clean.

The feelings that Tangerine had slowly developed for you could never make an appearance, until Tokyo. Your boss had told you to steal one case, and one case only. A silver briefcase with a train sticker on the handle.

One of the simpler missions; or so you thought.

You knew that youd be coming across Tangerine, simply because you knew his every move, and he knew every single one of yours. Wherever Tangerine was, Lemon was too. Unfortunately for you, he only served as a barrier—another issue to deal with before you could get what you wanted all along.

You didn’t mean the case.

The bullet train felt like a trap the moment you stepped on it—clean, quiet, deceptively sterile. But your instincts prickled for an entirely different reason. You knew he was already here. Somewhere in one of these cars, probably pacing with a scowl, suit crisp, mustache twitching, tension wound up tight in that gorgeous frame of his. You could already picture him—adjusting his rings, tapping the gun under his jacket, muttering insults about your boss, your style, your mouth. Especially your mouth.

And then there he was.

Two cars over. Leaning against the wall like he owned the goddamn train, scowl in place, eyes already locked on yours the second the door slid open. He was not supposed to spot you that early. Not before you could remind yourself to have your priorities set straight. 1st mission, 2nd Tangerine. This would mess with you. He looked like sin in that tailored coat, blood on his collar from something recent. His lip was split, but he hadn’t bothered to clean it. It made him look even better. Rougher. Real.

Lemon saw you as well, muttering something under his breath and reached for his weapon—but Tangerine’s arm snapped out, blocking him.

“Don’t,” he said low, never taking his eyes off you. “She’s mine.”

That wasn’t part of the plan. Not Lemon’s. Not yours. But the words made something twist low in your stomach.

You should’ve gone for the case. Should’ve ducked, rolled, fought. But you stood your ground instead, like you wanted him to come closer. And maybe you did. Tangerine took a step forward, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging down your figure like he was sizing up a target. Or something far more dangerous.

“You’re looking a little overdressed for a job like this,” he said, voice gravelly, tinged with a smirk. “What’s under all that attitude, sweetheart? Still got a gun tucked between your thighs?”

You tilted your head, let your lips part just slightly. “No. Just waiting for you to come check.”

His jaw clenched. A muscle twitched.

Lemon groaned behind him. “For fucks sake, not again—“

“Shut it,” Tangerine snapped, and this time it wasn’t playful.

He moved toward you like a storm coming in fast. All heat, smoke, and bruised knuckles. You couldn’t help but take in all of his features, his strong walk causing the carpeted flooring of the bullet train to rumble with the sounds of his chelsea boots. Before he could catch up to you, you were reminded of why you were here in the first place. You quickly turned on your heels, the automatic doors splitting the train carts opening for you with a whizz. You had to focus. Get the briefcase, hide it, then continue your play with Tangerine.

You were walking fast—too fast. Not running, but close enough to catch glances as you weaved through the crowded train car, slipping past suitcases, elbows, and confused tourists. You felt him near you, even though you somehow believed that you were weaving between people as flawlessly as you usually did.

You told yourself you were in control. That you had the upper hand.

Until your heel clipped the edge of someone’s abandoned duffel bag. And just like that—

You stumbled.

Before your knees could even hit the floor, a hand was on your back, steady and strong. Familiar.

“Christ,” a voice drawled behind you. That voice. Lazy, smooth, and soaked in a thick London accent that curled around your spine like smoke. “Bit clumsy for someone so bloody cocky, ain’t ya?”

Your stomach flipped.

Tangerine didn’t yank you back. He peeled you up, rough but smooth about it, like he had all the time in the world and still didn’t need to try. One hand in your jacket, the other catching your hip like he owned it.

And then he shoved you.

Not into a wall. Not onto the floor.

Right into the train’s tiny, fluorescent-lit bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind you a second later, and suddenly the cramped space was filled with him—his scent, his heat, his presence swallowing the air. He wasn’t out of breath. Not even ruffled. That perfect shirt was still tucked just right, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos peeking through. Blood stained his knuckles, sure, but it wasn’t fresh. He hadn’t fought anyone yet today.

He’d been waiting.

“You gonna explain what all that was?” he asked, voice low, accent thick like honey over broken glass. “Speed-walkin’ like a bloody commuter. Thought you were tryna give me the slip.”

You leaned back against the sink, breathing hard, your jacket sliding off one shoulder. His eyes followed it like a hawk.

“Maybe I was,” you said, trying to level him with a stare.

Tangerine laughed once, dry and quiet. “Sweetheart, don’t flatter yourself. If you were tryin’ to lose me, you’d have to be twice as clever and half as obvious.” He stepped closer. No hesitation. One slow step at a time, like he was reeling you in on a line he’d cast hours ago.

“You saw me get on the train,” you said, throat dry. “Didn’t even blink.”

“‘Course I saw you. Wanted to see how long you’d pretend not to notice me watchin’.”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over your face, your mouth, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. “You’re easy to follow when you walk like that—hips swingin’, like you want me behind you.”

Your breath caught. He was right. You had walked like that. Had wanted his eyes. His attention. And now he was here.

Inches from you.

Unbothered. Amused. Dangerous.

“Touché,” you muttered.

Tangerine smirked—sharp and pretty, like he knew you were already folding.

He brought a hand to your throat, slow and deliberate, not to choke—but to feel. The pulse. The proof.

“There it is,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under your jaw. “That little fuckin’ drum in your neck. Been chasin’ that sound for months.”

You should’ve pushed him away. Fought. Taken the chance to strike.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

He just kept looking at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with teeth and bruises.

Like he wasn’t letting you leave that bathroom without making a mess first.

Tangerine’s thumb remained pressed just beneath your jaw, steady, like he was listening to your pulse—measuring it. Mocking it.

His body boxed you in, close enough that the heat of him poured straight through your clothes. His breath was calm. Focused. Dangerous.

“I should shoot you,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact.

and yet, you didn’t even flinch.

“And risk never finding out what I was gonna do next?” you murmured, chin tilted up into his hand.

He exhaled a humourless laugh, eyes flickering with something sharp.

Without warning, his spare hand moved unexpectedly—quicker than anything else you had ever seen him do. You didn’t even need to look down at your chest, you could already feel the cold metal pressed directly under your rib, digging sharply into your skin.

His pistol.

A matte black thing, customized and deadly. Sleek. Like him.

“I’ll do it right here,” he said, pressing it tighter. “Clean shot. Quick. No one’ll even hear.”

You grinned slowly, teeth flashing. “You won't.”

“Wanna bet your life on that, love?”

You moved your hand with maddening slowness, drawing your own weapon from the holster at your thigh. A small silver piece. Elegant. Lightweight.

You clicked off the safety.

Pressed the muzzle right under his chin.

Now that made his eyes light up.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The guns held steady. The air between you trembled like the second before lightning hits.

Then—you spoke, voice low.

“Dead standoff. How romantic.”

Tangerine smiled, sharp and wolfish. “You really do get off on this, don’t you?”

“Only when it’s you.”

And that broke him.

In the span of a breath, he knocked your gun aside with his wrist, sending it clattering against the tiled floor. You ripped his pistol from his hand with a twist, throwing it in the same direction your gun had been tossed. Both of you tangled in the hot mess of each other, arms colliding, breath mixing and ragged. He slammed you back against the door, hard enough to rattle it in its frame.

His mouth was on yours before either of you could think.

The kiss was brutal. Teeth and lips, no finesse—just need. Obsession. Months of watching each other bleed and win and take, all crashing down in a single messy collision. You dragged your fingers through his curls, yanking just enough to draw a groan from deep in his throat. His hands gripped your thighs and hoisted you up without warning, setting you on the sink like you weighed nothing.

“This what you wanted?” he growled against your mouth, his voice wrecked and furious with want. “A fuckin’ chase just to end up right here?”

