#tangerine bullet train

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x fem!reader

Summary: Tangerine has always chosen her over you, until he doesn't anymore.

Genre: angst and fluff

Warnings: Lemon, Tangerine, and reader are in their early twenties, toxic relationship, swearing, violence, men (the gross kind), body/weight insecurities, cheating, intoxication

~ based on a conversation i had with my wife @little-miss-dilf-lover and lightly inspired by Dial Drunk by Noah Kahn ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

It was midnight when you heard the sharp knocks on your apartment door. You knew your roommate was already asleep so you quickly pad out of your bedroom and through the living room, rubbing your sleepy eyes as you open the door a sliver and peer out into the corridor. You see Lemon first, a sympathetic look painted across his features as he holds up an extremely drunk Tangerine.

Tangerine's face is covered in bruises, the skin around his eye is slowly turning purple and you see the blood on his knuckles as he flexes his hands. Your eyes widen and you hurry out into the hall, your bare feet against the harsh carpet as you quietly shut the door behind you. "What happened?" you whisper, worried for him. Tangerine just grunts, his eyes glossy. 

He's been crying. 

Lemon groans and holds his brother higher, looking at you knowingly. As if he knows the news will somehow break your heart. You stare at him, as if to say 'cut the bullshit' because you want to see if it has something to do with Macey—which it probably does.

Tangerine and Macey have been dating on and off for years. Since high school she's had him wrapped around her pinky, his head a lust-filled mess that very quickly turned into full-blown puppy-love. She'd always be the one to dump him and he'd always come back because he loved her so much. It was an endless cycle that lasted until now, your junior year of university. 

You hate her. You have never hated anyone as much as you hate Macey Addams. 

You hate her silky ginger hair, the way her dark eyes contrast Tangerine's blue ones so well, and that fake smile she reserves for you when you see her. You hate how she laughs, how she talks, and how she looks in those skin-tight dresses Tangerine loves so much.  

You hate her.

You hate how you're not her. 

"Ran into some 'friends' from high school at the bar," Lemon says, emphasizing the word friends with a grunt, "Said some things this dick didn't like so he had to start a fucking bar fight, like some fucking criminal. All because of some bird who doesn't want nothin' to do with you anymore, mate," Lemon scolds Tangerine, who slouches against the wall and slides down, holding his head in his arms. 

"Someone called the coppers and I had to bail him out."

Your eyes widen and you run a hand in your messy hair, kneeling in front of Tangerine as you look up at Lemon. "Really?"

Lemon nods and removes his hand from Tangerine's shoulder. He walks away further down the hall, shaking his head as he groans. Lemon's mumbling curses under his breath and so is Tangerine, only his sound sadder than his brother. 

"Hey," you whisper, "Tan?"

His arms attach themselves to your waist, holding you close as he sobs. You sigh, resting your hand on his head as you let him hold you. Sometimes you'd find yourself being bitter, because why does he love Macey so much when you've always been here for him? 

You'd gift him the moon if you could, but instead, you're stuck being just this—his best friend.

Not that you're complaining. 

"Y/n?" he asks a while later as you both sit on the floor of your room, having managed to sneak him quietly through the living room. You're nursing frozen peas to his knuckles as he leans his head against your bed. Knowing Tangerine was in good hands, Lemon had gone home. 

You hum, looking at him. 

"If I could choose who I was in love with," he begins, his intoxication still obvious only he's slowly sobering up. He blinks slowly, finding his words, "I'd choose you."

You look into his blue eyes you'd normally want to drown yourself in and your heart shatters. He means well, you know this. Plus, how is he supposed to know you're actually madly in love with him when you've never told him?

However, the words hurt like hell knowing his love for Macey is almost otherworldly. He speaks of it like a chemical reaction he has no control over and you're simply the choice. Something mundane and easier. 

You turn your head and quickly wipe a tear from your cheek so he doesn't see. You look at him again and strain a smile. 

"I'd choose you too, Tan."

* * *

Four months later, although sometimes you would find him lost in thoughts of her, she was mostly a distant memory and your feelings for Tangerine have been successfully repressed.  

The pub is extra crowded this evening and you slither your way through people to where your date is. His name is Adrien, which is a respectable name. He's handsome enough if not a little boring. You order your drinks and then the conversation turns sour. 

"I mean, females need to watch their crabs, y'know. You should really order a salad," Adrien pushes the menu across the table, his voice calm like he'd just called the sky blue. You frown, cheeks warm as you cross an arm over your stomach, feeling insecure in your dress. 

"Females?" you repeat in disbelief that a man like this exists.

He doesn't answer. The waiter comes with the wine and you gulp yours down in one go.

In hindsight you should have left the moment Adrien opened his mouth, but something inside you embarrassingly craved any form of affection up until he tried to kiss you outside the pub, and when you pushed him away for the second time, he called you an ugly bitch and stormed off. 

Your lip wobbles as you stare at the lamppost, your hand clutching your purse strap so hard it hurts. You sniffle and fumble with your phone, texting the one person you know won't hesitate to come pick you up. You really don't want to walk home.

Minutes later, his car screeches in front of the pub and he opens the door from the driver's side, looking at you with a concerned expression as you climb in, buckling yourself. "Thanks," you mutter. 

"S'no problem, poppet," Tangerine says, sending you a sideways look as he starts the car again, shifting the gear as he drives off. You sink into the expensive leather seats and look out the window. You sniffle again, still holding an arm over your stomach. 

You keep hearing Tangerine's ringtone. Someone's bombarding him with texts. You turn, catching a glimpse of the contact's name as she calls him up again. The screen flashes her name. Mae. Macey. Tangerine turns his phone over in the center console, turning off the sound as he focuses on the road.

You look at him, your frown momentarily distracting you from how watery your eyes have become from the evening events. "Don't you want to answer?" you whisper. You know Tangerine would usually jump at an opportunity for her attention. This time, his jaw clenches and he shakes his head. 

"Rude to answer the phone when you're with someone, innit?" he says, looking at you briefly. "Are ya okay, love?" he asks, his tone softer now. 

You're a little surprised he's putting you over Macey but you relish in it.

You shrug. "Hm, bad date," you say. 

Tangerine's nose scrunches and his hands tighten on the wheel. "Did something happen?"

"If you count him being a jerk who thought it was normal to comment on my food choice on the first date, then yeah." You roll your eyes and look out the window again, blinking rapidly not to cry. You cross your other arm across your stomach as you instinctively suck in.

Tangerine catches the movement and his frustration boils. "You look beautiful," he says and places his hand on your knee. "Don't," he whispers, waiting for you to relax your poor stomach. You do it with a sigh and you're silent the rest of the car ride.

Once you're back home, Tangerine agrees to stay the night to keep you company after such a horrible experience. It really isn't smart, considering your heart latches on to him immediately, and it is only sent plummeting when just before your eyes flutter shut to sleep, you hear Tangerine's muffled voice in your bathroom, her name on his tongue.   

Of course, he'd called her back. 

* * *

Six months later Lemon is throwing a housewarming party for him and his fiancée, Liv. You'd decide to bring your boyfriend of three months. Unbeknownst to you, Tangerine also had invited a plus one neither you nor Lemon approved of. 

"Y/n/n!" her shrill voice calls over the music as you turn, your champagne almost falling from your hand as you see her. Her fiery red hair is cut shorter but it's as pretty as ever as she drops Tangerine's arm and skips over, pulling you into a hug. "I've missed you." Macey's tone is sweet, almost as if you'd been best friends for years. 

You see Tangerine handing Lemon his and Macey's coat, whispering something to his brother who sends him a dirty look. Macey continues to hug you and then introduces herself to your boyfriend Charlie. You don't miss how Charlie's gaze flickers to her breasts in her navy skin-tight dress. Macey smiles sweetly at him.

You feel sick. 

You excuse yourself and find Tangerine in the kitchen as he looks for a drink. "Macey? Really? You're a fucking puppy wrapped around her finger," you spit, slightly drunk from the champagne and frustrated from the situation.

Tangerine rolls his eyes. "She's changed. We're good now."

"You sound so stupid," you accuse, walking over and shoving his shoulder in an attempt to knock some sense into him. He grunts and steadies you with his hands as he frowns. 

"You're sloshed, Y/n."

You shake your head and push his hand away, eyes lidded. "You fucking tell your girl to keep her dirty mitts away from my boyfriend then!" Tangerine's anger rises as he hates what you're implying just as much as you do. 

"She's not like that," he argues and you scoff, turning around to storm off into the living room again. 

"Not anymore," Tangerine calls but you ignore him. 

An hour or two later, after some rounds of charades and sneaking glances you wish you hadn't seen between Charlie and Macey, you're even drunker. Lemon is beginning to worry as Liv insists you have more water. You don't know what you hate more, that your current boyfriend keeps looking at another woman, or how said woman keeps playing with Tangerine's tie as she sits curled up in his lap. 

You think it's all in your drunken mind when you stumble into the backyard and see Charlie with his hand under Macey's dress, her leg wrapped around his hip as they kiss passionately. They're probably fueled by liquor and lust but it doesn't matter, the dam breaks and you turn around, stumbling inside, alerting them to your presence. You're crying as you slam your head into someone's hard chest. 

"Woah. Bloody hell," Tangerine frowns and looks at you. He's probably the only sober person here. He's been fully sober for more than half a year now.  His hand comes up to your cheek immediately as he pads at your tears. "Love, what happened?"

You don't answer him, only sobbing more as you push by him and rush into the upstairs bathroom. Charlie stumbles inside, buttoning up his shirt and he makes uncomfortable eye contact with Tangerine. He stops cold, clears his throat, and nods his head at him before he rushes up the stairs after you. 

