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Still fixated on that British man from Bullet Train, and I write silly little things about him to fill the void
Vienna gleams like a weapon as two “newlyweds” try to look harmless over espresso and silk—while last night’s almost-ruin licks at their nerves. Their smiles are choreography, their touches a duel: desire sharpened into leverage, civility stretched to a breaking hum. When the hotel starts watching back, every corridor turns intimate and dangerous at once—and the only way out is to sell the fantasy harder than they’ve ever felt it.
Conclusive chapter; intense smut in this chapter; barely any plot
!NSFW! | Please do not engage if you're a minor | The warning, kinks, and whatnot are below.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Masterlist
♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for in this chapter: Explicit sexual content (18+), Degradation / humiliation kink (verbal cruelty, mocking), Breath/neck handling (hand on throat; not choking but may read as such), Coercive dirty talk / pressured verbal consent; power imbalance, Emotional manipulation / gaslighting dynamics, Profanity (heavy), Unprotected sex
Scene is consensual between adults but features consensual non-consent (CNC) adjacent elements (verbal pressure, degradation, denial) and breath/neck handling. Readers sensitive to these dynamics should proceed with caution.
♡ word count: 14.4k (ooops...? it's worth it, I promise)
NOT PROOFREAD, I CAN'T BRING MSYELF TO READ MY OWN FILTH, PROCEED WITH CAUTION. HAVE FUN!!
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Vienna has the sublime audacity to array itself in a beauty so profound it feels like an exquisite insult.
The sky is a shade of blue that feels curated — too delicate, too intentional, like the inside of a Fabergé egg. Sunlight spills in honeyed drizzles down the façades of imperial buildings, catching on cornices and wrought-iron balconies, gilding the red-tiled roofs with light too golden to be real. Horse-drawn carriages wheel along the Ringstraße below, the clip of hooves echoing like some well-rehearsed concerto. The café terrace smells of espresso and rosewater and wealth.
From the rooftop of Café Sacher, the city spreads beneath you like a stage set waiting for its cue.
And beside you, Tangerine sits with the air of a man completely at ease. Slouched back in a teakwood chair, he’s dressed in a dove-grey linen suit that looks violently expensive, collar open, sleeves rolled to reveal the sharp ink of his forearm. A pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses hangs from the front of his shirt like an afterthought. He lifts a small, bone-white cup of espresso to his lips, and drinks without comment.
You haven’t spoken in fifteen minutes.
Not because you’ve found peace, or because there’s simply nothing left to say—God, no.
But because the effort of keeping your mouth shut has become an Olympic event. You’ve spent the past few hours pretending that what happened in that suite didn’t feel like sticking your hand into a live socket, like you haven’t been vibrating ever since with something sharp and unfinished.
Meanwhile Tangerine?
He’s fucking thriving.
Leg crossed just so. Cufflink catching the light. Espresso lifted like it deserves applause.
Not a single crack in the façade. Not a glance. Not a word. Just that maddening, immaculate calm—like he sleeps soundly, wakes refreshed, and absolutely did not spend a single second replaying the sound you made outside his bedroom door.
Did he?
The thought hooks deep, sharp and sudden.
Does he replay it?
That breathless second where he saw you standing there—bare, half-wrecked, too proud to beg and too weak to leave.
The hitch in his voice. The heat in his eyes.
The way his hand had hovered, just for a moment, like he was afraid touching you would set off the whole building.
He looked at you like he wanted something.
Didn’t he? He did, right?
But now—nothing.
Not even a flicker.
Just this performance of normalcy so flawless it makes you nauseous.
You wonder if he’s burning underneath it all.
You wonder if he’s fucking trying to punish you.
Because if he is, he’s doing a damn good job.
And still—still—you want him to break.
You want proof that you weren’t the only one undone.
That the skin beneath his collar still itches with the memory of your breath.
That he wants.
That he misses.
That he remembers.
But he just tips his cup, mild and unbothered, like none of it happened. Like you don’t matter at all. It’s professional. Impeccably so. And it makes you want to throw him into the Danube and watch the bubbles rise.
But you smile. Just barely. A strain at the corner of your mouth. Polite. Laced with arsenic.
And your napkin—your poor, innocent napkin—is a goddamn crime scene.
Folded. Unfolded. Twisted. Creased. Now wrung so tightly between your fingers it looks like the neck of something fragile and deserving. The soft cotton is damp in places, clenched in your palm like a fuse waiting for a spark.
He hasn’t even noticed.
Or worse—he has. And he’s enjoying it.
“Bit warm for November,” he murmurs finally, voice low, almost lazy. He doesn’t look at you—his gaze remains fixed somewhere on the cobbled plaza below, following the drift of pigeons or the hem of a passing coat. “S’pose I should’ve gone with the lighter waistcoat.”
The sun paints his hair like molten copper, glints off the curve of his watch. He smiles, casually, as the waiter stops by to refill his water—charming, polite, the picture of relaxed civility.
You don’t answer.
Because you’re too busy watching the way the sunlight gilds his lashes.
Too busy noticing every infuriating detail—the way he stirs his coffee with a slow, absent flick of his wrist, how his fingers curl just so around the porcelain handle. Like he’s not even thinking about it. Like none of this is personal.
Like you’re not personal.
He hasn’t looked at you once.
Not really.
And that should be fine. That should be perfect.
Isn’t that what you agreed on?
Keep it clean. Keep it sharp. Don’t let it bleed.
But he laughs—actually laughs—at something the waiter says in German, smooth and soft and utterly untouched by everything that happened. And that laugh slides down your spine like the back of a knife.
Because it isn’t fair.
It isn’t fucking fair that he gets to be unbothered.
That he gets to win.
You straighten your posture. Lift your glass with unnecessary grace.
“Mm,” you murmur, smiling faintly at no one. “Yes, well. Wouldn’t want you to start sweating through your bespoke three-piece. It might ruin the illusion.”