You bit his lip in response. “It’s not over.”

He grinned against your skin. “No. It’s not.”

And then he kissed you again, harder this time.

The kiss had turned savage. Full of lust and need.

Tangerine’s hands were everywhere—under your coat, dragging it off your shoulders, then gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. His rings scraped the bare skin beneath your skirt, fingers pressing bruises into your flesh like he wanted to mark you, make sure you remembered exactly who had you like this.

You gasped into his mouth as he shoved your legs wider with a knee, the cool edge of the sink digging into your back. Your heels locked behind him on instinct, pulling him closer—like there was still some goddamn space between you.

He grunted, lips dragging down your jaw to your neck, biting hard enough to make your hips jolt.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, voice wrecked and reverent at once. “You’re unreal.”

“You’ve had months to do this,” you breathed, gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline. “What took you so long?”

“I thought if I touched you I might not stop,” he growled into your skin, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. “I was right.”

His hand slipped between your bodies, dragging roughly up your stomach, under your top, calloused fingers brushing over your chest, possessive and unrelenting. You arched into him, breath stuttering when his teeth caught your earlobe.

“Every time you ran a job near mine,” he whispered, grinding against you with brutal precision, “I knew you wanted this. Could see it in the way you watched me. Like you wanted me to fuck you against the nearest surface.”

“Maybe I did,” you shot back, voice low, dangerous.

His hand shot back to your throat, not choking—just holding. Claiming. Keeping your chin tilted up so he could look straight into your eyes.

That’s when the moment shifted.

The lust didn’t fade—it deepened.

But underneath it, there was something hotter. More fragile. Intimate.

His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. His other hand kept moving—slow, rough, greedy—between your legs this time, dragging a sound out of you that made his grip tighten.

“Say it,” he whispered, barely audible.

You swallowed, heart pounding under his palm. “I wanted you, Tangerine.”

That made him snap.

He surged forward, mouth on yours again, sloppier this time, like he needed to consume every word, every breath. His hips rolled into you, grinding with such fierce precision that it tore a moan from your throat before you could stop it.

The kind of contact that burned.

Your nails dug into his shoulder, pulling him even harder against you, making him unable to cover up the scowl that burnt deeply in his throat—like you were the only thing in the world that could unravel him like this. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this moment and now he was going to take every fucking second of it.

Without another second to spare, he pulled his lips off of yours briefly, his eyes still staring deeply into yours. He wanted to take it further, and so did you. His eyes had that questioning look in them, as if they had softened slightly…signalling that you could still back out if you wanted to.

Luckily for him, you didn’t.

You chuckled underneath your breath, legs still hooked around his hips. Your hands left his neck, slowly tracing his body before placing themselves on his belt. Unbuckling it intimately. He helped you pull your skirt above your waist as well, panties pushed to the side before it was just you both ready to give each other everything you both had been craving.

His lips conjoined with yours once again, all while he lined himself up with one hand to your aching cunt, the other hand holding you tightly in place.

You could feel his shaft deep inside of you, causing you to arch your back, tits pressed against his chest

“Fuck—feels so good” you groaned, your body undeniably shaking from the pure pleasure of feeling him so close to you.

“That’s right…look at you, taking me so perfectly” He had a wide grin on his face once again, that smug expression that got you so hooked on him in the first place. His curls were now glistening with sweat, his gold chain rocking back and forth as his hips jolted roughly into you.

You writhed under him, every part of you alive and electric as he rutted into you harder, lips barely brushing yours, panting into each other’s mouths but refusing to kiss. It was like neither of you wanted to give in first.

As your bodies continued to pound against each other, the sound of skin on skin became deafening. The rocking of the bullet train and the heated atmosphere of the bathroom had you feeling dizzy, and yet you didn’t want to stop. You wanted this moment to last forever. Because in this bathroom, work didn’t matter. It was just you and Tangerine. Together. Not rivals.

Before you knew it, you could feel the knot in your stomach tightening, your body shaking as you reached your climax.

“God—God im gonna—“

“That’s okay sweetheart, let yourself go”

And you did.

He continued to fuck you through it, his body releasing at the same time as you, the high driving you both crazy. He drove his hot spurts of cum into you, making sure you could take as much as possible before he pulled out with a wince, his chest heaving up and down harshly.

The silence that followed was anything but empty.

The air in the bathroom was heavy—humid with sweat, the sharp scent of sex clinging to every surface. Your breath still came in shallow pulls, body trembling, fingers curled tight against the edge of the sink. The mirror, fogged and smeared, showed the wreckage of you both—your lipstick smudged, hair a mess, neck bruised where his mouth had lingered too long.

And Tangerine—Fuck.

His chest was rising and falling, hands slow as they gripped your hips. His belt remained undone, shirt wrinkled, collar crooked. His knuckles grazed your skin lazily, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. And judging by the dazed, dark look in his eyes when you turned to look back up at him, he wasn’t trying.

He looked you over like you were the last thing he'd ever see—and he’d burn the whole train down before letting it go.

"You alright?" he asked, voice low, rough from exertion. His accent thicker now, his usual sharp edge dulled by whatever just snapped between you.

You raised a brow. “After that?”

He smirked, but it was different now. Less cocky, more... stunned.

You could tell he hadn’t expected this. For christ’s sake, hadn’t expected this. It had started like a punishment, a game of control—but now? You could still feel the way he held you, the way his hand had trembled just slightly at your throat when you came undone around him. He was affected, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“You shouldn’t of pulled me into this bathroom," you whispered, knowing whole-heartedly you didn’t mean it.

Tangerine took a step closer, pressing his chest to yours again, hand sliding up your ribs until his fingers rested over your heart. He didn’t speak. He just felt it—still hammering beneath your skin, racing wild under his touch.

“You shouldn’t have worn that fuckin’ perfume,” he muttered, voice ragged. “I could smell you the second you stepped into the carriage.”

You licked your lips, staring up at him. “Thought it might distract you.”

“It did.” He leaned down, nose brushing your cheek. “Got me all worked up. Couldn’t think straight.”

You felt his hand trail lower again, teasing down your thigh, then stopping just short of anything meaningful.

“We’re not done, are we?” you asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

Tangerine tilted his head, lips curling. “With the job, or with each other?”

“Both.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Not even fuckin’ close.”

You smiled, and it wasn’t soft.

It was dangerous.

Because whatever this was between you—it wasn’t love. It wasn’t romance.

It was need. Raw, sharp-edged, relentless. Born from years of rivalry and admiration and frustration and lust all packed into the same explosive space.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, just for a second.

Then he pulled back.

“You’ve still got a briefcase to steal,” he said, reaching down to zip his pants. “And I’ve got a twin brother with a nose for trouble.”

You finally moved from the sink, running a hand through your hair, body still humming with aftershocks. You bent to pick up your jacket from the floor, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“I say, you let me steal the case with no effort in stopping me…” you suggested. “And I let you do whatever you want with me on the next mission.”

Tangerine’s grin spread slow and lethal, eyes narrowing like you’d just given him the best idea he’d heard all week.

“God, you’re dangerous.”

You winked. “You like it.”

and he definitely didn’t deny that.

please remember, requests are always open and feel free to reblog ! <3

[gingerteafairy]

°❀⋆.ೃ𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐝

“Why’d you have to give your ugly ass genes to this innocent child?” Lemon grumbled as he poked the little girl's cheek sleeping peacefully on her pink decorated cradle.

“Stop cursing in front of her, you fucking idiot.” Tangerine murmured, slapping his brother's forehead. “and we have the same genes if you haven't noticed.”

“and she's prettier than both of us together.” Lemon laughed, ruffling her hair, the girl turning to her side in her deep sleep.