Tangerine's stomach drops. He takes a calming breath and puts his hands in his pockets as he walks outside and sees Macey adjusting her dress and wiping the sides of her mouth, where her mauve lipstick had smudged.

She turns to him, her voice still as she says calmly, "I can explain, T." She doesn't sound remorseful in any way, a clear indication that he's been letting her walk all over him. 

He takes another breath and walks to her, his demeanor just as calm and Macey's expression falters. Usually, this would rile him up and she loved the adrenaline she received from calming him down and taming him. This? This was new.

"It's one thing to hurt me," Tangerine drawls, staring at her with a cold gaze. "It's another to hurt her."

Macey frowns. "Who? Y/n? Who cares—"

"I care," he interrupts and takes Macey's chin in his hand, not tightening enough to hurt her, just to scare her. "You went too far this time and I should have never given you another chance. This? Us? We should have ended years ago."

He releases her and Macey's eyes widen. "Tangerine,"

"Get out." He says sternly and turns around, adding in a harsh tone, "And lose my fuckin' number."

Tangerine hears Charlie banging on the bathroom door the moment he enters the house again and his fists clench. He strides upstairs and pulls on your boyfriend's shoulder, feeling him jump as he looks at Tangerine. "Ya think ya haven't done enough?"

Charlie opens his mouth to protest but hearing Tangerine, you open the door just a little and peek outside, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes and a mess of snot under your nose. Tangerine's gaze softens when you sniffle. 

"Tan," you whisper. 

Charlie puts his hand on the door and attempts to pry it open. "Y/n!" He sounds urgent but Tangerine shoves him away, sending him a glare as he lets himself into the small bathroom and locks the door behind him again. 

You're inconsolable now as you cry violently. As angry as you are with Tangerine for bringing her, you need him now. You grasp his shirt and rest your forehead on his chest, shaking. Tangerine is as mad at himself as you are, maybe even more so. He wraps his arms around you and inhales the scent of your shampoo as he kisses your head repeatedly. 

"Darlin'," he whispers, his voice hoarse, "I'm so sorry. I'm so fuckin' sorry."

He hears another annoying sharp knock from Charlie again and instantly bangs his heel against the door, startling you a little but he holds you tighter and barks. 

"Piss the fuck off, twat."

The knocking ends. 

* * *

An hour later, Tangerine has you sitting on Lemon and Liv's kitchen counter as they clean up from the party. He hands you some water as he rolls up his sleeves. One of his hands finds your thigh and he rubs it soothingly. You look up at him from behind your glass, unable to resist the question.  

"Is there something wrong with me?"

Tangerine's forehead pinches and pulls his hand away so he can cup your cheeks instead. He stands in between your legs, his eyes level with yours as they search your features. "Pardon? Say that again."

"What does she have that I don't? Is she prettier than me? Does she have a better body? I- I want to be wanted like her," you sniffle, your words slurred as you're still very intoxicated no matter how much water you've drank. Your cheeks are damp from your tears. "Why does she take every man I like? Why did she take you from me when I loved you damn so much?"

Tangerine's heart leaps at your words. "Loved me?" he repeats, his thumb caressing your cheek.

You nod and look into his eyes. "Love," you admit, "For years—and it never stops either and I tried. I tried, Tan."

You sound so sad.

His hand shakes on your cheek and for a moment you think he's leaning in to kiss you as your eyes flutter, but instead, he crushes you into a hug. You relax in his arms, shutting your eyes fully as you whimper and the sound hits him hard. 

He'd been such an idiot. 

"I would kiss ya," he whispers, sounding sincere, "I'd kiss ya if ya weren't so damn drunk."

You're speechless. 

Liv walks in, holding an armful of paper towels with Lemon on her heels. She smiles when Tangerine shifts away from you, clearing his throat, and you try to look busy, your head spinning from Tangerine's previous words. Lemon raises an eyebrow at his brother and Tangerine communicates with his eyes. Lemon chuckles.

"G'night, lovebirds," he grins as Liv puts away the paper towels and smirks too, slapping Lemon's arm playfully.

Tangerine's cheeks burn crimson all the way up to his ears. 

Once they're gone he turns his attention to you again, looking at you fondly. "I've been a real fuckin' prick, haven't I?" he says and pushes some hair behind your ear. "Lookin' at 'er, when what I wanted was right here in front of me this whole damn time."

You blink at him, his words sinking in but you're too drunk to comprehend. 

Tangerine kisses your forehead. "I'll make it up to you," he says, his chest filling with warmth. It's a promise. One he keeps because when you wake up in Lemon's guest room, Tangerine walks in shirtless with a breakfast tray full of an assortment of toast, beans, and eggs. 

"Monrin' love," he says. He's wearing that familiar smile. A peaceful, happy, smile. The one you haven't seen him wear in a while. 

Damn does it look good on him.

[dramaticnia]

Tangerine...

Bullet Train 2022 | Dir. David Leitch

[arkethamz]

not cringetober bc i was busy today

but i did get a doodle done for 40 years of thomas the tank engine <3

[heureuxvivant]

❤️‍🔥🤓😘

i’m clearing out my camera roll and i found this and immediately i was like you guys need to see it too

[kaizsche]

Come on. No, you don't have to nick the biscuits, man. BULLET TRAIN (2022)

[0stentatiouss]

𝓣𝓲𝓵 𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓓𝓸 𝓤𝓼 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽

Tangerine (Bullet Train) x Assassin!Reader / Y/N

A short story | SMUT | Chapter 2

Alone in the guest suite, you spiral—haunted by your partner Tangerine and the tension between you. Drunk and restless, you teeter on the edge of desire and shame. When you overhear something, the moment implodes. Caught listening, you flee, humiliated. He follows—but doesn’t confront. Just confirms what you both already know: you want him. And now, you can’t hide it.

Slow-building tension culminating in explicit smut with emotional stakes

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

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 coming soon | Masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for in this chapter: emotional spiraling in luxury loungewear, alcohol as a coping mechanism (bad idea, great drama), deep sighs into expensive glass windows, exhibitionism-adjacent decisions (oops), tension so thick you could cut it with a broken minibar bottle, deeply questionable coping strategies, accidental overhearing (very on purpose)

♡ word count: 6.3k (Making you suffer through this slow burn together with me)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Sleep won’t come.

It hasn’t even bothered to try. The other side of this too-big bed yawns wide, a gaping absence you refuse to name. The cloying sweetness of the complimentary bouquet has seeped into everything—the sheets, the air, the back of your throat—like some cheap attempt to mask the emptiness.

You twist onto your side and kick hard, your leg striking nothing but cool, untouched linen. The impact is useless, hollow — like screaming into water. No matter how hard you kick, he won’t be there. The silence swallows the sound, wraps around your fury like silk around a blade. It isn’t just anger — not really. It’s grief, raw and clumsy, clawing at the walls you keep rebuilding. You tell yourself you hate him, that he doesn’t deserve the space he’s still taking up inside you. But your chest aches with something softer, something ruinous. And it’s getting harder to pretend that isn’t what’s killing you.

Fuck him.

You’re awake because of him. Because of the silence where his breathing should be. Because he didn’t stay.

You rapidly sit up, pressing your palms into your temples as if you could crush the thoughts before they take root. You shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not now. Not ever again.

You stay like that—your breath jagged, your fingers tangled in your hair. But the silence mocks you. The suite—too lavish, too immaculate—feels like a gilded cage. Outside, the frigid city pulses, a distant symphony of horns and engines, but in here, the only sound is the low hum of the climate control, set to a perfect, sterile 72 degrees.

The walls are a whisper of ivory silk, stretched taut over custom paneling—the kind of white that costs more than most people’s rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, their blackout drapes half-drawn, allowing the glow of downtown to spill across the hand-knotted rug in liquid gold. A Bösendorfer grand piano sits near the terrace, untouched. 

And the bed. God, the bed.

A sprawling masterpiece of Italian linen, half-destroyed by your restless limbs, half still pristine—as if waiting for someone who will never return. And this is just the guest room. Opulent in a way that feels almost accusatory. You can’t help but wonder what his actual bedroom is like—the one behind that sleek, concealed door at the end of the hall. You peeked earlier, just for a second. Marble floors warm to the touch, a rainfall shower the size of a studio apartment, a bed so wide it looked like it could swallow loneliness whole. If this is the afterthought, the overflow space, then what must it feel like to be wanted enough to be welcomed into the rest?

Your hands drag down your face, slow and careless, nails catching briefly on the delicate skin beneath your eyes. The robe—thick, starched hotel cotton, monogrammed in gilded thread—is cinched tight at your waist, too tight, the belt pulled in a moment of thoughtless habit. It presses the fabric flush against your chest, the heavy folds molding to your breasts, nipples stiff beneath the coarse lining, every breath a rub, a graze, a quiet agony.

Beneath it, there’s almost nothing. Just a narrow strip of fabric between your thighs, already damp, already clinging in places that ache with absence.

The pressure builds. The robe is too much—too warm, too close, too empty of him. You claw at the belt, fingers fumbling until it jerks loose, breath hitching as the knot gives way. The robe parts in a sudden, sullen shrug, the loosened lapels falling open to expose the full curve of your breasts, nipples flushed and hard, catching slightly against the rough inner seams as the fabric shifts.

You don’t shrug it off entirely. It hangs from your shoulders, heavy and indifferent, framing you but no longer hiding you. The air finds your skin—cool, impersonal—and it does nothing to soothe. You press your thighs together, chasing friction, but it’s a pale imitation. There’s no weight behind it. No hands. No mouth. Nothing but silence—and the sting of skin still desperate to be touched.