There.
A crack.
Tiny, but real.
The twitch of his jaw.
It’s not much. Just the twitch of a tendon in his jaw as the silence stretches, a flicker too sharp to pass as idle grace. His fingers tighten infinitesimally around the espresso cup—so subtly it might escape anyone else’s notice. But not yours. You see the way his shoulders hold a breath too long, how the exhale tastes like smoke and restraint. The smile he offers the waiter is flawless, yes—but you see the fissure underneath. It’s too smooth. Too timed. A mask held with white-knuckled precision.
And the laugh that follows?
It’s soft. Measured. But you feel the strain behind it. The way it lingers a second too late. The way it drops like a blade wrapped in velvet.
He’s not fine.
He’s fucking not fine.
You knew it. You knew it.
But the moment barely breathes before he slits it clean in half.
He sets his cup down with obscene gentleness, the porcelain kiss of it against the saucer so precise it might as well be choreographed. One thumb drags idly along the rim, collecting the faint crescent of coffee left there, and for a second his gaze drops to that thumb like it’s the most interesting thing in Vienna. When he finally looks up, it isn’t at your face. It’s at your hand — the death grip on the napkin, the tendons in your wrist standing out under the skin.
“Careful,” he says mildly, voice low enough that it doesn’t need to cross the table; it just finds you. “You keep stranglin’ that thing like it owes you money, they’re gonna start askin’ questions.”
Your fingers loosen by reflex. You hate that he notices. You hate more that he’s right.
He leans back in his chair, easing into it like a man slipping into a well-worn role. The terrace lamps catch in the fine weave of his suit, throwing soft highlights across the dove-grey linen and the ink on his forearm. His sunglasses dangle from two fingers now, rolling lazily back and forth, the lenses flashing with slices of sky, brass railings, the red-and-white Sacher awnings — everything but you.
“Gotta say,” he goes on, that almost-charming lilt crawling under your skin, “you’re holdin’ up better than I expected after last night.”
Your heart stops. Then slams.
He tilts his head, like he’s only just remembered something amusing.
“Thought you’d still be hidin’ under the covers,” he muses. “Or at least walkin’ a bit… shakier.”
The word hangs there. Shakier. Heavy with all the things he’s not saying: you barefoot in the hall, breathless; the sound you made when you realized he’d heard you; the way you ran. His eyes finally meet yours — just for a heartbeat, a glint of wicked blue — and it’s enough to tell you he remembers every second.
He doesn’t give you time to answer. Of course he doesn’t.
He slides his sunglasses back on, the movement smooth, arrogant, erasing his expression in a single practiced gesture. The city reflects in them now — carriages, domes, tourists — but you know underneath he’s watching you, cataloguing every flicker.
“Anyway,” he says, clearing the last of his espresso with a small, satisfied swallow, “no rest for the wicked, eh?”
A cool, insistent gust swept across the terrace, carrying the rich, earthy scent of roasted coffee and the damp, mineral breath of old stone. It whispered over your skin, raising the fine hairs on your arms in a wave of silent static. The wind played with the hem of your coat, snapped the corner of the menu like an impatient finger, and set the abandoned espresso cups vibrating on their saucers, producing a faint, porcelain hum.
It was a desperate circus of small distractions, something, anything, to anchor your gaze to instead of him. A focal point to keep the hot, prickling tide of humiliation from cresting beneath your ribs.
He noticed the shiver—you saw the subtle shift in his eyes—but he didn't offer a word. Instead, he simply closed his jacket with a slow, fluid motion, a study in casual grace.
"Come on," he said, his voice feather-light and polished smooth with indifference. "Let's head back."
And that was the entire verdict.
No discussion.
No glance to see if you were steady.
No acknowledgment that the ghost of last night was sitting right there at the table with you, a shared, silent ruin between you.
The walk from the Café Sacher back to The Lucerne was a silent, twenty-minute war of attrition. The winter sun, so brazenly beautiful from the rooftop, did nothing to warm the frozen tundra between you. He walked with his hands in his pockets, the picture of a man on a casual stroll. You matched his pace, your gaze fixed ahead, every step a conscious effort not to break into a run or simply stop walking altogether.
He’s fine. Of course he’s fine. He got what he wanted last night—the proof that he can unravel you with a sound in the dark. Now he gets to be the unflappable professional, and you get to be the one with your nerves strung too tight.
The hotel's grand entrance looms, a gilded mouth ready to swallow you whole. A doorman—not the same one from your arrival—sweeps the door open with a white-gloved hand. "Mr. Astor. Mrs. Astor," he intones. The greeting is standard. Polite. But something in the cadence feels… rehearsed. As if he has been waiting.
You’re imagining things.
This is what he does. He makes you paranoid.
You cross the threshold, the overheated air a familiar assault. The lobby is its usual impeccable self: the soft piano, the glide of bellboys, the gleam of polished brass. Yet, the air feels thicker. You hear your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. Tangerine’s hand comes to rest on the small of your back. A casual, husbandly gesture. But his touch is different. Not possessive, not teasing. It is… alert. The pressure is a silent command: Walk. Smile. Now.
You lean into it, turning your face up to his with a smile that feels like it might splinter. “I think I left my book by the piano last night, darling.” The line is ash in your mouth.
His responding smile is all easy charm, but his eyes aren’t on you. They are doing a lazy, comprehensive sweep of the room. “I’m sure it’s safe, love. No one here would dare touch your things.”
It is then you see it. Jakob, the bellboy from your arrival, is across the lobby. He isn’t looking at you. He is meticulously polishing the same brass rail of the reception desk, his movements too slow, too focused. As you watch, his gaze lifts from his cloth, not to you, but to a point somewhere near the concierge desk, a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.