“It's because she doesn't have testosterone. It makes us man ugly with a beard and shit.”

“She's just a baby, stop rushing things.” Lemon giggled, standing up and crossing his arms as he saw Tangerine embrace the girl on his arms, kissing her forehead. “She's lovely, bro. Gotta be honest on this.”

“Yeah… she is.”

You appeared behind him, caressing his back. “Hey, Lemon. Honey, is she awake?”

“Nah. Just wanted to see her close.” Tangerine smiled, hugging her gently so he wouldn't wake her up. “She scratches her nose when she's dreaming. Noticed it last week. Can't stop looking at it.”

“You're lucky she got your wife's face.” Lemon mumbled, giving you a small smile, watching the heart melting scene of Tangerine so concentrated on his daughter's expressions. “I need to take care of some things, guys. Good luck here.”

“Bye!” You waved, watching him disappear on the corridor, the sound of the door clicking after a few seconds indicated you were alone with them again.

“Look. She's bloody scratching again. Look. What’s she dreaming under this little head?” He asked, lifting his head to look at you approaching him.

“I'm glad she has your eyes, Tan.” You softened, coming closer for a hug, the soft baby cologne making you smile.

“Thank God it's the only thing she got from me. Imagine if she had my attitude and sailor mouth.” He chuckled, looking lovingly to your eyes and hers, the clear resemblance on both women. “You think she'll smoke and drink when she's older?”

“Don't rush things, babe.” You giggled, standing tiptoes to peck his lips. “Gimme her. It's her lunch time.”

“Just a little more.” He asked, hugging her again before handing it carefully to you. “Gotta enjoy every moment with the women of my life.”

[otaku-girl-ao3-fics]

Aaron Taylor-Johnson characters fic masterlist | Otaku_girl

My main blog: @otaku-girl-ao3 | My fics only blog: @otaku-girl-ao3-fics | All of my work AO3: Otaku-girl

Requests: open / closed If it's an ATJ character, I'll consider it~ Just drop an ask to my main: @otaku-girl-ao3

Key

⭐ slash |🌟 het | 💫 multi |✨ gender neutral | 🌠 none | 💕 author’s favourite | 🥰 most popular

Currently working on:

Bullet Train x Kraven the Hunter crossover, Baby I'm Preyin' On You Tonight - 2025

28 Years Later fics - Jamie x Reader

30 days, 30 fics - 30 days of Kraven, Bullet Train, The Fall Guy and 28 Years Later fics. - June 2025

Bullet Train

Multi-chapter

✩ Baby, I'm Preyin' On You Tonight | Sergei x F!Reader x Tangerine | Explicit | 50 chapters, WIP | 🌟💫 ⭐💕 ✩ I just wanna see you (be brave) | Tangerine x Ladybug x Lemon | Explicit | 67.5k  | 💫💕 🥰 ✩ She Said | Tangerine x Reader | Explicit | 16.2k | 🌟

✩ Baby, it’s cold outside | Tangerine x F!Reader x Ladybug | Explicit | 26k+ | 💫 ✩ Breathe | Tangerine x domme F!Reader | Explicit | 8.55+ | 🌟 ✩ Touched (for the very first time) | Tan x Bug | Explicit | 7.8k  | ⭐ ✩ Oil on water | Tangerine x Ladybug x Lemon | Explicit |6.9k  | 💫 ✩ A certain satisfaction (in a little bit of pain) | Tangerine x Lemon | Explicit |11.7k  | ⭐

Series

✩ Call me (Yours) | Tan x f!Domme Reader | Explicit | 24k+ | 🌟 ✩ And then there were three | Tan x Ladybug | Teen | 9.5k  | ⭐

Oneshots

✩ Hold (me) | Tangerine x domme F!Reader | Mature | 4.3k | 🌟 ✩ Understanding| Lemon & Ladybug | Teen | 4k  | 🌠 ✩ Devotion | Tangerine x Ladybug | Mature | 300  | ⭐ ✩ Tease me (please me) | Tangerine x F!Reader | Explicit | 300 | 🌟 ✩ Baby, I can explain— | Tangerine x F!Reader | Teen | 3.4k | 🌟 ✩ You say it best | Tan x Ladybug x Lemon | Explicit | 1.2k+ | 💫 ✩ Made for this | Ladybug x Tangerine | Explicit | 200  | ⭐ ✩ Takin’ care of business | Gen | Teen | 4.6k | 🌠 ✩ A moment in time | Tangerine x Ladybug | Explicit | 900  | ⭐ ✩ Honey, I don’t wanna know | Tan x Ladybug | Explicit | 2.2k | ⭐ ✩ You don’t have to say | Tangerine x Ladybug | Explicit | 2.5k | ⭐ ✩ Late night surprise | Tangerine x Ladybug | Explicit | 3k  | ⭐ ✩ Time to Say | Tangerine x Ladybug | Teen | 2.9k  | ⭐ ✩ Timing | Tangerine x Ladybug | Teen | 2.6k  | ⭐ ✩ Chance | Tangerine x F!Reader | Teen | 1.6k | 🌟 ✩ Sick day | Tangerine x Ladybug | Teen | 1.6k  | ⭐ ✩ Aftermath | Tangerine & Reader | Teen | 1.4k | 🌟 ✩ What dreams are made of | Tan x Ladybug | Teen | 1.2k  | ⭐ ✩ Last call | Tangerine x Reader | Teen | 3.1k | 🌟

Headcanons

✩ How Bullet Train and Kraven could be the same universe 🌠

Kraven the Hunter

Series

✩ Pet or prey | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 22.8k+ | Trilogy | 🌟 ✩ Into the woods | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 8k | ⭐

Multi-chapter

✩ Baby, I'm Preyin' On You Tonight | Sergei x F!Reader x Tangerine | Explicit | 50 chapters, WIP | 🌟💫 ⭐💕 ✩ Prisoner 0864 | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 16k | 🌟 ✩ First time | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 48.2k | 🌟🥰 ✩ (Give me one more) Night with you | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit | 17.5k | complete | 🌟

Oneshots

✩ Night hunt | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit |11.7k | 🌟💕 ✩ No pampered pets | Sergei x F!Reader | Explicit |15.8k | 🌟 ✩ Mine (all mine) | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 7.3k | ⭐ ✩ Caught in the hunt | Sergei x Reader | Teen | 300 | 🌟 ✩ Sweet dreams | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 2k | ⭐ ✩ (Ask me to) Stay | Sergei x Dmitri | Mature | 6.5k | ⭐ ✩ Just say (I am yours) | Dmitri x Reader ~ Sergei x Reader | Mature | 3k | 🌟 ✩ (Take it) Easy | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 5.1k | ⭐ ✩ Price tag | Dmitri x Reader ~ Nikolai x Reader | Explicit | 4k | 🌟 ✩ Friday night | Sergei x Reader x Dmitri | Teen | 3.5k  | 💫 ✩ Hunt | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 4.8k | ⭐ ✩ Heart of the matter | Teen!Sergei & Nikolai | Teen | 1k  | 🌠 ✩ Make a wish | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 3.7k | ⭐ ✩ Claim | Sergei x Reader | Explicit | 300 | 🌟 ✩ Merchandise | Sergei x Reader | Mature | 3.6k | 🌟 ✩ Terms | Nikolai x Reader | Mature | 1.5k | 🌟 ✩ Baby steps | Sergei x Reader | Mature | 2.2k | 🌟 ✩ Playing (for keeps) | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit | 3.7k | ⭐ ✩ Safe (in your arms) | Sergei x Reader | Teen | 200 | 🌟 ✩ Look, I just wanna talk | Sergei x Dmitri; Deadpool x Spiderman | T | 2k | ⭐