Stop.

You push yourself off the bed, bare feet sinking into the hand-knotted rug—so plush it swallows your steps whole, like the room itself is trying to hush you. The air hums with the scent of cold jasmine from the diffuser, cloying and artificial. You don’t look at the bed behind you, where the sheets still hold the shape of your body.

The city glows beyond the glass, a skyline of sharp edges and distant light. You press your palms to the window, cool against your hot skin. Your breath fogs the pane—quick, shallow—but the reflection won’t lie: lips bitten red, hair a riot against the robe’s pristine collar.

Inhale. Exhale. Each breath scrapes your throat on the way out, like your lungs are trying to spit him out too.

You peel yourself from the window, step by slow step, the cool glass reluctantly releasing your skin. The robe shifts with you, heavy where it hangs, the belt loose now, trailing against your thigh. You cross the room barefoot, each step sinking into the carpet, the city light fading behind you as you move toward the minibar tucked beneath the counter.

The minibar clicks softly when you open it, light spilling out like a hush in the dark. You crouch, reaching in for the ice bucket, fingers brushing over the cubes—slick, half-melted, trembling in their silver cradle.

You pause. Just above the ice: a bottle of whiskey, amber and expensive, the kind he used to order without looking at the price. Your hand hovers there, fingertips ghosting along the glass. You could twist the cap, feel the burn slide down your throat, let it sear the ache into something easier. For a moment, you almost do.

But no. Not like this.

You let the bottle go. The soft clink as it settles back into place feels louder than it should. You take a single cube of ice instead, pinched between two fingers, and walk slowly back toward the window. The robe slips further as you move, barely hanging on, your body half-bared in the city’s indifferent glow.

Condensation slicks your fingertips. You press the ice to your sternum, drag it down your chest. It should shock you back into yourself.

Instead, your skin pebbles, nipples aching in the cold, hungry for a touch that isn’t yours.

Pathetic.

You bite your own knuckle—hard—but the sting just tastes like salt and him. You fucking miss him.

He was already sprawled across the velvet settee like a king too lazy to wear his crown—legs open, posture dripping arrogance. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to tease—chest barely visible, skin warm where the fabric gaped. One sock was halfway off like he’d started to undress and lost interest halfway through. A half-full glass of Dom Pérignon dangled from his fingers, swirling slow circles like it had all the time in the world.

The bottle sat in an ice bucket nearby, sweating rivulets down its sides. Everything in the room was sweating. Including you.

You didn’t speak as you crossed the room. Just let the silk of your dress whisper with every step—cool against skin that still hadn’t recovered from earlier. From the way his fingers had brushed your chest without meaning to. Or pretending not to. That damn button, back in place now, sat tighter than it had before. Like your pulse had gotten caught beneath it.

You had decided to finally break the silence.

“I’m taking the master bedroom,” you said, voice cool, collected, and entirely at odds with the heat coiling low in your belly.

He didn’t look up. Just lifted his glass, took a slow, indulgent sip, his lips parting like he was savouring more than champagne. “No, you’re bloody well not.”

You turned, slowly. The silk pulled deliciously over your thighs with every movement, and you knew he felt the shift in the air, the tension snapping tight.

“Excuse me?” you asked, voice sharp. A blade slipped into a velvet glove.

He set the glass down, deliberately. “Look, love. That room’s got heated floors, blackout curtains, a tub fit for a bloody Roman orgy, and a bidet that damn near qualifies as a weapon. I’m not lettin’ you waltz in there with your spreadsheets and silk drawers and stake a bloody flag.”

You took a step closer. Then another. Until he had to tilt his chin slightly to keep your gaze.

“I already claimed it,” you said. “Didn’t realize we were negotiating.”

He leaned back, legs spreading wider—insufferably at ease. His eyes dropped, unapologetically, dragging from your collarbones to the subtle strain of fabric over your breasts, lingering just a beat too long on the way the silk hugged your waist like a second skin. When his eyes finally flicked back up to yours, they were lit with something slow and dangerous.

“Didn’t realise you were delusional,” he said, lips twitching. “Cute, though. I’ll give you that.”

“Mine,” you said, firmer this time.

He scoffed, grinning. “Nah. Not havin’ it. Guest room’s down the hall. It’s got a mirror big enough for you and your bloody ego.”

You folded your arms across your chest—and felt the way the fabric shifted. The brush of silk against bare nipples, already tight from the chill in the room and the way his voice—that voice—curled inside you like smoke.

“We flip for it,” you said.

He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, so now we’re bringin’ democracy into this? Thought you were more of a coup d'état sort.”

He reached into his charcoal pants—your eyes followed, reflex—and pulled out a pound coin like it was a trick he’d been waiting to use. Flicked it into the air with a little too much flair.

“Call it.”

You watched the coin spin, flashes of metal catching chandelier light. “Tails.”

It landed with a clean slap against the back of his hand. He peeled his fingers away slowly—milking it.

“Heads,” he said, all teeth.

“Fuck,” you muttered, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Oi,” he says, already reaching for his glass again, “don’t be a sore loser. Guest room’s down the hall—right past the panic room and the creepy sculpture that looks like it’s watchin’ you sleep.”

“You cheated.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cheating implies I needed the advantage. I just like watchin’ you lose.”

Your pulse jumped. You turned before he could see it—heels clicking as you stalked toward the room. 

“Sleep tight,” he called after you, the smirk clear in his voice. “If it gets a bit nippy in there—well, I’m told I’m rather toasty. Limited-time offer, mind you—terms and conditions may apply.”

You didn’t answer. Just slammed the door. The canvas on the wall shook in its frame like it was exhaling. Behind you, he downed the rest of his drink, poured another, and leaned back with that same bloody grin—lazy, smug, knowing.

The glass is cold against your forehead as you lean into it, the city’s skyline blurring into streaks of gold and neon through your unshed tears. Pathetic. Weak. The words ricochet in your skull, sharp as the ice still clutched in your other hand.

You should be stronger than this.

The suite mocks you with its silence—too heavy, too perfect, like it’s waiting for you to break. The onyx minibar glows from where you left it ajar, its LED lights blinking back at you like they know exactly how pathetic this is. Even the chandelier—an obscene tangle of Swarovski crystals—shivers when you breathe out, delicate and useless, like it’s afraid of your grief too.

You press harder against the window, the chill seeping into your skin. Christ, you need him here. Not just the version from before—smug, infuriating, winning—though, God, you miss that too. The way he could make a fight feel like foreplay, how his arrogance was just confidence worn sharp enough to draw blood. You miss the fucker who stole the master bedroom with a smirk and a rigged coin toss.

You miss him even though he’s just a few tentative steps away from you. But your feet don’t move.

But you also miss the other version of him. The one who would’ve known, without asking, to slide a hand between your shoulder blades right now, his palm warm and sure. The one who’d call you “love” like it wasn’t a weapon, but a fact.

You remember him in the quiet after Cairo, when your comms went dead and you’d both spent four hours crawling through the ruins, shoulder to shoulder, breathing dust and adrenaline. He hadn’t said much—just handed you his canteen, fingers brushing yours, gaze steady. You’d been shaking, but he’d simply leaned his shoulder into yours until you stopped.

Or Tangier, when the op went sideways and you took shrapnel just beneath your ribs. He hadn’t panicked. Just ripped open your vest with hands that didn’t tremble and said, “Stay with me, love,” like it was an order you’d never disobey. Like he believed you would.

That version of him wasn’t all smirks and exit lines. He was the silence between the shots, the pause before the storm, the hand that never missed when you reached back in the dark.

You sag against the glass, your breath fogging the pane in uneven bursts. You should hate him. You do hate him. But your body hasn’t gotten the memo—your skin still prickles at the memory of his touch.

The robe slips further, the silk whispering down your arm. You don’t stop it.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that if he walked in right now, if he offered that limited-time offer with that infuriating grin, you’re not sure you’d say no.

You bite your lip until you taste copper.

You’re so fucked.

The dining room looked like something out of a Bond villain's fever dream—dark walnut panels gleaming under candlelight, heavy drapes drawn back to reveal Vienna’s skyline, and a chandelier overhead so ornate it could’ve doubled as a threat. The table was already set when you arrived—ordered entirely at his discretion, naturally. Every gleaming silver utensil, every course, every flickering candle—his choices. You hadn’t been asked. Just summoned.

You’d spent the last two hours stewing in the guest room, licking your wounds after losing that bloody coin toss—heads or tails, master or guest. And when he finally called for dinner, you emerged without a word, the air between you thick as caramel.

You didn’t speak as you crossed the room. Earlier, behind your door, you’d unfastened a few of the satin-covered buttons. Just enough to shift the neckline lower, the fabric tighter. A petty attempt at control. At making him react.

But it had backfired.

Because the moment you caught the flick of his eyes—his jaw tightening, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth—you knew: he liked it. Worse, he expected it.

You had pulled out your chair in silence, settled across from him with perfect posture and a folded napkin, trying to pretend the air wasn’t molten between you. Trying not to notice the jacket he’d discarded, the sleeves rolled up just so, revealing a hint of ink and enough forearm to make your thoughts indecent.

The dinner had been flawless, of course. Rich. Elegant. A duck dish you couldn’t pronounce paired with something red and ruinous in a crystal glass. You barely touched it.

He had lounged back in his seat like a king—no, worse. Like a man who knew exactly what you’d look like on your knees. One arm draped over the chair, fingers trailing the rim of his wine glass like it was your lip. The chain of his pocket watch glinted between the buttons of his waistcoat. No tie. First two buttons undone from before. The hollow of his throat shamelessly on display.