Your eyes follow his. The silver-haired concierge stands there, holding a black leather folio. He isn’t looking at you either. He is looking at Tangerine. And he isn’t smiling.
The performance is still perfect. But the audience has stopped believing it.
The concierge’s unsmiling gaze is a lock clicking into place. Tangerine’s hand on your back presses forward, not a suggestion, but a command.
He sees it too. The game’s changed. Don’t trip. Don’t you fucking trip.
The walk to the private elevator bay feels endless, the plush carpet a bog sucking at your heels. That’s when a new shadow falls into step—a woman in a razor-sharp black suit, her presence announced only by the whisper of expensive wool and the icy chill of her perfume. She doesn't look at you. She just exists three paces behind your right shoulder, her footsteps a perfect, muted metronome matching your own.
Tangerine’s thumb digs into your spine, a sharp, coded pulse. Steady.
“Bit eager for a tip, innit?” he murmurs, just for you, his voice a low, cockney rumble that is pure defiance.
The private elevator’s obsidian doors are already gaping open. A trap with a velvet lining. The woman stops, a statue of corporate menace, hands clasped.
“The lift is prepped for you, Mr. and Mrs. Astor.” Her voice is like a computer-generated pleasantry.
She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t breathe. She just watches.
You step into the gilded cage, Tangerine sliding in beside you, his body a live wire. He jams the key in. The golden 13 lights up like a warning beacon.
The doors don’t move.
You are a goddamn exhibit. The woman stands there, her eyes doing a slow, invasive sweep from your shoes to the frozen smile on your face. She is counting your breaths. She is weighing the tension in the inch of air between you and him.
One second. She’s counting the threads in your coat.
Two. She knows you’re holding your breath.
Three. Tangerine’s smirk is still plastered on, but it is a grimace now, all teeth. “Takin’ the scenic route, are we?” he says, louder this time, projecting to the open door.
Four. She’s looking right through your eyes into the panic behind them.
Five.
With a soft, mocking chime, the doors slide shut, finally erasing her from view.
The second they seal, the act drops like a stone. Tangerine slams his palm against the wall, a short, sharp crack of fury that echoes in the small space. He spins, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, thoroughly wrecking it.
“Fuck’s sake,” he hisses, the cockney boiling over. “They’re puttin’ on a bloody puppet show.”
The elevator climbs, but the ground has already fallen out from under you. The silence on the ride up is a physical weight, squeezing the air from your lungs. Every second stretches, thin and sharp as a wire. When the doors open onto your private corridor, you both scan it like a hostile battlefield, every shadow a potential witness, every sconce a hidden lens. Empty. For now.
He unlocks the suite door and you spill inside, the heavy door thudding shut like a tomb seal. The opulent space, once a sanctuary of lies, now feels like a prison cell lined with silk. Your eyes, wide and darting, sweep the room, cataloging every detail, every potential shift. The champagne is still chilling, condensation dripping like sweat down the bottle. The flowers are still bleeding their cloying scent into the air, the white roses looking like a funeral arrangement.
Then you see it.
A single sheet of heavy, cream-colored cardstock, placed precisely in the center of the console table. It wasn't there before. It is too clean, too deliberate.
Tangerine sees it too. He moves first, his footsteps silent on the rug, snatching it up. His eyes scan the text, his face hardening into a mask of cold fury, the muscle in his jaw ticking like a live wire. He doesn't speak. He just holds it out to you, his knuckles white around the edges.
You take it. The paper is thick, expensive, embossed with the hotel's discreet crest. The heading is innocent, monstrously so: "Updated Guest Preference Profile - The Astors."
Then you read the details, and the blood turns to ice in your veins.
Sleeping Arrangements: ~~One King Bed (Master Suite)~~ Separate Bedrooms Requested. Sound Buffering Preferred.
Mr. Astor's Preferences: Enjoys late-night spirits. Audible when undisturbed.
Mrs. Astor's Preferences: Dislikes unannounced physical contact. Prone to nocturnal wandering.
The paper trembles in your hand, the elegant script blurring. The air leaves your lungs in a sickening rush. It isn't a confrontation. It is an autopsy. They have dissected your every failure, your most humiliating, private moments, and presented it back to you as a fucking menu. The walls aren't just listening; they are taking notes. They know about the coin toss, they heard his choked groans, they saw your half-naked, drunken shame in the hallway. They know everything.
Your head snaps up, your eyes finding his. The fear curdles, instantly, into a white-hot, incandescent rage. It needs a target. And he is standing right there.
The crumpled profile is a dead weight in your fist. You hold it up, your arm rigid.
“‘Audible when undisturbed’,” you quote, your voice lethally quiet. “Care to explain how our sleeping arrangements became a matter of hotel record?”
He doesn’t look at the paper. His gaze is fixed on you, a storm brewing behind a mask of icy calm. “They’ve got more ears than a fuckin’ cornfield. Took you long enough to clock it.”
“Don’t you dare,” you breathe, taking a step forward. The space between you crackles. “This isn’t about me. This is about you. Your complete lack of fucking discipline.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Discipline? You’ve been twitchier than a shittin’ dog since we got off the plane. Every time I get near you, it’s like you’re braced for a bloody assassination. Not exactly sellin’ the fairy tale, are we, love?”
“They didn’t note me being twitchy,” you hiss, jabbing a finger at the invisible text. “They noted that the happy newlyweds need soundproofing. They noted the husband’s a noisy moron. That doesn’t happen because I’m tense. That happens because you couldn’t keep your fucking hands to yourself and then decided to crank one out like you’re starring in your own panto!”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Keep your voice the fuck down, unless you want to give ‘em a live show to go with the notes.”
“Why? So we can die politely?” You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? The cover’s blown to shit. The auction’s a write-off. There’ll be no payment. Just a penalty that’ll cost us more than this whole fucking hotel. All because you couldn’t play your part without making it a bloody spectacle.”