Headcanons

✩ Aftercare with Sergei | Sergei x You |✨ ✩ Soft!Dom, Dark!Soft and Daddy Sergei | Sergei x You ✨ ✩ Sergei & Reader love languages | Sergei x Reader (First Time universe) ✨ ✩ How Bullet Train and Kraven could be the same universe 🌠 ✩ Dmitri (and brother Sergei) HCs 🌠 ✩ Dmitri HCs part 2 🌠

28 Years Later masterlist

Multi-chapter

Coming soon

Oneshots

Never (say goodbye) | Read on Tumblr - Read on AO3 | Jamie x Reader | Mature | 2.5k 🌟 Ready | Read on Tumblr - Read on AO3 | Jamie x Reader | Explicit | 6.8k 🌟 Waiting | Read on Tumblr - Read on AO3 | Teen | 300 🌠

Headcanons

Jamie: Love languages 💡 | Read on Tumblr

Nosferatu

Oneshots

✩ Doctor’s orders | Friedrich Harding x F!Reader | Explicit | 2k+🌟 💕🥰

Multi-chapter

✩ (This could be) Perfection | Friedrich Harding x F!Reader | Explicit | work in progress🌟 ✩ Parting gift | Friedrich Harding x F!Reader x Thomas Hutter | Explicit | 19.5k | 💫

The Fall Guy

Oneshots

✩ Post-it Notes and Promises | Tom Ryder x Reader | T | 10.4k 🌟 ✩ Assistance | Tom Ryder x Reader | M | 3.4k 🌟 ✩ OnlyFans | Tom Ryder x Reader | E | 5.8k 🌟 💕

My mains: Tumblr - Otaku-girl-ao3 | AO3 - Otaku_girl

[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

[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.

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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.

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"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.

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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.

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"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.

[andy-15-07]

Aaron Taylor Johnson Masterlist

♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎

Love in the Chaos Destined The Making of a Love Story In Sickness and in Health Champagne & Fate Piano and Passion Jealous Flames A Valentine's Surprise Fragments of Us When Love Heals After the Lights Go Down

♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎

Sergei Kravinoff

Injuries and Care Blood Hunt

♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎♡︎

Alexei Vronsky

A Dance of Eternal Promises Secret in the Forest

requests are open, i write for any aaron taylor johnson character (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

[0stentatiouss]

𝓢𝓪𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓻𝔂

Tangerine (Bullet Train) x Reader / Y/N | Smutty one-shot

You fucked up the mission on purpose. Not enough to get anyone killed—just enough to get him angry. Because it’s been two months since Tangerine touched you, and you’re done pretending you don’t want it again. You just didn’t expect him to take it so personally. Now it’s late. You’re alone. And he’s about to remind you exactly what happens to brats who go looking for trouble. With his hands. With his voice. And with no intention of being gentle.

!NSFW! | Please do not engage if you're a minor

Masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: a dangerously hot British man in a three-piece suit, rough and mean, brat taming, degradation + praise, fingering (f receiving), orgasm denial, overstimulation, dominance/submission dynamics, filthy mocking dirty talk, power play, slight breathplay (hand on throat), begging, rough handling, clothing destruction, emotional tension, and one very desperate, ruined reader.

♡ word count: 5.2k (yes, I love teasing; yes, I love taking it slow; yes, I love desperation)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The safehouse was a rotting husk of a place, barely lit, walls stained with time and someone else’s failures. Fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow that flickered every few seconds like it was just as irritated as he was. The smell of old ramen, gunpowder, and sweat clung to the walls like it had settled there decades ago. The single window overlooked an alley filled with rusted pipes and neon reflections in dirty puddles. Outside, Tokyo pulsed. In here, everything was still.

Too still.

Tangerine hadn’t spoken since they got back.

He stood with his back half-turned to you, weight shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, like his body was begging for violence even if his mind was trying to hold it together. His shirt was sticking to his back—blood or sweat, maybe both—and his shoulders were tight beneath the stretched fabric of his brown pinstripe vest. The jacket was gone, tossed across the floor in a moment of silence you hadn’t dared break.

He was all angles and tension. The white collar of his shirt was open, the top buttons undone, exposing the sharp line of his throat and the beginnings of a bruise blooming along his collarbone. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with muscle and littered with small cuts. His knuckles were scraped raw. One hand flexed at his side like he was itching for something to hit.

Or someone.

The tie hung askew around his neck, the fabric dark and fine—black silk, maybe—with a subtle gold pattern you hadn’t seen before. It should have looked ridiculous, the whole put-together, three-piece ensemble crumpled and stained with the aftermath of the night. But it didn’t. It looked like him. Unraveling, yes, but powerful. Dangerous. Beautiful in the most violent kind of way.

He hadn’t looked at you since the safehouse door slammed shut.

And you knew why.

You’d fucked the job. Deliberately. You’d left your post, let the target slip just long enough to force him into the line of fire. Not enough to get him killed—never that—but enough to get his attention.

Because he hadn’t touched you in two months. Hadn’t looked at you like he did that night. The night where hands had been fists in your hair and your back was against a motel mirror while he told you you made him lose control.

And then he spent the next sixty-three days pretending it didn’t happen.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

So you lit a match.

And now he was smoldering across the room, jaw clenched, shoulders squared, eyes fixed somewhere far away like looking at you might make it worse.

You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the table, watching him with the kind of calm that begged to be shattered.

“Go on, then,” you said, voice low, sharp around the edges. “Say what you’re thinking.”

That finally got his eyes.

Blue. Cold, but burning from the inside out. He turned his head, slow like a weapon, and when his gaze hit you it felt like it scraped down to the bone.

“I’m thinkin’ if I open my fuckin’ mouth, I won’t stop.”

You tilted your head, the corner of your mouth lifting, just enough to challenge.

“Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

His face twitched. Just a flicker at first—barely noticeable. A muscle in his cheek. The flare of his nostrils. But his hand curled into a fist again, and this time he didn’t bother hiding it.

He took one step forward. Then another.

The air thickened with the weight of him. The crackle of a storm you’d summoned on purpose. 

“You’re gonna tell me what the fuck that was tonight.” His voice low enough to make your chest tighten.

You blinked slowly, meeting his fury with something steadier. Something reckless.

“Sloppy fieldwork,” you said, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m only human.”

His mouth twitched—something between a laugh and a threat.

“Don’t insult either of us.”

You leaned in slightly, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue near his pupils.

“Sloppy fieldwork,” you said, letting the words hang just a second too long, the barest tilt of a smirk on your lips. “It happens.”

He laughed—short and bitter, no humor in it. The kind of sound that said he was seconds from either snapping or walking out.

“Not to you, it doesn’t.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned back against the table, palms braced behind you, fingers curled loosely over the edge of the wood. Casual, like you weren’t waiting for him to explode. Like you hadn’t been hoping for it since the second you let that target go.

Tangerine took another step forward. The overhead light caught on his cheekbone, the cut just beneath his eye, the sweat shining on his throat. His eyes narrowed as they swept over you—slow, assessing, like he was looking for something to break.

You didn’t look away. That was part of it. Letting him see that you weren’t afraid. That you wanted him on edge.

“Why’d you pull off your post?” he asked, quieter now. Controlled. Dangerous.

You shrugged, deliberate. Shifted your weight on the table like you were bored of the conversation. But you knew he caught it—how your thighs pressed together for just a second. How your fingers dug in a little too hard.

You couldn’t help it.

Because even as you stared him down, you remembered.

His hands gripping your hips so tight you thought he’d leave bruises under your skin. His voice, rough and low and wrecked, right against your ear—telling you to shut the fuck up, telling you you were taking it so well, telling you he was going to ruin you. The bathroom mirror smeared with fog and sweat, the sink digging into your spine. Your legs shaking. His breath ragged as he came with a snarl and refused to pull out until he’d wrung you dry.