You shouldn’t have looked.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said finally, voice smooth as the whisky he hadn’t offered you. “Too quiet. That dress botherin’ you, or is it the company?”

Your eyes snapped up, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I’m eating.”

“Mm.” He tilted his glass, letting the wine catch the light. “Is the poor duck giving you attitude again, or are you just trying to make me beg for a reaction?”

You stabbed your fork into the duck with too much force. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you, lazily, like a cat toying with something already half-dead.

“That little stunt with the buttons,” he said, tone almost conversational, “—you think I didn’t notice?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your pulse was thudding at the base of your throat like a trapped moth.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate. “Thought you were punishin’ me, did you? Sittin’ pretty across the suite all evening, sulkin’ in your little robe, hopin’ I’d come knockin’?”

You gripped your fork tighter. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, I know. You were busy bein’ mysterious. Doin’ your best impression of restraint.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, candlelight catching the edge of his grin. “But here you are. Lookin’ like a fuckin’ temptation in that dress. And you’re still not eatin’.”

You glared at him, throat dry. “Why are you trying to provoke me?”

He cocked his head. “Who says I’m tryin’? Maybe I just want some bloody conversation. You’ve been givin’ me the eyes since I unbuttoned that top button, sweetheart. Not my fault you can’t handle dinner without wonderin’ what else comes undone.”

Your jaw had tensed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He’d flashed a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it. That’d be your job.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

You shove off the window so hard your shoulder protests. The ice cube splinters in your grip, scattering across the marble like shrapnel. Good. Let it scar the floor. Let housekeeping puzzle over the damage and pretend it wasn’t a cry for help.

The minibar stares back at you—smug, silent, full of tiny, glinting bottles that promise to take the edge off. You don’t hesitate this time. You reach for the same whiskey from before—some overpriced single malt with a pedigree as useless as your self-control—and crack it open with your teeth like you’re trying to bite the night apart.

The first swallow hits hard. You want it to hurt. You want it to burn all the way down and cauterize whatever nerve keeps bringing him back into your thoughts.

So you drink more.

Greedy now, like it’s oxygen. Each mouthful sharper than the last, until you’re gasping between gulps, eyes prickling, chest heaving. A hiccup breaks free—a sound too close to a sob, chased by a bitter laugh.

The robe slips further as you stumble back from the minibar, silk parting over your ribs, your hips, your thighs. Only your underwear keeps you from being fully exposed now, but the robe clings in places—damp where your skin is overheated, loose where your body’s started to shake.

You reach for the nearest fragile thing: a porcelain vase on the console, all painted lilies and aristocratic curves. Probably worth more than your dignity at this point. You curl your fingers around it, knuckles white, just to feel something solid.

For one violent heartbeat, you want to smash it. Just to prove you can still make something explode when everything inside you is too scared to shatter.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not him. You don’t get to leave scars on things and walk away like they don’t matter.

So you set it down.

Then you crawl into the bed, not gracefully—angrily. The covers are cool against your skin, sheets whispering secrets in a language you don’t want to understand. You lie there for a moment, blinking up at the coffered ceiling, the whisky bottle clutched loosely in your fingers.

And god—your body hurts.

Not from the mission. Not from the bed. From wanting. From the pressure that’s been building all night, ever since you caught him watching you. Ever since you ignored him, on purpose, and he let you. His silence only made it worse—richer, darker. You wanted him to break. He didn’t. And now you’re the one unraveling.

You shift under the covers. Just a little. Just enough.

Your hand brushes your thigh. Then between them, over the underwear. Barely a touch. Just… testing.

You bite your lip.

You think of his hands. His mouth. The way his voice dropped an octave when he told you to “sleep tight” like it was a threat and a promise. That kiss in the elevator. The way he didn’t kiss you again after. The fact that he hasn't even tried.

Your fingers drift lower. Heat flares in your stomach. The ache is real now. Low. Heavy.

But the moment you slide your hand under the waistband of your underwear, something twists. Your stomach flips. Not desire—shame. Guilt. Humiliation.

You pull your hand back like it burned you.

You can’t.

Not like this.

Not with him in the next room.

Not when you're this close to cracking and he hasn’t even touched you. Like he meant it.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow, swallowing a sob before it can make a sound.

You’re not going to do this. You’re not going to fall apart first. You refuse.

But your thighs still press tight together.

The whisky tastes like ash now—like the last drag of a cigarette after a fight, like wanting something you can’t name. The bottle’s nearly dry, just a few shallow swallows left, rattling at the bottom like regret, like the hollow click of an empty chamber.

You sit up with slow, careful movements, the kind that come not from grace but from the warm, unsteady fog of drink. No sudden noises. The silence feels sacred, fragile—the hush before a sacrament, or a sin.

And then the robe slips.

Not just open at the hem this time—but down your shoulders, down your arms, pooling at your feet like a surrender you didn’t mean to give. The cool air hits your bare skin in places it hasn’t all night, and you do nothing to stop it. You’re left in just your underwear—bare legs, bare chest, flushed and flushed again, though whether it’s from shame or liquid courage, you can’t say.

You sway slightly as you stand, bottle still in hand. The whiskey sloshes near the bottom, golden and low, like regret in a glass. You bring it to your lips one last time—not because you need it, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. The burn barely registers now, dulled by the wine and the very same whiskey from earlier, the heat in your cheeks, the ache between your legs.

You don’t finish it.

Just a mouthful, then you lower the bottle and stare at it like it might give you answers. It doesn’t.

Your fingers loosen. The glass thuds softly against the nightstand—more a clumsy offering than a decision. You think you placed it upright. You hope so.

But the moment your hand leaves it, the world tilts sideways.

The room spins slowly, like a carousel seen through water. The alcohol has already found your blood—fast, greedy. Your skin prickles with the chill, bare and open to the world, every breath a brushstroke across your nerves. You left the silk behind somewhere, like a ghost you stepped out of.

You pad toward the door. Barefoot. Stealthy. Your fingertips feel numb. Your toes, too.

The marble underfoot seems colder than before—or maybe your body’s just stopped registering the difference. There’s a delay to everything now. A second of stillness before your breath catches, your balance shifts, your thoughts arrive.

Not falling-over drunk. Not quite. But unsteady. Clouded. Soft around the edges in a way that makes you feel less sharp, less dangerous. Slower. Which should terrify you. Instead, it feels like a relief. Like being released from something you didn’t realize was clenched.

The handle clicks under your grip—soft, cautious. You pull it open an inch at a time, cringing at the slight creak of the hinge, like the suite itself is gasping at your audacity. Then you slip out into the main suite like a ghost. The floor is cold against your skin, but your blood is hot, molten, a live wire sparking under your ribs. Your body feels traitorous, wired with something electric and unspent, a bullet lodged in the chamber.

You already know: his bedroom door is cracked open.

It always is. He sleeps light. Trained. Alert. Trained to, long before you. Every breath shallow, every muscle still humming beneath the surface. He doesn’t rest—he waits. Even in sleep, he’s listening. Like a man who’s made peace with killing, but not with trust. Not with you.

So you step quietly. Careful not to breathe too loud. Careful not to let your footfalls slap too sharply against the marble. But your balance betrays you now and then—just a sway, just a stutter—and you have to steady yourself on the wall like the room’s begun to breathe. The whole suite smells of dying candle wax and aged wood, with a whisper of his cologne still clinging to the velvet cushions—bergamot and gunmetal and something unforgivably warm. The scent curls around you, heady and sharp, and you’re not sure if it’s the whiskey or memory making you dizzy.

You move through it like it’s a cathedral.

And you? You’re the desecration.

You settle into the armchair directly across from his door—the master bedroom’s door. Slowly. Deliberately. You fumble to pull the robe tighter, skin prickling from the chill—only to grasp at nothing. It’s gone. 

 When did you take it off? You’d known you were in nothing but your underwear when you left your room—of course you had—but the booze had made it feel… distant. Abstract. Like it wasn’t really you walking barefoot across cold marble, hips swaying, nearly bare. 

But now, as you sink into the velvet and the silence folds in around you, it hits you all at once. The air kisses your skin, too cool, too intimate. Your arms prickle with goosebumps, and suddenly you’re very aware of how much of you is on display. How much he could see—if he’s looking.

Jesus.

What the fuck are you doing?

Really, what the fuck are you doing?

You blink hard, trying to clear the fog behind your eyes. It doesn’t work. The room doesn’t tilt, exactly—but it hums. Like it’s too full of sound and silence at once. Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your ears.

And still—you sit. Still you watch that cracked door like it might breathe.

You tilt your face toward the candle glow, letting the light gild your cheekbones like some martyred saint in a Renaissance painting—all false piety and secret hunger. The warmth licks at your skin, a poor imitation of the heat you're really craving, but you let it lie. Let it pretend.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A performance. Some drunk, half-naked little play for an audience that may or may not be watching. You’re not even sure anymore if you want to be caught—or if you just want to feel wanted.

You shift in the chair, thighs grazing velvet.

Your hand drifts.

Again.

Your fingers skim over your knee, then higher. You shift in the chair, opening your legs a little—just a little, just enough to feel the night air whisper between them. Two fingers slide over the silk of your underwear, not pressing down, just… testing. Taunting. A promise you’re not sure you’ll keep.

But the moment is all wrong. Too much air. Too much guilt. Too close to him. You feel ridiculous—perched here like some penthouse phantom, half-naked, aching, touching yourself while he sleeps behind a cracked door like the goddamn finish line of your humiliation.