“My part?” He takes a single, deliberate step, the air growing cold around him. “My part was to be a lovesick prick with a wallet the size of a small planet. Your part was to look like you didn’t want to vomit every time I touched you. You failed. Miserably. So whose bollocks are really in the vice?”
The accusation hangs there, a gauntlet thrown.
For a single, suspended second, the only sound is the paper cracking in your white-knuckled grip. Then you cross the room in three violent strides and slam the crumpled profile against his chest.
“You,” you snarl, the word a shard of glass. “This is your fucking invoice. Read it.”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look down. His eyes are twin barrels aimed at your face. “Get that out of my face.”
The silence is brittle, shattered by the low, venomous drawl that cuts through the suite. "You arrogant son of a bitch. You think this is about my acting? This is your bill. Itemized."
You smooth the crumpled paper, holding it up like a prosecutor's exhibit.
"'Separate bedrooms.' That's your goddamn coin toss. Real professional. 'Nocturnal wandering.' That's what they call it when your partner is too wound up to sleep thanks to your bullshit. And this—" You slam your finger against the final line. "'Audible when undisturbed.' That's not a note on the performance. That's a performance review. Of you. You blew our cover because you have the self-control of a frat boy on spring break."
He doesn't shout. A slow, ugly smirk twists his features. "Self-control? That's a fuckin' joke, that is. You parked your arse out there for twenty solid minutes, didn't you, love? Don't give me that 'security risk' bollocks. You were a captive audience."
The air vanishes from your lungs. He's pivoted from his failure to your humiliation with infuriating ease.
"I was doing my job," you snap, the lie thin and transparent.
"Your job?" he scoffs, the cockney thickening with his contempt. "Your job was to be in your bed, not gettin' your kicks listenin' at my door. Don't lie to me, love. I heard that pathetic little gasp you let out. Sounded like a stepped-on squeaker toy."
The raw exposure is a physical blow. He heard. He knew everything.
"You're a disgrace," you spit, your composure cracking.
"I'm the one who's not a weepy mess over a bit of personal history!" he fires back, his voice rising for the first time, sharp and brutal.
"Weepy?" The word tears out of you, high and strained. "You think this is about history? You think I'm sitting here crying over some old grudge?"
"You're sure as hell not acting like a professional!"
"Professional?" A wild, disbelieving laugh escapes you. "You want to talk about professional? Let's talk about you groaning my name loud enough for hotel security to take notes! How's that for professional, you pathetic bastard?"
The color drains from his face. You've finally said it, dragged the most humiliating, undeniable truth into the space between you.
For a second, he's speechless. Then his eyes narrow to slits. "You're hearin’ things now, love. Maybe all that silent treatment's finally fried your brain."
"Don't you dare! Don't you dare gaslight me! I heard you. I heard every fucking thing. So don't stand there and pretend you were thinking about the mission. You were thinking about me. And you were so loud about it you got us both burned."
His composure shatters completely. He steps into your space, his voice dropping to a low, vicious snarl, all pretense of mockery gone. "Fine. You want the truth? Yeah, I was. Is that what you need to hear? Does that make you feel better? Knowing you've got me so twisted up I can't even take a piss without thinkin' about you?"
The admission hits you like a bucket of ice water. You're frozen, your breath caught in your throat, all your anger momentarily stunned into silence.
He sees it, and a bitter, broken smile twists his lips. "But you? You just sat there. You listened to the whole bloody show and then you ran. So don't you stand there and lecture me about being unprofessional. At least I have the balls to admit what I want."
The fury returns, a supernova behind your eyes.
"You don't want me," you seethe, the words trembling with the force of your rage. "You want a ghost. A fantasy that doesn't talk back. You had to use your own hand because the real thing would rather chew glass than give you the satisfaction."
His face goes utterly still. The mockery, the anger, it all drains away, leaving something terrifyingly clear and focused. He sees straight through the armor of your words to the raw, shaking nerve beneath.
He closes the distance between you in three swift strides, stopping so close you can feel the heat coming off him.
"Bullshit," he says, the word a blunt, final verdict.
He doesn't touch you. His hands stay at his sides, but his eyes are like x-rays, scanning the lie right out of you.
"Look at you," he scoffs, his voice low and brutal. "You're fuckin' vibratin'. Your pupils are blown. You're standin' there tellin' me you'd 'rather chew glass' while your body's screamin' that you'd rather get fucked. So which is it?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He leans in, his voice dropping to a filthy, conspiratorial whisper that slithers right under your skin.
"Tell me, was it the sounds that did it? Or was it picturin' it? My hand on my cock, thinkin' about your mouth? Or was it lower? Don't bother answerin'. I know. I felt you listenin'. I could feel you gettin' wet through the fuckin' wall."
Your breath hitches, a tiny, traitorous sound. He pounces on it.
"Yeah, that's it, innit? You stood out there in the dark, soakin' your knickers, and for what? A front-row seat to a show you were too much of a coward to join." He lets out a short, cruel laugh. "You could've knocked. You could've come in. But you didn't. You just stood there and took it like a good little voyeur. Pathetic."
"You're disgusting," you manage to choke out, but the words have no force, no air behind them.
"Disgusting?" He cocks his head, a predator toying with its meal. "But you're still here. You're not leavin'. Your tits are practically in my chest, love. You're pressin' into my space, beggin' for it without sayin' a word. But you're too proud to ask, so you just stand there, tremblin'."
He finally moves, but not to grab you. He brings his hand up, hovering his fingertips just a millimeter from your lips. You can feel the static heat of them.
"Go on," he dares, his voice a rough, dark promise. "Tell me to stop. Tell me to get the fuck away from you. One word. Do it."
You can't. Your lips part on a silent, shuddering gasp.
His smirk is a victory. "Didn't think so. Now who's the fuckin' joke?"