You swallowed. Blinked. Blinked again.

He was still staring. Still waiting. And you weren’t giving him anything.

“You’re gonna tell me,” he said, stepping in close now, voice edged like a blade. “Right now. Why you botched the job. Why you put me in the fuckin’ crosshairs.”

You met his eyes, heat curling tight in your chest. The line between danger and desire was paper thin and fraying fast.

“I already told you,” you said softly. “Sloppy.”

He scoffed, looked away for the first time, like the sight of you was making it harder to breathe.

And maybe it was.

You watched the muscle in his jaw jump as he tried to reel it back in. That same jaw you remembered grinding against your shoulder as he buried himself in you with a force that bordered on punishment. The smell of gun oil and sweat. The taste of him, salt and adrenaline. Your name torn from his throat like it cost him.

“Careless,” he said, quieter now, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re going with?”

You nodded once. The picture of calm.

But your fingers were still gripping the edge of the table.

And your whole body was humming.

He stepped in close enough for his thigh to brush yours, close enough that the warmth of him hit you like a fist in the ribs. His hand dropped to the table beside your hip—knuckles split and still stained with dried blood.

When he leaned in, his breath hit your cheek. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“You trying to piss me off?”

You tilted your chin up just enough to look him square in the eyes.

“Wouldn’t take much.”

For a second, neither of you moved. The air was buzzing, brittle. One word, one shift, and the whole room would ignite.

And beneath your skin, under the sarcasm and bravado, your nerves were already burning. Because whatever happened tonight, you knew it wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be gentle.

It hadn’t been, that night.

And if you got your way—it wouldn’t be now either.

You didn’t move.

Not when he leaned in, not when the edge of his knee bumped yours, not even when the muscles in his forearm tensed just beside your hip—like he was resisting the urge to put his hands on you. Maybe around your throat. Maybe under your shirt. You couldn’t tell which would come first, and god, you wanted both.

He didn’t touch you.

And somehow, that was worse.

You stared back, letting your gaze flick from his eyes to the corner of his mouth, then lower, to the sharp ridge of his throat. His pulse ticked there, hard and fast. And he saw you watching it.

That silence cracked at the edges.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, low, voice fraying around the edges. “You think I’m gonna let this slide?”

You gave him a small smile—just enough to piss him off, just enough to say I dare you.

And beneath it, that memory flared again—sharp and fast like a slap. His hand buried in your hair, yanking your head back as he panted over you, saying things no one else had ever dared. That voice, filthy and raw, hissing how tight you were, how needy, how he knew you liked it rough because your cunt didn’t lie the way your mouth did.

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them. A flicker of motion. But he saw it. Of course he did.

His lip curled—not a smirk, something darker. Something more like disgust twisted with heat.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head, but he didn’t pull away. “That’s what this is.”

You arched a brow, kept your tone light even though your chest was tight.

“What’s this, exactly?”

He exhaled hard, sharp through his nose. Like he was trying to keep himself tethered.

You didn’t let up.

“You’re mad I fucked up,” you said, quiet, letting your voice go soft enough to pull him in closer. “But you’re not mad because of the job, are you?”

That was the final crack.

His fist slammed down onto the table beside you—not close enough to hurt, but loud enough that your bones flinched.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t twist this into something else.”

You blinked slowly. Held his gaze.

But your mind twisted anyway.

To the way he’d held you down against the mattress, both wrists pinned with one hand while he’d taken you so deep you’d sobbed into the sheets. To the snarl in his voice when he told you no one else would ever fuck you like he did. No one else would be allowed.

“You pretending that night didn’t happen?” you asked, voice quieter now. Not mocking. Curious. Wary.

He didn’t answer. Just stared. A war behind his eyes.

You pushed.

“You pretending you didn’t like it?”

His hand twitched again—like he was imagining wrapping it around your throat. Or your waist. Or back into your hair, where it had been when you came on his cock so hard you nearly blacked out.

You looked at him, and your voice dipped into something dangerous.

“I’m not.”

That landed. Hard.

He stepped back, just half a pace, like your words hit harder than they should’ve. Like he needed distance to breathe.

You missed the heat of him immediately. Missed the threat. Missed the weight.

And that was the cruelest part of all. You didn’t just want him angry. You wanted him to break. To admit that he hadn’t stopped thinking about that night any more than you had. To touch you like he was still haunted by it.

But Tangerine?

He was a master at pretending. At swallowing down the heat until it festered.

Still, even now—his chest heaving, teeth clenched—he wasn’t moving.

And that was fine.

Because neither were you.

You could wait.

But not forever.

Tangerine stepped farther back, just enough to breathe, like proximity to you was a chokehold all its own. His tongue rolled against the inside of his cheek, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped like it was trying to tear free.

You stayed where you were—legs still slightly spread on the table edge, palms resting behind you, fingers still curled. 

Another flick of the match.

He was shaking with the effort not to touch you.

“I should’ve let you eat the bullet back there,” he muttered, more to himself than you, pacing in a tight, agitated line now. “Would’ve solved the fuckin’ problem at its root.”

You cocked your head, slow and lazy. Watched him like he was theatre.

“Big talk for someone who dove in front of it instead.”

He stopped mid-step. Turned.

“Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself.”

You gave him a look. That slight lift of your brow that always meant oh, darling, I already have.

He laughed again—mean this time. Dry and incredulous.

“You’re unbelievable. You know that? You botch the op, nearly get me fuckin’ gutted, then sit there like it’s a performance and you’re waitin’ on applause.”

You shrugged. Let your eyes slide down his frame—those wrinkled suit pants, the strained buttons on his vest, the deep shadow of sweat at his chest.

“Didn’t say anything about applause,” you said, sweet as poison. “But you are putting on quite a show.”

That did it.

He moved before you could blink.

One hand slammed down on the table beside your thigh, the other wrapped hard around the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. His grip wasn’t cruel—but it wasn’t gentle, either. Firm enough to hold. To command. To warn.

His face was inches from yours now. Close enough you could feel the heat rolling off him, could see every thread of fury stitched into the cut of his mouth.

“Is that what this is, then?” he hissed. “You wanted this? Wanted me fuckin’ angry? Wanted a reaction?”

You didn’t flinch. Let him feel your pulse hammering against his palm.

“Maybe I just missed the version of you that actually felt something.”

His breath hitched. He didn’t blink.

“Careful.”

You smiled.

“You weren’t careful that night.”

That was it.

The snap wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a yell or a punch or some dramatic outburst.

It was quieter.

Sharper.

Like a lock giving way.

Then he moved.

Your back barely had time to register the press of his palm before it slammed against the table. You let out a startled grunt, palms catching on the rough edge of the wood, the impact jolting up your spine. One of his knees shoved between your thighs, kicked them apart like he was claiming territory, not asking for space. He crowded into you from behind, hips against your ass, chest heavy against your back.

“You don’t know when to shut the fuck up, do you?” he growled, voice right in your ear, low and hard and seething. His accent clipped, brutal. “Pushin’ and pushin’, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a fuckin’ word.”

His hand found your waist and yanked you back against him, grinding his hips into yours so you could feel the full, heavy length of his cock through your clothes. No teasing. Just a warning.

A promise.

“That what you want, love?” he hissed. “You want me pissed off? Want me to treat you like a fuckin’ brat who needs to be put in her place?”

You made a sound—half gasp, half yes—but that wasn’t good enough.

His fingers tangled in your hair, yanked your head back until you were arched over the table, neck bared.

“I said,” he growled into the shell of your ear, “is that what you fuckin’ want?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He chuckled, dark and sharp.

“Course it is. Dirty little thing like you—actin’ up on purpose, flashin’ your attitude around like I won’t take you apart for it.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing yet, just there, firm and steady. Controlling. Holding you still as he ground into you again, the pressure of his cock making you squirm. He hissed through his teeth.

“Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you were actin’ out. Could see it the second you pulled off your post. You don’t want discipline, love. You want to be ruined.”

He pushed forward again, his grip tightening slightly, just enough to make your pulse throb under his fingers.

“You want to be reminded what it feels like to be nothin’ but a hole for me to fuck.”

Your breath stuttered.

He smiled against your neck, mean and satisfied.

“That’s it. Go quiet now, yeah? Finally understand the fuckin’ gravity of what you’ve done?”

His voice rasped against your ear like gravel and heat, the scent of sweat and cologne rising off his chest where it pressed to your back. One hand still braced against your thigh, holding you open, and the other curled under your shirt—rough fingers palming up over your stomach, your ribs, until his hand was full over your breast.

“Gravity of what you’ve done,” he muttered again, almost to himself now, like he was trying to tether his own restraint by repeating it aloud. “Can’t fuckin’ believe you—”

You made the mistake of laughing. Just once. Sharp, breathless, defiant.

“Bet you say that to all the girls who nearly get you killed.”

His hand on your breast squeezed—firm, punishing. You gasped, and he leaned in, biting the corner of your jaw just enough to sting.

Then he stepped back, just barely, and in one sudden move ripped your shirt clean down the middle—buttons pinged off across the floor like gunshots.

“Hey,” you managed, grinning despite yourself, “this your version of foreplay? You planning to leave me naked and unemployed?”

He looked down at you—disheveled, mouth flushed—and there was no mercy in his expression. Just disgusted arousal, and fury held at the edges of his clenched jaw. His lip curled under that sharp moustache, brows drawn low and tight. His chest rose hard with every breath, the veins in his forearms standing out like he was fighting himself not to ruin you entirely.

He reached between your thighs again—but this time, not to touch.

To strip.

His hands gripped the waistband of your jeans, and without a word he yanked—hard. The fabric caught at your hips for a second before giving way, seams protesting as he shoved them down your thighs. You could barely catch your breath before your panties followed, dragged down with the same rough urgency, cool air rushing over soaked skin.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered under his breath, and the words weren’t even meant for you. More like a slip of truth he hadn’t meant to let out. His jaw clenched hard as he tossed the bunched fabric somewhere to the floor behind him, like it offended him just by being in the way.

You were bare now—legs spread on the table, breasts heaving from your ruined shirt, hair tangled, lips parted.

He looked at you like he wanted to break something.

Then he spit.

Right into his hand. No hesitation. Just raw, wet, unceremonious.

“Cheeky little fuckin’ brat,” he growled. “I’ll give you somethin’ to laugh about.”

Two fingers—slick and thick—shoved into you in one cruel, punishing thrust. Your legs jolted, and your cry was strangled into a half-formed word. He didn’t ease up. He fucked you with them, hard and fast, like he was trying to make you regret every word that had come out of your mouth.

His other hand kept your breast pinned under his palm, his thumb brushing over your nipple in hard, tight circles—just enough to make your back arch.

And still he watched you. Jaw tight. Moustache twitching slightly as his mouth parted with a hissed breath.

“You feel that?” he said, voice low and vicious. “That’s me bein’ nice.”

You whimpered.

He smirked. The cruel kind.

“And I’m not fuckin’ known for bein’ nice.”

He curled his fingers inside you, hit something sharp and mean, and you cried out again—louder this time. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then your throat, then lower.

He leaned in, kissed your neck—open mouth, teeth grazing skin. Then down—lips trailing to your shoulder, the slope of your breast where your shirt hung off in tatters.

“You go quiet now,” he murmured against your skin, voice like thunder low to the ground. “Or I’ll make it worse.”

But his fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they went harder.

You tried to hold still. Tried not to give him the satisfaction.

But it was useless.

You were dripping around him, and he knew it, your thighs trembling where he held them open, your breath caught somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

And he could feel it. The way your body clenched, fluttered, desperately close to the edge. It only made him meaner.

“Look at you,” he muttered, lips dragging across the curve of your shoulder, his voice like a blade against your skin. “Legs spread, tits out, cunt so wet I could drown in it—and still you act like you’ve got control.”

His thumb slid up—slick from your arousal—and found your clit without mercy. Not teasing. Not soft. Just pressure. Hard and steady and cruel.

You choked on a moan, spine arching against his hand, trying to pull back from the overstimulation, but his other hand was already at your waist, pinning you to the table like you were nothing but a body to be used.

“You gonna come already?” he asked, mocking, a sneer in the back of his throat. “That easy for you? Thought you were tougher than that.”

His fingers curled inside you again—deep, punishing—and he growled when you gasped his name like it might save you.

“Oh no, love,” he murmured, breath hot against your ear. “You don’t get to come just 'cause you sound sweet beggin’ for it.”

You were so close—your muscles locking, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in desperate stutters—and he knew. Of course he did.

So he stopped.

Pulled his fingers out like he was disgusted with the feel of you. Your body jolted, air punched from your lungs in a stunned sob of denial.

You turned your head, dazed, mouth open, ready to plead without shame.

But he was already looking at you. Smug. Dangerous. His fingers, slick and glistening, flexed in the air between you like he was toying with the idea of giving them back.

Then he reached out and grabbed your chin, hard, forcing you to face him.

“Yeah, there it is,” he said softly, a cruel kind of satisfaction in his tone. “That’s the look. All wide-eyed and ruined, like you’ve only just realised you’re not the one in charge.”

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, pressing into your mouth until you opened for him instinctively.

“Good girl,” he muttered, then pulled his hand away just as quick.

You whimpered again—helpless, ruined, empty.

He leaned in, voice low and tight in your ear.

“You wanna come?” he asked.

You nodded.

He bit down on your earlobe—just hard enough to make you flinch—and said, “Then fuckin’ earn it.”

He didn’t give you time to breathe.

One second, you were laid out and gasping, and the next—he grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over with a grunt, manhandling your body like it didn’t matter how it landed, just that it was his to move.

Your chest hit the table, cheek pressed against the cold surface, your ruined shirt hanging off your arms. Your ass bare, thighs still trembling. He kicked your legs farther apart with his foot, planting one firm hand between your shoulder blades and pressing down until your back arched deep and low, your body exposed and helpless for him.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he muttered behind you, breath ragged, voice full of venomous praise. “This body—drives me bloody mad. All curves and heat and attitude. Always walkin’ around like you don’t know exactly what you do to me.”

His free hand found your ass—gripping it, spreading you wide, his fingers hot on your skin.

Then, just as your breath stuttered, he reached around and shoved those same fingers—slick from your cunt—right up to your lips.

You tried to turn your head, but he caught your jaw with his thumb, guiding you, forcing you to face him as he leaned in over your shoulder, lips brushing your ear.

“Suck.”

It wasn’t a request.

You hesitated—just for a second.

He laughed.

“Come on, love. Don’t get shy now. You were so loud a minute ago.”

You opened your mouth. He slid both fingers in, deep past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. You tasted yourself instantly—hot, slick, filthy—and your eyes fluttered as he held them there.

He groaned, rough and low.

“There you go. Tasting your own fuckin’ mess. You make such a state of yourself for me, don’t you?”

You whimpered around his fingers.

He leaned in, lips at your ear again.

“Makes sense. That’s all this mouth is good for—bein’ stuffed full or shut the fuck up.”

Then, without warning, he pulled them out—wet with spit and your slick—and shoved them straight back inside you.

You cried out, body jolting as he fucked his fingers deep, hard, and perfect, angling just right to hit that one unbearable spot inside you. Over and over. Fast. Precise. Cruel.

His other hand wrapped around your throat from behind—fingers strong, holding you down against the table, not squeezing but anchoring you in place.