Your hand falls away.

You squeeze your thighs shut. Shame slinks through your chest like smoke, thick and suffocating.

You close your eyes. Try to breathe. Try to will the need out of your body, to smother it like a candle between your fingertips. You force yourself to sit perfectly still, hands in your lap, chin tilted high like none of this matters. Like you didn’t almost do it again.

And then—

A sound.

From his room.

Soft. Barely there. The whisper of a bedsheet shifting, or a breath too sharp to be sleep. Your eyes fly open.

Stillness.

And then—

Another sound.

Low. Choked. Almost like—

Oh god.

You’re not the only one awake.

Another sound.

Wet. Faint. Rhythmic.

Your skin goes hot.

You blink, spine stiffening, straining to hear it again. It doesn’t come loud. Doesn’t need to. You know exactly what that is.

He’s touching himself.

Your eyes stay trained on that sliver of open door. 

The sound comes again—slippery, rhythmic, unmistakable. There’s no mistaking it now.

He’s fucking his fist.

And he’s not being quiet anymore.

Inside that bedroom, just across from where you sit flushed and frozen in your open robe, he’s sprawled out like sin made flesh—shirt open, pants shoved down his thighs, cock glistening in his hand. He’s working himself in long, greedy strokes, fingers tight, pace filthy. Not smooth. Not slow. This isn’t about teasing himself—it’s about using himself.

About pretending his hand is your cunt.

You hear the slick drag of his palm. The faint slap of skin meeting skin as his hips begin to move, lifting off the bed just slightly. He’s not even trying to keep still anymore. He’s fucking into it—hard, fast, messy. Like he’s thought about this all night. Like it’s your fault. Like he’s punishing himself for not bending you over the dinner table and wrecking you the second the door shut.

A groan slips out—muffled, guttural.

Then another.

God, you want to see it. You want to see how he handles himself. How hard he gets. How rough. Whether he’s got his head tipped back or if he watches himself the whole time, jaw tight and eyes glazed.

Another groan slips out—low and guttural, like it’s being punched out of him.

You don’t dare move. Don’t breathe. Your thighs are trembling now, bare and parted, flushed with heat and something darker. The cool air wraps around your body like a lover you didn’t choose—chilling the sheen of sweat along your back, your breasts, the soft insides of your knees. Every inch of you feels exposed, pulsing. The armchair’s velvet presses into your skin, unforgiving. You can feel your heartbeat between your legs, frantic and humiliating. And still, you sit—naked, burning, and utterly still.

He’s panting now, ragged and obscene, every exhale a broken vow. You don’t need to see him to know what he looks like—eyes dark, jaw clenched, sweat slicking the base of his throat. 

And the noises—

You shouldn’t be here. You should get up. Leave. Crawl back into bed and pretend this never happened. You bite down on your knuckle, hard—

Christ, the noises.

The wet glide of his palm. The harsh breaths, the choked mutters under his breath. You think you hear your name. Or maybe it’s just the filth you hope he’s whispering—what he’d do if you walked in there and dropped to your knees. What he wants you to beg for. How deep he’d fuck you if you’d just stop pretending you hate him.

He shifts again. The bed creaks. There’s a soft slap as his hand speeds up—louder now, sharper. He’s losing control.

Yet the rhythm suddenly changes again—slower, firmer now. You’re frozen, breath shallow, limbs slack with drink. Your head swims, the room spinning just slightly, but your focus is razor-sharp—locked on that door, on the filthy, deliberate sounds slipping through it. Your body sinking deeper into the chair like gravity’s turned cruel. You should look away. You can’t. The alcohol dulls everything but this.

Then—

A murmur. Almost lazy. Not loud, but clear enough to carry through the cracked door.

“…would’ve ruined her…”

You freeze.

Not a breath. Not a blink. A prey animal caught mid-step, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs—too late, too loud, a warning you didn’t heed.

Then—the gasp.

It claws its way out of you, sharp and unbidden, a sound torn from somewhere deep and secret. Your hands fly up as if to catch it, to shove it back down your throat where it belongs. But it’s too late. The air hums with it, a snapped wire singing with shame.

Inside the bedroom, the world stops.

Not quiets. Not pauses.

Stops.

The slick, rhythmic sounds cut off mid-stroke. A creak of the mattress—weight shifting. The muffled clink of the nightstand. Then silence. Not even his breath.

Only yours—ragged, uneven, obscene in the quiet. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, too fast, too hot, drowning out everything but the truth:

You’ve been caught.

Your body jerks, nearly toppling. Panic flares, bright and stupid. Your fingers scrabble against the velvet chair, thighs slipping on sweat-slicked upholstery. The fabric clings like a second skin, every movement a struggle, every shift a humiliation.

And then—

Panic floods your veins like ice and fire, seizing your lungs, your throat, your bones—until there’s nothing left but the animal urge to run. Your fucking tits are out, and the room tilts—no, you’re tilting, swaying with the nauseous lurch of whiskey and shame. Your arms flail, too slow, too clumsy, as the ceiling carves a slow, sick circle above you.

Cold air rushes over your flushed skin, tracing every peak and dip—your nipples tight and aching, the sweat gleaming between your thighs, the pulse hammering where you shouldn’t be thinking about it. Your stomach lurches. You surge to your feet, too fast—vision still tilting, the room still swaying like a drunkard. Your hand slams the table; the candle jerks, wax spilling in fat, golden tears.

Your body is a betrayal. Too loud. Too much. Then—

Sound.

A rustle of sheets. Deliberate.

The heavy thud of feet hitting the floor.

A click.

Light floods the hallway.

You whirl, breath trapped in your chest like a blade. One arm flies up to cover yourself, the other slaps the wall for balance. Your bare heel slips on marble—slick with sweat and your own unsteadiness. You stagger, catch yourself on the archway, and run.

Light spills behind you, slow and deliberate, as if announcing him. You turn—too quickly—and the room tilts. Just enough to glimpse him. To read his face. To see if it’s fury tightening his jaw… or that insufferable, knowing smirk he wears when he’s enjoying this. Enjoying you like a game he never really stops playing.

The bedroom door swings open—not hesitant, not slow. Definitive.

And there he is. He stands there, flushed—but not with guilt. No, it’s something slower, darker. The heat pools beneath his skin, high on his cheekbones, just brushing the edge of that neatly trimmed moustache. 

He stands in the doorway, backlit by gold, shirt slipping from one shoulder, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone and just enough of his chest to make your mouth go dry. His tailored pants are fastened—barely—the outline of him obscenely clear against the fabric, thick and hard and unapologetic. But it’s his eyes that stop you—dark, sharp, knowing.

Not just desire.

Recognition.

He knows.

Knows you listened. Knows how long you sat there, trembling and slick with want. Knows what finally broke you.

And worst of all—he isn’t surprised.

He looks like a man who’d been waiting.

Like this was the plan all along.

Your throat closes around something too thick to swallow.

So you run.

No thought. No grace. Just panic and heat—and the way his eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the parts you’re failing to hide. Your arm fumbles across your chest, but your fingers are too slow, too drunk. Flesh spills between them anyway, flushed and trembling, on full display. He doesn’t move. Just stands there, gaze heavy, mouth parted slightly—like he’s torn between reaching for you and letting you run.

You turn, stumbling forward down the hallway, arms still clutched to your chest, as if you could outrun the heat of his eyes or erase the image he’s already taken with him.

“Fuck—wait—” His voice chases you, rough, breathless, too close.

But you don’t.

He’s already seen your body—every curve, every helpless attempt to cover what was never really hidden. But that’s not what terrifies you. What terrifies you is that he’ll look a second longer and see the rest. The heat on your face isn’t just shame—it’s hunger. The stickiness between your thighs isn’t just sweat—it’s him, still echoing in you. You run because if he looks any closer, he’ll know. And you can’t bear to be that bare.

The hall tilts as you stumble forward, knees weak, vision stung with gold. The slap of your soles on the marble ricochets off the walls, loud and frantic. You don't dare look back. You can feel him gaining—longer strides, heavier footfalls—and you know if you see his face again, you’ll shatter.

Your hip clips the corner of the console table. You don’t stop. The pain bites, sharp and blooming, but it’s not worse than the heat between your legs or the panic choking your breath.

The guest room door looms like salvation.

Your hand slips once—twice—before the knob catches. You shove it open, nearly fall in with the force, and spin to slam it behind you. The latch clicks. You lock it.

A second later—

Thud.

His palm hits the other side, not a punch—just firm. Measured. Deliberate.

You stagger back, heartbeat in your throat, skin aflame. One hand still over your chest, the other gripping the edge of the dresser like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor. You can hear him breathing—slow, rough, right there. Close enough to taste the whiskey on your tongue.

A beat of silence stretches between you.

Then his voice—low, controlled. Dangerous.

“Locked, hm?” A soft laugh. “You didn’t look like you wanted space.”

It guts you.

You gasp, sharp and helpless, your knees buckling until you’re crouched beside the bed, naked and burning, cheek pressed to the cool duvet. You bite your fist to silence the sob—of shame, of need. The floor beneath you is polished and indifferent. You feel sick. You feel slick. You feel watched, even now.

Because he knows.

Knows what your thighs look like flushed and parted. Knows you’ve imagined his mouth on your skin. Knows you listened to him fall apart and let the ache settle deep—unspent, unanswered.

And now he’s just on the other side of the door. Bare chest still heaving. Belt still unbuckled. Cock hard beneath tailored wool.

You don’t know what he’ll do.

But you know what he saw.

And you’ll never outrun it now. 