You try to swallow, but your throat is too tight.
Too dry.
Your pulse is beating so hard it aches.
Tangerine watches the struggle like it’s the most exquisite entertainment he’s had all week.
“Ohhh, look at that,” he murmurs, voice soft and lethal. “Can’t even swallow properly. Christ, love — you’re embarrassin’ us both.”
Your shame spikes so violently your knees almost give.
He sees it.
Seizes it.
He steps closer — a slow, deliberate glide of expensive leather on polished flooring — not touching you, just entering your air, your space, your breath.
“Just when I thought you couldn’t be more of a liability,” he says, his tone deceptively calm, “you go and prove me wrong.”
You grit your teeth. “I didn’t—”
He cuts you off with a low, vicious chuckle that curls down your spine like a hand.
“Don’t even try,” he whispers. “Not after last night. Not after the fuckin’ scene you made.”
Your breath stalls.
You feel it — the humiliation rising hot behind your ears — and it’s worse, somehow, because he’s enjoying it.
“And then,” he continues, voice sharpening, “you had the fuckin’ nerve—the fuckin’ audacity—to stand out there in the hallway with your tits out, makin’ noises you couldn’t have muffled if your life depended on it—”
“Stop.”
Your voice cracks.
God, no. Not now.
He doesn’t even slow down.
“Oh, I’m not stoppin’,” he purrs, eyes lighting with cold, sadistic pleasure. “You wanna play voyeur? Fine. But don’t pretend you weren’t pantin’ like a bitch in heat on the wrong side of my door.”
Your breath punches out of you, sharp and wounded.
He smiles — slow, wide, cruel.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “That little fuckin’ twitch in your thigh. Knew I wasn’t imaginin’ it.”
You stiffen.
Too late.
He steps even closer.
You feel the heat off him on your sternum, your throat.
His scent — bergamot, gun oil, and the faintest trace of your ruin — hits you like a slap.
“But you really crossed a line,” he says, voice dropping. “D’you know that?”
You force your chin up. “I didn’t compromise anything.”
“Oh, you compromised everything,” he spits, low and furious now. “You think these people don’t notice? Think the staff didn’t clock the way you ran down that corridor like your legs had given way? Think the cameras didn’t catch your little midnight parade? Think security didn’t hear you slam that door like a fuckin’ guilty teenager?”
Your stomach free-falls.
He leans in until his breath touches your cheek.
Warm.
Precise.
Punishing.
“You blew our cover,” he murmurs, voice trembling with anger he’s barely containing. “You made us look unstable. Suspicious.”
Your heart coils tight with dread.
“And you know,” he adds, “it’s actually impressive how you managed to do that without even touchin’ me.”
Your breath stutters.
“Though don’t get too proud of that,” he says. “You nearly did.”
You shut your eyes. Too raw. Too exposed.
He doesn’t let you escape.
“Open them.”
Your lashes lift slowly.
His gaze is pure flame.
“You were starin’ at my door like you were two seconds from fallin’ to your knees,” he says, lips curling. “And then you want me to pretend you’re in control?”
You take a breath, shaky and thin. “I wasn’t going to—”
He laughs — a sharp cut of sound that slices the air.
“No?” he sneers, stepping close enough that the heat of him hits your throat. “Christ, love — if I’d opened that door two fuckin’ minutes earlier, you’d have dropped to your knees and shoved your mouth on my cock like you were starvin’ for it.”
The words hit like impact.
Your stomach flips.
Your thighs clench.
Your pride catches fire.
He steps back a fraction.
Not retreat — just distance enough to look at you like he’s cataloguing every weak point.
His tone drops—filthy, controlled, viciously precise.
“You know what’s funny?” he says. “I’ve been replayin’ it in my head. Last night. You outside that door. Wonderin’ what I’d have done to you if I’d been even a step quicker.”
Your pulse stutters.
He smiles without warmth.
“I’d’ve grabbed you by the waist,” he says, slow and deliberate, “dragged you inside, and had you bent over the nearest surface before you could even shut the fuckin’ door.”
The burn in your cheeks hits your ears.
Your thighs tighten involuntarily.
He sees it and keeps going.
“I’d fuck you stupid,” he continues, voice low and unhurried, “face down, arse up, takin’ it like you were made for it. No talkin’, no thinkin’, just you takin’ every inch I gave you.”
Your breath shudders.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, savoring the way you react. “While you were standin’ there runnin’ your mouth—pretendin’ you weren’t listenin’—all I could think about was how easily I could’ve had you on your knees. How fuckin’ tight you’d feel. How hard you’d squeeze.”
His eyes drag down your body, slow and filthy.
“And if you’d stepped inside?” He tilts his head. “Christ, I’d have had your legs spread before you could even pretend to resist.”
A sound breaks in your throat—humiliation, arousal, something in between.
He hears it.
And it makes him grin.
“Go on then,” he murmurs. “Face the wall.”
You hesitate.
He leans in, voice sharpening.
“Face. The fuckin’. Wall.”
And you do.
You hate yourself for it, but you do.
The cold surface meets your cheek like a slap.
You can feel the vibration of your pulse in your jaw, in your fingertips, in your cunt.
And worst of all — he feels it too.
“Oh, look at that,” he laughs, cold and vicious. “All that mouth, and now you're just... standin' there. Obeyin’. Like you’ve been trained.”
His palm drags up the wall beside your head, slow and theatrical. His other hand slides around your throat from behind — not choking, not even pressing. Just there. A promise.
“Was this what you wanted last night?” he hisses. “To be caught? Bent over somethin’? You could’ve walked in. Could’ve opened your mouth. But you just stood there. Hid in the dark. Shakin’.”
You try to speak, but your breath comes too fast, too shallow.
He clocks it instantly.
“Pathetic,” he snarls. “You’re fuckin’ pathetic.”