“Don’t you dare come,” he hissed, thrusting his fingers in again. “You even think about it, and I’ll stop right fuckin’ there.”

You were shaking—helpless, dripping, your body a live wire under his control.

And he wasn’t touching your clit. Not once. Just that steady, brutal pace, fingers curling perfectly inside you, dragging along that spot like he was studying your body, not letting you have what you wanted.

“Oh, you want more, don’t you?” he mocked, voice low, breath hot at your neck. “Grindin’ down like you’re fuckin’ desperate. Like I didn’t tell you to behave.”

His fingers slammed into you again—harder now, fast and deep—but still controlled. Still measured. Still maddeningly just shy of what your body was begging for. His palm remained locked around your throat, keeping your chest pinned to the table, your breath shallow, your back arched like a perfect offering.

You were stretched out across the table, bare and trembling, every muscle burning with tension. His palm stayed firm around your throat, anchoring you down, forcing your chest into the cool wood as your back arched involuntarily—offering yourself like some desperate little thing. Your breath was ragged, catching in tiny gasps as his fingers drove into you, punishing, unrelenting.

And then you broke.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t a choice.

It spilled out of your mouth like a sob.

“Please—fuck, please—I need to come, I need you to—please, fuck me—”

He let out a low, incredulous laugh. Not amused. Just vicious.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said, tone sharp and dripping with smug satisfaction. “There she is.”

You whimpered, legs shaking, face pressed to the table, humiliation burning hot beneath your skin. You didn’t care. You needed it.

“You talk such big fuckin’ game, don’t you?” he murmured, leaning close, voice rough against your ear. “And now look at you—soaked, spread, and sobbin’ for it.”

Then his hand lifted from your throat.

Not slow. Not gentle.

It left you cold for a beat—exposed, air rushing in. But before you could even process it, his hand found your clit, finally, and pressed down with filthy precision. His fingers inside you never slowed, never lost rhythm. But now his other hand worked tight, devastating circles over that bundle of nerves, dragging you toward the edge with terrifying efficiency.

“You want to come?” he asked, lips grazing your jaw. “You want to come like a good little mess?”

“Yes—yes—please—”

“Then fucking apologise.”

You blinked. Shuddered.

“I—” Your voice caught, breath shaking. “I’m sorry.”

He rewarded you with a slow, deep curl of his fingers that made your hips jerk violently.

“Again,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry—fuck, I’m sorry I—”

He stopped. Both hands. Just... stopped.

The emptiness hit like a slap.

You whined—desperate, broken—hips twitching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

“No stutterin’,” he said coldly. “Say it properly or you get nothing.”

You sucked in a breath, forcing your voice out steady through the trembling of your entire body.

“I’m sorry I acted like a brat. I’m sorry I ruined the job. I just wanted—wanted you to fuck me again. Please.”

He groaned low, dark and pleased.

“There’s my good little mess.”

And then he gave it back.

Fingers deep again, thrusting hard, relentless. His thumb circled your clit with practiced cruelty, and your body sang with it—hips grinding into the pressure, legs twitching uncontrollably as he built you up again.

“Say it while you come,” he growled, voice thick with power. “Apologise while you fall apart for me.”

But he didn’t rush you there.

No, he took his time.

His fingers worked inside you in relentless, aching rhythm—deep and punishing, stroking that perfect spot again and again while his thumb dragged slow, filthy circles over your clit. You were shaking, twitching under his hands like your body had stopped belonging to you, like it only answered to him now.

“Yeah,” he murmured, lips dragging along your spine, breath hot and thick against your skin. “That’s it. Good girl. Feel it. Every fuckin’ second of it.”

He leaned in, kissed your shoulder—open mouth, tongue hot and heavy on your skin. Then lower. The blade of your shoulder blade, the dip of your back. His moustache scratched over your skin, and the heat of his breath raised goosebumps in the wake of every kiss.

“Made such a fuckin’ mess of yourself for me,” he muttered, dragging his mouth up to your ear again. “All that mouth, all that fight, and now look at you. So fuckin’ wet I could hear you beggin’ before you said a word.”

Your breath broke on a sob. The pressure was unbearable now—pleasure wound so tight it felt like pain. His fingers never stopped. His thumb worked faster, harder, and you could feel it coming—rising slow, sharp, like a wave with nowhere to crash but through you.

“Go on,” he growled, voice hot against your ear, fingers fucking into you like he owned every inch. “Come all over my fuckin’ fingers, you needy little mess. Show me what that bratty cunt was beggin’ for.”

And you did.

The orgasm took you like a blow—violent and all-consuming, your muscles locking, your back arching hard against his chest as the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, his mouth, his voice.

“I’m—fuck—I’m sorry,” you gasped, broken and raw, the words tumbling from your lips again and again. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—Tangerine, please—”

He didn’t stop. Not for a second.

You came hard, sobbing through it, body convulsing in his grip, and he watched you. Felt every tremor with his hands, every flutter of your cunt around his fingers, and just held you there—working you through it like you were something to be played.

And as you slumped, twitching and spent against the table, he leaned in close. Pressed his lips just beneath your ear, voice low and thick and utterly filthy.

“That’s my girl. Wrecked and sorry for me. You’ll remember this every time you get mouthy again, won’t you?”

He kissed your temple—surprisingly soft.

But then he laughed, low and dark.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not fuckin’ finished with you yet.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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[mencantaleer]

Feliz Halloween

Línea alternativa donde el mandarín no muere.

Set after defeating white death.

Synopsis: Just tangerine being a good boy.

Reader over 18, 2000 words. mdni!

Warnings : rough sex, Sub!Tangerine, Dom! reader some degradation, compliments, mild humiliation, a little tangerine fluff.

You are so excited to see your boyfriend after weeks without seeing him, to the point that when he comes home you jump on him to kiss him, and little by little the situation escalates to the point of having him in your bed, you sitting on his lap and when tangerine wants to undo the buttons of your jeans you stop him.

-When he comes back I want to see you naked and on your knees,” you mention as you start to walk away lifting a bag from your closet as you make your way to your bathroom.

-And if I don't listen what will you do, will you punish me mommy,” she challenges you.

Your eyes darken with desire at Tangerine's provocative words. You can't deny that it turns you on that he behaves like a spoiled brat, you know you'll soon give him what he deserves. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across your face as you lean in close to his ear, your hot breath against his neck sending ripples that create a tent in your boy's pants.

-Oh, I think you'll find that disobedience has its consequences, sweetheart,” you purr, sliding your hand down to rest on his penis that still remains covered by the fabric of his pants threatening to pop out. And believe me, you'll enjoy the punishment I have in mind.

You bite her earlobe and then whisper: “But if you're a good boy for mommy and you listen to everything I tell you now, maybe I'll show you how rewarding obedience can be,” and without further ado you go into the bathroom to change into what you had bought a few days before, taking care of every detail meticulously. When you get ready to leave the bathroom you see Tangerine sitting on the bed with a challenging look and with her clothes still on.

-Oh, you want me to punish you, don't you? -you tease him, you watch his eyes that have a hint of mischief in them as he tries to reach out to feel the lingerie you are wearing and when he is about to touch you, you firmly grab his hands, forcing him to look at you- Not so fast, only nice boys can touch and today you are just a little rebellious brat that needs to be disciplined.

-Come on, come on, let me touch you,” he purrs, as he watches you.

-Good boys earn their rewards, remember?” you mention as you stare at him.

-Don't be like that, let me touch you, I know you're excited,” he mentions while he tries to change your mind, but he doesn't succeed. You bite her earlobe and then whisper: “But if you're a good boy for mommy and you listen to everything I tell you now, maybe I'll show you how rewarding obedience can be,” and without further ado you go into the bathroom to change into what you had bought a few days before, taking care of every detail meticulously. When you get ready to leave the bathroom you see Tangerine sitting on the bed with a challenging look and with her clothes still on.