You crouch lower, curling in on yourself, cheek still pressed to the duvet, the fabric damp beneath your skin. Everything spins—not violently, just enough to make the floor feel unsteady, your body unfamiliar. You’re too drunk to breathe right, too bare to feel anything but raw. Your pulse thrums in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Your fingers claw at the bedding like it might steady you, but the room keeps tilting. You don’t know if you’re trying to hold yourself together or tear something open.

A silence stretches.

Then—

His voice, soft. Muffled, but not enough.

“You didn’t have to run, y’know.”

Your chest jerks like you’ve been touched. You close your eyes, tighter than before. It’s worse, somehow, than shouting. Worse than fury.

Because it’s true.

Because you wanted him to follow.

Because you still do.

You grip the bed harder, breath catching. Your thighs press together in a useless attempt to manage the ache. But you’re slick, and he knows it. You’re shaking, and he knows it. You’re hiding, and he’s still not fooled.

A pause.

Then—lower.

“Fuckin’ mess you are,” he murmurs. “Could’ve just told me.”

You flinch like the words were a hand in your hair.

Tears sting your lashes, half from humiliation, half from how wet you still are. How dizzy. You can taste candle wax and whiskey at the back of your throat, sweet and sour and useless. Shame floods your limbs like wine left too long in the blood. You're raw.

Another breath.

You think he’s gone. You almost want him to be. Then—

“…Funny thing, guilt don’t stop a girl from listenin’.”

He doesn't wait for a response. The sound of retreat is faint, his steps measured, unhurried—yet your lips are parted, not sure whether you’re more wrecked by the sound of his voice… or by how much you want it back.

The shame hits harder than if he had. You peel yourself off the floor, knees trembling, hand slipping from the sheets as you stagger upright. The room tilts—too much wine, too much whiskey, too much him.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror above the dresser.

Hair wild. Eyes wide. Skin flushed and damp. Naked.

You look like someone who wanted it.

You whirl away, fury blooming hot in your chest—at him, at yourself, at the fucked-up ache between your thighs. You cross to the sink, hands shaking as you twist the tap. Cold water floods your palms, then your face. It stings. It clears nothing.

You stay like that for a while—bent over porcelain, dripping, burning from the inside out.

Eventually, you shuffle to the bed. You don’t dress. You don’t pull the covers up, either. You lie there bare, curled on your side like something wounded, like something small.

And you do not sleep. The sleep still doesn’t come.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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[mrs-johnson]

“Zippers and Promises”

Tangerine x Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: Reader is a bit insecure about her pregnant belly, hormones making you upset, Tangerine coming to the rescue with some comfort words.

Summary: You are trying on your wedding dress but can’t get the zipper up due to your pregnant belly and from the hormones you get upset. And Tangerine comes in to comfort you.

You stood in the soft lighting of the bridal boutique’s fitting room, barefoot on the plush carpet, the hem of your wedding dress pooled around your feet like frosting. Your fingers trembled as you reached behind you, trying in vain to tug the zipper up over your growing bump.

It stopped halfway.

“Come on… come on…” you whispered under your breath, fighting both the stubborn zip and the lump forming in your throat. The silk, once so flattering, now clung in the wrong places, tight where it shouldn’t be.

A sniff escaped you before you could stop it. Then another.

You stared at yourself in the mirror—glowing, sure. Your face was soft, your eyes were warm. But your belly… your beautiful, round belly that held the life you and Tangerine had created together… it was also the reason the dress didn’t fit the way it used to.

“I look like a marshmallow in a fancy napkin,” you muttered, voice cracking.

A gentle knock interrupted your spiral.

“Sweetheart?” came the familiar cockney lilt. “You alright in there? You’ve been quiet for ages. D’you need me to—?”

“No!” you called quickly, wiping your eyes. “Don’t come in, I’m not decent.”

The door clicked open anyway. Typical. He poked his head in.

“You’re my fiancée,” Tangerine said as he stepped inside with zero shame. “I’ve seen more than ‘not decent’.”

He paused when he saw you. Your back to him. Shoulders shaking slightly.

And the half-zipped dress.

“Oh, love…” His voice softened immediately.

“I just wanted to see what it looked like again,” you said, blinking fast as he walked over. “I have the final alterations tomorrow, and I thought—maybe—I’d just try it on one last time. But I can’t get the zipper up. I can’t even get it close to the top.”

You bit your lip hard, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. “I look ridiculous.”

Tangerine placed a warm, steady hand on your shoulder.

“You look like a bloody angel.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Angels don’t waddle.”

“Mine does.”

You turned to face him fully then, your belly brushing against his crisp shirt. His eyes dropped to it instinctively, and his hands followed—one cradling the bump, the other curling around your waist.

“I know it’s stupid,” you murmured. “I just… I wanted to feel beautiful today. And all I feel is… big.”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, making you meet his eyes.

“You are beautiful. Not just today. Not just in a dress. Always. You hear me?”

You sniffled.

“I mean it,” he said firmly. “You’re carrying our baby. You’re walking around makin’ a whole new person while still somehow rememberin’ to take your vitamins, yell at me to put my socks in the laundry, and now—on top of all that—you’re worried a zipper means the day won’t be perfect?”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I’ll tell you what’ll make it perfect. You. Walkin’ down that aisle, lookin’ just like this. Dress or no dress. Hell, wear pyjamas and crocs for all I care. You’re marrying me. And that’s the only thing I need.”

You melted a little at that, despite yourself.

“And besides,” he added, pulling you into a careful hug, “that dress’ll fit. The tailor’ll work magic, alright? They’ll make it so it fits like it was made for you—even with our little one doin’ the cha-cha in there.”

As if on cue, the baby kicked gently.

You gasped and placed your hand over the spot. Tangerine grinned.

“Oi. Already got good timing.”

He knelt and kissed your belly.

“Be nice to your mum,” he said to the bump. “She’s got enough on her plate.”

You smiled finally, letting out a soft breath. “I love you.”

“Good,” he said, standing up and stealing a kiss. “Because you’re stuck with me. And we’re gonna have the most beautiful, slightly chaotic, zipper-adjusted wedding anyone’s ever seen.”

[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

[lenacosse]

not to be dramatic but this interview saved my life

[eternalslover]

Bullet train incorrect quotes:

Tangerine: Do you want to play 20 Questions?

Y/n: Sure!

Y/n: Whats your favorite color?

Tangerine, laser fucking focused: Triangle. Do you love me?

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine having a daughter who loves when Uncle Lemon comes over, because he’ll give her piggyback rides and let her paint his nails! They have the best time filling out Thomas the Tank Engine sticker books together, and watching cartoons or playing hide and seek while Mom or Tangerine gets dinner ready. Lemon adores this kid; she’s legit one of his favorite people in the universe, and the feeling is mutual.

This is the cutest thing ever! I love Uncle Lemon! Can you imagine the baby climbing all over him like it's a jungle gym and he is LOVING every second!!

He spoils that kid ROTTEN, much to Tangerine's disappointment because he doesn't want his kid to become bratty 🤧 but Lemon doesn't care.

That kid gets everything she wants. E v e r y t h i n g!

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

FAVOURITISM. [PART ONE]

tangerine x fem!reader

wc. 1956 summary. tangerine was put out of work following the events of an accident. as a result, he created his own business, applying all of his knowledge. you work as a secretary cross technical assistant for him and working very closely to the big bad boss catches the eyes of your peers. one day he notices a change in your workwear — proving to you, he’s been paying a lot more attention than you originally thought. boss x secretary. disclaimer. the images at the bottom are just a reference of what I picture the reader wearing. they are not a reflection of how I write or see yn (colour and body type) it’s merely a way to show you what I envisioned

MY 2 YEAR ANNIVERSARY! it’s only right that I write for tan seeing as it all started with him xx also a big big loving thank you to @pretty-little-mind33 for the idea and brainstorming with me. literally would not have done this without her <33

SERIES MASTERLIST

⎯ ☆ ⎯

It wasn’t often that you’d find yourself not looking forward to work — feeling anxious to get in. Your love for what you do always seeming to overshadow any discomfort.

For the last several months, you’ve been working as a technical assistant cross secretary for your boss, Tangerine. No one knew of his real name, and you were starting to think that’s the way it’ll always be. 

Last night after your shift, you were brought to HR for an unexpected meeting, being called up on a dress code violation. Multiple complaints made around the office about your bright tights and flowy shirts, being told that it was ‘unfit for work’ and a ‘distraction.’ You knew you weren’t exactly well liked around the office — the sneers and scowls made your way making that evident. But never did you think they would go so far out of their way to complain about you. 

Their dislike for you felt territorial — judgy eyes always seeming to follow you as you attend to the needs and wants of your boss. The attention you gain from the broody, grumpy man in charge, simply asks and tasks you agreed to in your job description. The repetitive calls for your name only ever consisting of tea requests or computer help. It left you feeling confused and isolated, constantly wondering why they hated you so much. You were only ever doing your job. Doing what was asked of you. 

So, as you sit in your car before the start of the workday, you use your spare few moments to collect yourself, preparing for those same judgemental stares. You look down at your legs briefly, noticing the lack of colour — your usual patterned tights now being replaced with grey, drab trousers. All of your vibrancy and exuberancy —personality— stolen when told to make this change. 

You exhale, giving yourself one last second of sanity before you’re getting out of the car, juggling your bags and cups of coffee in hand. Stepping into the building and into the elevator with a small crowd, you become invisible, blending in with everyone — becoming what you’ve always dreaded: a lifeless office zombie, sharing the same apathetic, dull expression with all those around you. 