You flinch — his breath is at your ear now, his fingers flexing lightly against your throat.
“I’d’ve ruined you,” he whispers. “You get that? If you’d come through that door, I’d’ve had you up against the fuckin’ wall just like this. Face-first. Skirt pushed up. One hand buried in your hair. The other—” he tightens his grip on your neck slightly, “right fuckin’ here.”
Your thighs clench.
He laughs again — this time lower, darker.
“Ohh, you like that, don’t you? Of course you do. All that righteous little fury, but your body’s betrayin’ you every bloody second.”
He lets the silence stretch a beat. Two.
Then, just as your breath evens —
He cuts it down again.
“You’d’ve been cryin’ by the time I was done. Drenched. Legs shakin’. Leakin’ down your thighs while I kept poundin’ you harder just to hear how fuckin’ loud you’d get.”
Your eyes squeeze shut.
You hate him.
You hate this.
But you’re soaked.
He leans in, nose grazing the edge of your hairline.
“And after?” he murmurs, almost conversational. “I wouldn’t have even let you come. I’d’ve pulled out and left you there — flushed and fucked open, drippin’ like a used toy, beggin’ for a finish. That’s what you earn when you risk blowin’ my cover.”
Your fingers curl into fists. He notices.
“Aww,” he coos, suddenly cruel again. “Feelin’ sorry for yourself, are you? Embarrassed?”
He lets go of your throat and taps your cheek mockingly, like you're a sulking child.
“You should be. You’re standin’ here, pressin’ your tits into a wall, shakin’ like a virgin schoolgirl, just ‘cause I’m tellin’ you what I’d do to your useless little body.”
Silence.
Then he whispers:
“All you’ve gotta do is ask. Just one word. I’ll do it right now. Pull your knickers to the side and use you like the mess you are.”
Your breath breaks before you do.
A tiny sound—barely a whimper—escapes you as your forehead meets the wall.
Not loud.
Not intentional.
Just… torn out of whatever fragile self-control you had left.
You brace one hand on the wallpaper, fingers trembling.
You don’t even realize you’re doing it.
But he does.
He goes very still behind you.
Then—
A low, dark chuckle slips out of him, like a blade sliding free.
“There it is,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something cruel and savoring. “Knew it was in you somewhere.”
Your jaw clenches, but you don’t turn around.
You can’t.
Because if you look at him now, you’ll break in half.
He steps closer—slow, predatory—until the heat of his chest brushes your back, not touching, just close enough to cage you in the humiliation of it.
“My God,” he breathes, almost laughing, “listen to yourself.”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Didn’t even take a touch,” he goes on. “Just a few words, and you’re already fallin’ apart.”
Your shoulder twitches.
Your breath falters.
You hate yourself for it.
He notices instantly.
“Awwww,” he coos, mocking, poisonous. “You poor little thing.”
Your cheeks burn.
Your spine stiffens in a pathetic attempt at dignity.
He presses his palm against the back of your head—not forcing, not hurting—just holding it there against the wall, like he’s showing you your place.
“Look at you,” he says quietly, almost gleeful. “All these years. All that fuckin’ attitude. All that mouth. Tryin’ so hard to pretend you hated me.”
You inhale sharply.
He laughs again.
“And now?”
His thumb strokes the nape of your neck, slow and derisive.
“Here you are. A pathetic little girl leanin’ into the wall, whimpered out, waitin’ to be used properly.”
Your breath jerks.
His hand slides down, fingers curling lightly around your throat—not squeezing, just claiming—his body towering behind you.
“That’s what you’ve been hidin’ from, innit?” he whispers against your ear. “That this is who you are with me.”
You shake your head—tiny, weak, useless.
He smirks.
“Ohhh, don’t deny it,” he taunts. “You leaned into the wall on your own. You’re standin’ here showin’ me exactly how you want it.”
His grip tightens on your throat just enough to make your knees soften.
“You’ve been starin’ daggers at me for years, pretendin’ you’re above it, pretendin’ you can’t stand me… when the truth is you’ve been dyin’ for me to pin you to somethin’ solid and make you forget how to speak.”
Your lips part on a shaky, broken inhale.
He hears everything in it.
“Pathetic,” he murmurs, voice thick with dark amusement. “Absolutely pathetic.”
He leans in, mouth at your ear, breath scorching.
“And you know what makes it even better?”
A beat.
A cruel smile in his voice.
“You’re not even fightin’ me anymore.”
You don't move.
Not a word.
Not a protest.
Nothing.
Just a trembling breath against the wallpaper.
He exhales, satisfied.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good girl.”
His grip on your throat loosens just enough for him to slide the same hand downward, fingers dragging in a slow, taunting path over your clavicle, your sternum, the edge of your ribs. The heat of his palm scorches through the thin fabric of your dress as he travels lower—degree by degree, like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate before you break or run. You don’t do either.
The first brush of his knuckles against your thigh knocks the air out of you. Not because it’s delicate—there’s nothing gentle in the way he touches you—but because it’s intimate in a way you weren’t ready for. His hand is large and hot and mercilessly direct, sliding upward along the sensitive inside of your leg until your knees soften involuntarily. The wall becomes your anchor; you cling to it, forehead pressed against the patterned wallpaper as he drags his hand higher, higher, until the lace of your underwear catches against his fingertips.
You gasp.
Not softly.
Not gracefully.
The sound rips out of you, sharp and helpless.
He exhales a dark, pleased sound behind you, fingers flattening over the damp heat between your legs. The contact is obscene—not a caress, not pressure, just a single, decisive placement of his hand against you, cupping the entire soaked center of your underwear like he’s claiming it. The wet warmth spreads through the thin fabric of his palm.
He goes still.
Completely still.
Then you feel his chest rise behind you, one slow breath. A laugh—not a sharp one, not cruel this time, but low and devastating, the kind that says you’ve just confirmed everything he already suspected.