-Oh, you want me to punish you, don't you? -you tease him, you watch his eyes that have a hint of mischief in them as he tries to reach out to feel the lingerie you are wearing and when he is about to touch you, you firmly grab his hands, forcing him to look at you- Not so fast, only nice boys can touch and today you are just a little rebellious brat that needs to be disciplined.

-Come on, come on, let me touch you,” he purrs, as he watches you.

-Good boys earn their rewards, remember?” you mention as you stare at him.

-Don't be like that, let me touch you, I know you're excited,” he mentions while he tries to change your mind, but he doesn't succeed.

-If only you had been a good boy everything would be different, now you can only see me but not touch,” you reply as you tie him to your dresser chair and move it so he can see your bed. You stop to watch as you walk to the bed and sit down so he has a privileged view of what is about to happen. One of your hands slides up your thigh, playfully brushing against the thong you're wearing.

-Well, I guess I can show you what I'm feeling-you lean back a little so you can see better as you slowly unbutton your corset. Your pale skin and toned abdomen are revealed inch by inch. You squeeze your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra, squeezing them as you begin to move in circles. Your hips begin to move, rubbing together to seek friction as you stroke faster. Pinching your nipples through the bra, biting your lip to hold back a moan. The sensations are intense, raising your libido to 100%, not only are you enjoying yourself but you are punishing your bitch as she watches you get pleasure without her help, we gauge her reaction as you play with your tits. Her eyes are glued to your body, her breathing is agitated and the bulge in her pants is a case, she only needed to see you touching yourself to reach orgasm and she demonstrated that by staining her pants with semen, creating a whitish stain. That doesn't stop you from sliding your panties down your legs.

-Mmm, you like watching me touch myself, don't you, brat? See how wet you make me, how much I need this. -You slide a finger under the wet fabric, circling my entrance provocatively. I bet you wish you could fuck me right here, don't you? Bend me over this bed and take me real hard so everyone can hear me screaming your name.

You stick a finger in your dripping pussy and pump it slowly as you slide your hand down his pants caressing his member. Your free hand moves to caress your breast, pinching and pulling your nipple through the thin bra. Waves of pleasure radiate through me as you shamelessly touch yourself in front of Tan.

Your breathing becomes ragged, your hips jerk as you feel yourself close. You can feel yourself throbbing, your orgasm building. You want to cum, and you feel a wave of pleasure run through your whole body making you shudder.

-That's it, you were very good. You could have got rid of the ropes but you controlled yourself not to do it, you deserve a reward, pretty boy. - You deserve a reward, pretty boy.

-Please, please,” he says in a husky voice full of need. Please let me fuck you. I need to be inside you, to feel your heat tight around my cock. -Get undressed and get on your knees now,” you order as you see how he hurries to comply with what you ordered, and you can not help but smile as you see him like a puppy all eager to receive his prize, too bad you will not make it so easy, when he finally gets rid of his clothes and kneels before you, you order him to look up.

-You see it wasn't that hard to follow orders sweetie, but I need to make sure it's clear to you,” you say as you bring your fingers to his mouth, ”Tell me how much you want to fuck me, beg for it.

-I beg you mommy,” she moans as she pushes your fingers into her mouth, sucking on them as if her life depended on it, ”I need to be buried deep in your sweet pussy. I need you to mark me as yours, I need you to make me feel like your slave.

He tilts his head up as he continues to lick your fingers, “Please, my queen,” he whispers softly and seductively, “Let me worship your body. Let me serve you as your sex toy to soothe your desire,” he moans softly.

-Mmmm… good boy-your hands run over your pet's body while you kiss him possessively, making it clear who is the owner here-you can fuck me, but never forget that I am the one in charge. Tangerine's eyes light up as you give her permission, a mixture of relief and excitement flooding her features. She rises from the floor and begins to kiss you desperately.

-Thank you, Mommy,” she growls, her voice hoarse with desire. I promise to be your good boy and do everything you tell me.

He rolls you onto your back, his body covering yours. Tangerine's hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips tightly. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick heat.

-Remember that you are mine and that will never change,” you promise in a low, husky voice. You'll never forget who's in charge of the relationship, now just make me feel good pet.

With a powerful thrust of her hips, Tangerine thrusts inside you. He moans as he feels your tight walls surround him and rolls his eyes in pleasure.

-Fuck, don't stop Tangerine or I swear I'll punish you,” you say.

Tangerine moves her hips forward and plunges his cock deeper into your tight, warm clit. She moans at the sensation and drops her head back in ecstasy.

-God, Mistress,” he gasps, his voice strained with pleasure. You feel so good, as if you were created just for me.

He begins to move, his hips moving in a steady rhythm. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure through your body, increasing the heat between your legs. Tangerine's hands roam your body, caressing every curve and valley. She leans in and captures your lips in a searing kiss. Her tongue delves into your mouth and claims you completely.

-I can't get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips, his hips never ceasing their relentless rhythm, ‘I need more, always more,’ he moans in your ear as he continues to penetrate your aching pussy.

He moves slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts. You cry out when he hits a particularly sensitive spot, your nails digging into his back.

-That's it, my love,” you encourage him, your voice low and rough. Let me feel how much you want your mommy, how much you need me.

He reaches between your bodies and finds your clitoris with his fingers. He slowly rubs the sensitive bud, sending waves of pleasure through your center.

-Make me reach my orgasm Tan,” you order him, your voice brooking no argument. Make me cum until I feel dizzy,” you arch as you feel your impending orgasm.

Tangerine's thrusts become more erratic, her breathing ragged. She's close, teetering on the brink of release. But he's not stopping, not giving up, at least not until he makes you come. He's determined to take you to the edge with him, to share the ultimate pleasure. Suddenly, the climax overcomes you and your pussy contracts around his cock as you stifle a cry of ecstasy. Your hand milks his cock furiously, determined to make him come with you.

-Come on, pretty boy, cum for me, let me feel you, cum with me,” you scream as you feel one last powerful thrust, Tangerine sinking all the way in. She throws her head back and lets out a primal roar as she spills inside you. His hips jerk erratically and his cock throbs as he fills you with his seed. He falls in surrender as he embraces you, pressing his foreheads together.

-That was intense, wasn't it,” you murmur as you try to catch your breath.

-My God,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse with emotion. It was… indescribable. The way you took control, the way you dominated me… it was like nothing I've ever experienced before,” she says as she runs her fingers along the line of your jaw, her touch as light as a feather. Tangerine's eyes search you with a mixture of admiration and adoration in their depths. -You brought out a side of me I didn't even know existed. A side that craved submission, that needed to relinquish control-She leans in and places a soft kiss on your lips. “And the pleasure… my love, the pleasure was intense. Every touch, every command…it was like a high tension wire sparking through my veins.” -I thought you wouldn't like me, I thought you would hate me after this,” you reply as you snuggle into his chest.

-I could never hate you, I just want to say… Thank you.

-What are you thanking me for?” you ask, still a little unsure of his reaction. -For showing me this side of myself. For making me feel things I never thought I could feel,” Tangerine's hand slides down your side and her fingers intertwine with yours, ‘I love you,’ she mentions before falling asleep.

-I love you too Tangerine,” you reply as you cover him with the blanket and then lay down and hug him.

I have to thank @tangerinesmommy who is the great creator of Sub!Tangerine, she inspired me to create this one shot, thank you <3.

Happy halloween to all.

Comenta, rebloguea, te leo.

(Contenido resubido) Lo subí de nuevo porque el post anterior estaba en español, olvidé traducirlo ;).

My requests are open if you want to ask for something <3.