You reach your floor and exit with the few remaining others in the lift. You deviate from your colleagues and head for your bosses office at the back, giving his door a couple of knocks. 

“Yeah?” he calls out, and you slowly push the door open.

His usual rigged, intimidating gaze softens as his eyes fall on you through the gap, his attention landing on you over the top of his computer.

“You’re late,” he says, the words a reprimand for most, but for you they were more of an observation — a casual, flyaway statement. 

“I know, I’m sorry. Traffic was a nightmare,” you apologise as you step into his office, avoiding his eyes like you were ashamed. 

You look down to the coffees in hand and pass him the one without the lipstick mark, extending an arm as you move to stand beside his desk.

“Don’t worry about it. It happens,” he reassures. And as he takes the cup from your hold, he glances down, noticing the lack of your familiar flamboyance. “What’re you wearing?”

You look down confused, brows pulling together as if to show you didn’t understand his question.

“The trousers,” he looks up at you, gaze almost harsh. “Why're you wearing them?” 

He has never seen you wear trousers.

“Thought I’d shake things up,” you shrug with your lie, not wanting him to know the real reason.

You didn’t want to give your peers more reason to hate you by tattling to the boss — complaining about them being mean to you, so you decided against it, keeping him from the truth. Though it’s far harder than you anticipated, his eyes ever so demanding as he remains fixed on you above. 

“So no smiley face is also part of you shaking things up?” he questions, showing you the blank cup — your usual sharpie smileys nowhere to be seen. 

You wince slightly, embarrassed by the whole ordeal. You weren’t sure if the embarrassment was from the fact he noticed or that you forgot. But humiliation was felt either way.

“It’ll save us the ballache if you tell me why,” he takes a sip of his drink and places it aside, giving you his full attention. “I can call a staff meeting, but I reckon they’ll get suspicious after seeing us talk,” he playfully blackmails, offering you a faint smile to show you his bribe holds no such malice.

You turn and look out through the window of his office, picking up on dozens of sets of eyes glued to you through the gap of his blinds. All of which briskly turn away upon the glance of Tangerine, his eyeline following yours — scaring your peers back into work.

“What’d they do?” he asks, redirecting your focus back to him.

“I just got a complaint, that’s all,” you shrug, trying to minimise it as much as possible.

“Why?” he asks bluntly, neck craning to keep your eyes on him.

“They don’t like the way I dress apparently,” you laugh faintly, the noise sounding far more hurt than you intended. “I mean I get it,” you deflect, trying not to slip into a habit of seeking him for assurance when people in the office turn against you. “I get what they mean.”

He’s quiet as he looks over you, head shaking disapprovingly as he mumbles something incoherent. He inhales deeply and then coughs to clear his throat, sounding like he was preparing for something. 

“I gotta meet with some people, but I’ll see what I can do,” he says as he stands, reaching for his briefcase. “Don’t let these miserable lot get to you,” he smiles weakly as he collects his coffee cup, heading towards the door until he stops, and turns around to face you. “They hate that I don’t hate you, that’s all.” 

Your eyes follow after him as he leaves his office, leaving you standing there alone to process his words. You’ve never really picked up on the hinted favouritism like your colleagues have — never seeming to notice the allowances and kindness your peers aren’t granted with. But you were only ever doing as told, why would that warrant any special treatment? 

And with that thought in mind, you head towards your desk just outside of his office, setting your things on your neatly, organised table. Placing your hot drink in his designated spot besides your computer, you log on — attending to emails and to things on your extensive to do list.

A few hours pass you by.

You’re interrupted from all work when you feel the presence of someone standing behind you, your boss now back from his meeting with a pile of papers in hand.

“Need you to sort these out for me,” he says as places the stack beside your hand. “Please,” he adds, trying to keep up with the habit he’s trying to enforce by showing his appreciation. But only to you.

You look down to the pile, noticing a gap in between the blank, plain papers. You look up at him briefly, like you were asking permission and then your eyes fall back onto the stack. And as you go to lift the upper chunk of papers, Tangerine is moving from you and into his office, a new bag —a shopping bag— held within the hand of his briefcase. You take little to no notice and turn your attention back to the pile, a square paper bag hiding within the fake forms. The perfect cloak of disguise. 

You didn’t need to look inside to know what it was, the warm circle giving it away immediately. It was a cookie. You swivel in your chair to look into his office, his eyes already on you through the gap in his blinds. The gap you’re now starting to believe holds another purpose. You smile at him sweetly, mouthing thanks before resuming with your work — wanting to get it all done before the end of the day.

And as five pm soon rolls around and as everyone begins logging off and packing up for home, you turn to look back at Tangerine, a pained expression on his face as he rolls his shoulder. His old injury you know very little about seeming to give him grief.  

The floor begins to clear and you collect your things, walking those few steps until you’re in front of your boss's door. You give it a light tap and enter when welcomed.

“You off?” he asks, turning his attention to you in his doorframe. 

“Yep,” you smile, lingering for a moment. “Thank you for the cookie, by the way.”

“It’s alright,” he gently smiles, head bowing almost bashfully. “Hang on and I’ll walk you out. Don’t want you out in the dark by yourself.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you deflect, not wanting to be a bother. “Really it’s okay, my car is only outside.”

He shakes his head at you as he gives his desk a quick tidy, packing things up for the night. Tangerine stands and collects his belongings, picking up his coat from the rack and small bag from the side before he’s heading to you, guiding you along. 

You each walk towards the open elevators and head in, standing side by side —close— within the confined space. 

He twists inwards to face you. “I uh,” he starts, extending the shopping bag from earlier to you. “I picked something up for you.”

Your brows tug in the middle, looking up at him like you were questioning the reasoning why. You take it from his hand and look inside. 

“No,” you whisper, sheer disbelief in your voice as you pull out the gift. “These are beautiful! Where did you even find them?” you question, looking over the tights, marvelling at the pattern. 

He keeps his head cast downwards, looking between his feet as he smiles, appreciating your appreciation. “It’s a secret.”

The elevator dings, cutting your time short and you both look at each other, the glance brief. He holds his arm out, gesturing for you to step off first,  and you do. You linger, waiting for him to join so you could walk besides one another. 

The walk towards your car is slow, as if both of you are trying to savour the short journey, hang on to it. Small chuckles and shy, stolen glances being the only form of communication during your minute long walk.

You reach into your bag and pull out your keys to unlock your car, the dozen chains and charms jingling and clattering with the movement of your hand. 

Tangerine reaches for your door, pulling the handle to open it for you — nodding you inside. You smile at him sweetly as you get in, placing your bags on the passenger seat. 

“You get home safe, alright?” he says, grinning softly.

“I will,” you look down coyly, smile faint.

He nods once. “Good.”

“See you monday?” 

“Mhm-hm,” he hums, expression gentle as he goes to close your door. “Have a good weekend,” he says before shutting you inside.

You exhale shakily within the quiet sanctuary of your car, the lack of noise allowing your mind to run rampant with repeats from the last few minutes. You glance down to your gift, trying to process it all until your eyes land on the tag — his name, his real name squiggled on the note.

The favouritism you’ve struggled to notice becomes as clear as day. Every interaction from the past now being thought of differently as you look back on it all. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

in my mind she’s very penelope garcia/ louisa clark/ jessica day/ phoebe buffay coded (more so in dress sense) she’s cute and i love her

[ PART TWO ]

[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.”

[j23r23]

That's my wife!

tangerine x wife reader

Waring: Violence and Fluff

BTW: Thank you @little-miss-dilf-lover for being my muse and making me write again 🍊🫶🏻🧡

Tangerine had never been one to keep his temper in check, especially when it came to you. The two of you had been in far worse situations, but today was different. The local police force had no idea who they were dealing with, and it didn’t help that they were handling you both like a pair of thugs.

The officer shoving you into the back of the police car had already crossed a line, his grip too tight, his attitude too arrogant and his hands touching you. But when the other one got rough with you, pushing you toward the vehicle with far more force than necessary and making you trip, something snapped in Tangerine.

“Oi, that’s my wife!” His voice cut through the commotion like a knife, fury lacing every word. Before anyone could react, he lunged forward, headbutting the cop who’d been forcing him into the car. The crack of bone against bone was unmistakable, and the officer staggered back, blood pouring from his nose.

Tangerine didn’t stop there. He turned with a wild intensity in his eyes, his curly hair disheveled, one strand falling across his forehead, giving him a feral look. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he couldn’t do much, but that didn’t stop him. He barreled toward the cop who’d been rough with you, and with another fierce headbutt, sent him sprawling to the ground, clutching his face in pain.

Blood now dripped down Tangerine’s forehead, his hair a mess of curls and sweat. He sniffed, a drop of blood running down to his upper lip before he spit, his saliva tinged with red, at the cop writhing on the pavement. There was a terrifying calmness about him as he turned to you, the fiery rage melting into something softer, more tender.

“You alright, love?” he asked, his voice gentle, as if he hadn’t just taken down two cops with nothing but his head. His eyes searched yours, worry etched in every line of his face.

Before you could respond, the other officers started to move in, their shouts filling the air as they surrounded the two of you. But in that moment, all that mattered was Tangerine. Despite the chaos, despite the fact that your hands were cuffed behind your backs, you stepped closer to him. He leand in as close as he could, and you buried your face in his chest, feeling the warmth of his body on your cheek. His chin rested on top of your head, his breath coming in soft, reassuring huffs.

“I’m alright,” you murmured into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

His kissed the top of your head, as if reassuring himself that you were really there, that you were safe. You look up wanting to kiss away his worry.