“Well, fuck me…” he murmurs, voice thick with disbelief and triumph. “You’re soaked.”
His fingers curl slightly, testing. The linen of your panties clings to your skin. He presses—not enough to stroke, not enough to relieve anything, just enough for you to feel how shamelessly wet you are under his hand.
Your breath shivers apart.
Your thighs instinctively part a fraction.
And that tiny, involuntary shift is what destroys you.
Because he feels it.
He feels your body lean into his palm—just a fraction, barely an inch, but unmistakable. The smallest tilt of your hips into him, an instinct deeper than pride or denial.
“You’re actually leanin' into it,” he says softly, voice curling around your ear like smoke. “Christ. You really are.”
You try to pull back—not with strength, but with pride—but your body betrays you, driving you forward again, pressing you against his hand as if gravity has rerouted itself under your skin.
He doesn’t move his hand.
He doesn’t reward you.
In fact, he pulls his fingers back just enough so that the pressure disappears, leaving you empty, aching, humiliated against the wall.
“No,” he snaps. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare. Not yet.”
A flush crawls up your throat. You clench your fists against the wallpaper, nails biting into your palms.
He stands behind you, breathing hard—not from lust, but from the effort of withholding. His anger simmers under the surface, thick and volatile. You can feel it in the way he looms behind you, in the tightness of his jaw, in the rough heat of his breath against the back of your neck.
“You think I’m gonna touch you properly after what you pulled?” he growls. “After you compromised the whole goddamn mission? After you lied to my face and then stood outside my door like a little voyeur hopin’ I’d catch you?”
Your pulse stutters violently. Your hips twitch toward where his hand was.
He notices.
He laughs again—harder this time.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Absolutely unbelievable. Years of you pretendin’ you can’t stand me. Years of that attitude, that mouth, that cold little stare you give me in debriefings…”
His hand ghosts along your inner thigh, not touching what you need, just tormenting you with proximity as he pushes your legs apart a fraction more with the side of his knee.
“And now look at you,” he says. “Dress bunched up, panties soaked, pushin’ your cunt into my hand like you don’t even have a choice.”
You let out a shaking breath you can’t swallow back.
He presses his forearm against your upper back, pinning you lightly against the wall—not enough to hurt, but enough to make it impossible to pretend you aren’t letting him.
“And the best part?” he murmurs, voice lowering to a deadly whisper. “You’re still not gettin’ shit from me until you say it.”
Your throat tightens.
“Say what?” you manage, barely audible.
“Oh, you know exactly what.”
His fingers skim the edge of your panties.
You jolt.
He withdraws.
“You’re gonna tell me the truth,” he says, tone cutting, surgical. “You’re gonna admit exactly what you are. What you’ve been dyin’ to have me do to you.”
His breath touches your ear again—slow, hot, lethal.
“Say it,” he whispers. “Or I take my hand away. And you stay dripping against this wall, shakin’ and empty, while I watch.”
Your silence stretches.
A long, unbearable silence, carved out of trembling breath and the scrape of your forehead against the wallpaper. Your hands flatten against the wall—tense, rigid, as if you can brace your entire collapsing body with just your palms.
He waits.
Not patiently.
Not gently.
He waits the way a man waits to deliver a punishment.
His palm still hovers near the heat between your thighs, some cruel fraction of an inch away from where you need him most.
He laughs—a short, sharp sound filled with poisonous satisfaction.
“You can’t even fucking speak,” he snarls. “Standin’ here soaked, breathin’ like you’re about to fall apart, and still tryin’ to act like you’ve got control. Jesus.”
Your breath hitches.
He plants one hand flat on the small of your back, pushing you into the wall—not hurting you, but forcing your hips to angle back. The pressure pins you in place, forcing your thighs to part around the thickness of his stance.
Then—
You feel it.
Hard.
Thick.
Undeniably there.
His cock presses into the curve of your hip through his pants, unyielding and hot even under layers of fabric. He shifts his weight, grinding just enough that you feel every inch of him.
The shock punches through you like something electrical.
Your breath leaves you in a ragged, involuntary gasp.
He goes still behind you, like he’s listening to the sound echo around the inside of your ribs.
“Ohh… fuckin’ hell…”
His voice is hoarse for the first time.
He presses against your hip again—slow, deliberate—a question in the shape of pressure.
Your entire body responds without permission, your hips tilting back, seeking relief, seeking friction, seeking him.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something dark and unforgiving. “All I have to do is put it against you and you fuckin’ fold.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me what you want.”
You can’t.
You won’t.
The words choke you, humiliation clawing at your lungs.
Your silence stretches again.
And he snaps.
His hand shoots up to your jaw, fingers gripping your cheeks and tilting your face against the wall. Not rough. Not dangerous. But absolutely dominating.
“You stubborn little idiot,” he hisses. “You’re drippin’ on my fuckin’ hand, and you’re still too proud to speak.”
His cock pushes harder into your hip—grinding once, slow, just enough for you to feel the exact shape of him. Your knees buckle, thighs trembling under the wave of heat that rolls through you.
The sound that escapes you is broken.
Shameful.
Desperate.
Your fingers curl helplessly against the wall.
His grip tightens on your jaw, forcing your lips apart.
“Say. It.”
You inhale sharply, chest caving in on itself.
And then—
Not because you choose to.
Not because you muster dignity.
But because his cock against your hip breaks something inside you so cleanly it feels like a bone snapping.
“Please—”
Your voice shivers out of you.
Barely audible.
Barely real.
But it’s there.
His breath catches once—sharp, harsh, guttural—
“Well, fuck me…”
His thumb drags across your cheek, slow and mocking. You shake your head, but your hips betray you—pressing back into him, seeking more.
He laughs—not soft, not warm, but triumphant and merciless.
“You want it that bad?” he taunts. “Want me inside you?”