Just as your lips were about to brush his, the moment shattered. Rough hands yanked you backward, pulling you away from Tangerine before you could taste his lips. The separation was brutal the world that had narrowed to just the two of you expanded back out into chaos.

His eyes widened in fury as you were torn apart from eachother, and before either of you could protest, a cop shoved him roughly toward a separate squad car.

“Tangerine!” you called out, your voice cracking with desperation as he was pulled away. But before his name fully left your lips, a hand clamped down on your arm, yanking you back so brutally it felt like your shoulder might tear from its socket.

The violent pull sent you stumbling, nearly crashing to the ground. The cop jerked you upright, twisting your arm more with such force that pain shot through your entire body.

"Get the fuck off of her!" Tangerine roared, thrashing against the officers holding him, as he tried to get back to you. But they were too many now, and even he couldn’t fight them all off with his hands cuffed. You struggled too, your heart pounding in your chest, the grip on your arms unyielding, forcing you further away from him.

The last thing you saw before they shoved you into the back of a squad car was Tangerine being kicked into another vehicle, his eyes locked on yours with a look that promised he wouldn’t stop fighting until he got back to you. But then the door slammed shut, cutting off your view. The cold metal of the cuffs dug into your wrists as the car pulled away, the flashing lights reflecting off the windows as the city streets blurred by.

Your mind was spinning, back to Tangerine. You could only imagine what he was going through in the other car, his fury probably pushing him to the brink. You hoped he wouldn’t do anything too reckless—though, knowing him, that was probably a lost cause.

When you finally arrived at the precinct, they dragged you out of the car, your shoulder aching from the rough treatment. You were led through the fluorescent-lit corridors, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor. The air thick with the scent of sweat and cheap coffee. The officers, still on edge from Tangerine’s outburst, were rough as they took your fingerprints, mugshot and your personal belongings.

They put you in a holding cell, the bars cold and unwelcoming as they locked you inside. As you paced the small space, minutes felt like hours as you waited, your heart thudding with every creak of the building around you.

Then, finally, you heard a familiar voice outside the cell.

“What the hell have you two gotten yourselves into this time?”

Lemon’s tone was half exasperated, half amused, though there was an underlying concern that warmed you just a bit. A moment later, the door swung open, and there he was, looking far too calm for someone about to bail his brother and sister-in-law out of jail. His bright yellow jacket stood out starkly against the drab surroundings, like a ray of misplaced sunshine.

Lemon's exasperation clear on his face as he surveyed the mess that was your situation. His eyes softened when they landed on you, taking in the bruises forming on your arms and wrists.

“Alright, let’s get you out of here,” he sighed, pulling some strings with the Sergeant and sliding a few bills across the counter.

“They’re releasing him now,” Lemon said as he guided you out of the cell. “You’re lucky I got here when I did. Tangerine was about to start a riot in his cell...”

You followed Lemon through the station, the tension in your chest easing with each step. When you reached the front desk, you saw Tangerine standing there, still cuffed but very much alive, a bandage hastily slapped across his forehead and his shirt stained with dried blood. His curls even more disheveled than before, but you’d never been happier to see him.

“Lemon, about time, mate,” Tangerine grumbled, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, yeah, save it for later,” Lemon replied, rolling his eyes but clearly glad to see his brother in one piece. “You two are bloody hopeless, you know that?”

Tangerine ignored the jab. The moment his eyes met yours, his entire demeanor softened. He jerked his arms, clearly eager to get to you, but the officer behind the desk held onto his cuffs until the last possible second, as if hoping for one more reason to keep him locked up.

Finally, though, the metal restraints fell away, and Tangerine was free. He crossed the distance between you in a few quick strides. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms. He held you tight, like he’d never let go again, his lips brushing the top of your head in a silent promise.

“You alright?” he murmured, repeating the question he’d asked before everything went sideways.

“Now I am,” you whispered back, leaning into him as much as you could.

Lemon cleared his throat, making a show of looking anywhere but at the two of you. “Right, well, let’s get out of here before these idiots change their minds. We’ll deal with this mess later.”

With Lemon leading the way, you and Tangerine made your way out of the precinct, your fingers holding his as you walked side by side. As Tangerine pulled you closer, his arm slung protectively around your shoulders.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped outside, the city buzzing around you as if nothing had happened.

[cloowwwwn]

did you think I forgot about them? Lmao if only….

[sebsbarnes]

confessions || tangerine

tangerine x f!reader

summary: "you're beautiful you know that love," tangerine said softly as if the declaration was a secret that only the space between you could know.

warnings: mention of a gun, injuries, blood

word count: 1.1k ; fluff

tangerine masterlist

you jolted awake, "what the hell," you mumbled.

eyes half open you patted around on the bed for your phone. the blaringly bright picture of a sunset staring back at you.

4:07am.

the noise that woke you up sounded again. banging at your front door. carefully you slipped out of bed and opened the drawer to your nightstand, grabbing the gun. slowly, you walked through the house creeping towards the door. the house felt eerily quiet more so than ever. the gun was held behind your back and before you could turn the doorknob you hear a voice.

"it's me."

you opened the door, "why are- jesus christ tangerine."

he smiled weakly at you, sort of shrugging, the suit jacket draped over his arm moving with.

"hey, love," he said dejectedly.

his typically smoothed back hair showed no sign of gel as his curls were a mess. the fitted suit that adorns his body was now loose with blood splattered sporadically on the fabric. the button-down shirt rolled up on his arms exposed his battered forearms. there was dirt on parts of his face, dried blood across his cheek and forehead, and a split lip.

"come in," you whispered, grabbing his hand pulling him in.

you locked the door and turned to the kitchen with tangerine still in tow. you turned the lights on in the kitchen, grabbing him water and pain reliever.

"eat these if you need something. i'm going to grab the first aid kit, alright?" you placed a box of crackers next to him on the counter and retreated to a hallway closet. when you came back, he was munching on a few and the glass of water in his other hand.

"okay now, what's the worst?"

"some prick got me in the thigh with glass," he grimaced gesturing to the torn trousers. you leaned in gently placing your hands on his thigh around the cut.

"take your pants off."

"well, that's quite forward love now, innit?" tangerine chuckled softly.

all you could do was roll your eyes as you turned around giving him a moment to hop off the counter and remove his pants. when you turned back around you couldn't help but swallow harshly at the man's muscular thighs.

"there's still bits of glass in this babes, i'm gonna have to take it out," tangerine hummed in response, clearly tired from whatever job he just came back from.

you grabbed a pair of tweezers and removed small pieces of glass left inside the wound and all tangerine could do was hiss in response. the wound was then cleaned and after tangerine gave you the greenlight, he let you stitch him up.

"now don't go fuckin' around you hear me. that's a good stitch," you said pointing at the finished product.

"yeah whatever darlin'," tangerine retorted.

you moved up to his face to clean the dirt and blood off him. you slid between his legs to get closer, fingertips accidently brushing over his thigh as you grabbed the rag next to him on the counter. you didn't notice the goosebumps that sprang to life on his skin and raced throughout his body. your lips were slightly pursed as the rag glided across his cheeks, wiping away the evidence of an earlier job.

tangerine couldn't help but stare at you during your concentration. the way your eyes danced across his face inspecting every minute detail. your eyelashes- god since when were they that long? he couldn't help the tiny smile that etched its way onto his lips hearing the small whistle your nose made as you breathed in and out. it was something you mentioned in passing that you hated, after your nose was broken on a job. small freckles decorated the bridge of your nose, and a now almost faded scar followed the curve of your cheekbone.

"you're beautiful you know that love," tangerine said softly as if the declaration was a secret that only the space between you could know.

you faltered slightly. you and tangerine were friends. any compliments thrown each other's way was typically about work. you often worked with the twins on jobs so the three of you were close. the dynamics on and off the job the three of you had was truly incredible. many people wanted the trio because they knew the job would be a success, most likely bloody, but still successful.

to even try and deny the fact that tangerine is gorgeous was absolutely ridiculous. when you first saw him, you truly went breathless for a moment. there was no way this man was in the business of killing was one of your first thoughts, he had to be a model of some sort. and as if his looks weren't enough, when he wasn't being a complete dickhead, he had the most charming and witty personality. it was intimidating being around him most times, the feeling of insecurity often loomed around you when he was nearby.

you looked him in the eye before averting your attention to his split lip, "why didn't you go home?"

"found myself wandering this way," he said slipping off the counter.

"bit far from your house," you whispered in return. tangerine brushed a strand of hair out of your eye, his thumb running over your cheek.

"no distance is too far for you, darlin'."

you aren't quite sure where these confessions were coming from, but you would be a fool to say you hated it. it was obvious how you felt about tangerine. you knew it, he knew it, lemon knew it, damn near everyone knew it.

"i didn't know you could be a sap," you gave him a slight smirk.

his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, "today was too risky, thought i could solo it, make some extra money. it was stupid. all i could think about was you," he confessed.

you toyed with the gold chain hanging on his exposed chest before gently tugging on it, bringing him to you. the kiss was soft but long. in the midst of the kiss tangerine had placed you on the counter, finding home between your legs and holding your waist carefully. your hands situated on the base of his skull tugging ever so slightly on his hair. tangerine's mouth parted slightly in reaction allowing you to bite gently on his lip, ignoring the fact you can taste blood. with a sigh you both finally pulled apart. his hands never left your waist.

"c'mon, let's go to bed," you said.

tangerine wasted no time scooping you up in his arms, ignoring all the aches from today's job. 'i've waited months to hear these words,' he had muttered in your hair making his way through your house.

"i've waited just as long."