Your breath fractures, your body arching into him despite every instinct screaming for dignity.
You manage a whisper—tiny, trembling:
“Please…”
And he smiles against your ear, all cruelty and victory.
“That’s it. That’s the truth.”
But he still doesn’t touch you.
Not yet.
He doesn’t reward the “please.” Not with mercy. Not with his fingers. He rewards it by using your body like leverage.
His hand clamps your hip and drags you back the exact inch he wants, lining you against the thick press in his pants. He grinds once—slow, heavy—letting the full shape of him slot against the curve of you. No thrust. No rhythm. Just a deliberate drag of heat that makes your knees loosen and your mouth fall open against the wall.
“There she is,” he breathes, voice rough with contempt and satisfaction. “Knew you’d fold the second you felt it proper.”
You try to breathe quietly; you fail. Your chest hitches. Your thighs tremble. You push into him without thinking, chasing the pressure he’s rationing like a stingy god. He clocks it instantly and laughs under his breath.
“Greedy,” he says, grinding again, meaner now, making sure the ridge of him rubs where you’re throbbing through the soaked cotton. “Pushin’ back like that’s gonna get you a damn thing? No. You get nothin’ until you say it.”
Your forehead drags against the wall. “I—”
He tightens his grip at your throat—just enough to make the word die on your tongue.
“Not ‘please,’” he snarls, thrusting shallow and then stopping dead, the tease a knife twist. “You can beg for scraps all night. I want the truth. Tell me what you’re beggin’ for like a filthy little professional hazard who nearly blew my cover ‘cause she couldn’t keep her legs together. Say it.”
Heat surges low and hard. You clench around nothing. Your hips try to move; he pins them in place with his body, denying you even the smallest grind.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, rolling his hips a hair so the blunt head drags over the seam of your underwear. “That’s what you’re beggin’ for. Thick. Hard. Not your fingers. Not your pillow. Me. And you’re gonna say it clear.”
Your hands splay against the wall; your nails scrape uselessly at paint and plaster. You can feel how soaked you are—fabric sticking, the obscene slip every time he barely rocks. He does it again, lazier this time, the kind of half-motion that feeds the ache without settling it, and your breath breaks on a sound that makes him huff a cruel laugh against your ear.
“Pathetic noise,” he says, pleased. “Again.”
He grinds just enough to force another out of you. You hate the sound. He loves it.
“Look at you—pressin’ back, openin’ up, drippin’ all over my hand and still tryin’ to pretend you’re in charge. You’re not. Not tonight. You want me? You say it. You want me to split you on it, face to the wall like you deserve? You say exactly where you want it, how you want it, and how deep. Or I walk.”
His palm slides from your throat to your jaw, turning your face against the wall, forcing your mouth open with two fingers on your cheeks. He speaks into the corner of your lips, every word a hot, dirty scrape.
“Or maybe I don’t walk. Maybe I just step back, sit down, and watch you hump your own hand like a stupid little thing while I have a smoke and count how many times you ruin your knickers before you learn how to ask.”
He pulls his hips away an inch. The loss is physical, violent. Your body surges to close the gap; he denies it, holds you off with one hand on your hip and a vicious little tsk.
“Say it.”
Your throat works. Nothing comes.
He exhales a ragged, annoyed sound and punishes you with a slow, obscene drag of his cock along your hipbone through cloth, then freezes again. The denial is surgical.
“You want it inside,” he says, voice gone quiet and cold. “Say it. Use the words.”
Silence stretches. Your pulse pounds in your mouth.
He presses his thumb low, just above the band of your underwear—a threat, not a gift.
“Last chance.”
Your face burns against the wall. Your pride claws at your windpipe. He waits. He’s not bluffing. The heat of him is a brand at your hip, and the second he leans that weight away you will shatter.
You swallow—dry, thin, miserable.
He grinds the ridge of him once more right where you’re aching, and the sound that rips out of you is not dignified.
“Louder,” he orders.
You bite down, shake, and then force it out, strangled and filthy:
“Inside.”
His breath drags. He wants more. He always wants more.
“Inside what?”
You shake your head.
His hand leaves your hip. The absence is immediate and awful.
“Inside me,” you blurt, shame hot enough to sting your eyes. He waits. You understand what he wants like a code breaking in your throat. “Inside my—” the word sticks, your cheeks burning, “—my pussy.”
He smiles against your ear, triumphant and cruel.
“There she fuckin’ is.”
He rewards you with a single, grinding pass—firm, perfect, nothing like enough—and then stops again so you feel exactly how denied you are.
“Now,” he says, all control, all command, “tell me how deep.”
You whimper. He doesn’t move.
“Deep,” you whisper.
His palm clamps your throat again; the squeeze is a warning. “Properly.”
“Deep,” you stammer, voice breaking, “deep as it goes.”
He hums, pleased, angling your hips with both hands like he’s setting a tool to a job. You feel the thick head nudge your soaked seam through the fabric; he’s not even bared and your body still tries to take him.
“Good,” he says, cocky and cruel. “Now keep your hands flat on the wall. Don’t move unless I tell you. And if you stop talkin’? You get nothin’.”
He rocks again—slow, measured, the promise of ruin held just out of reach.
“Start with ‘I want your cock,’” he says. “Then keep goin’ till I’m satisfied.”
He holds you there—face to the wall, hands flat, his chest a hard heat at your back—and angles your hips exactly where he wants them. The drag of his cock along your hip is deliberate, rationed, a slow threat. His mouth sits at the hinge of your jaw, breath hot, voice low and poisonous.
“Start.”
Your throat works. “I… want you inside—”
A derisive click of his tongue. His palm clamps your jaw, squeezing your cheeks until your lips part uselessly.
“Not that prim rubbish. Try again.”
“I want—” You swallow. “I want you inside me.”
He shifts his weight and rewards the honesty with a single, heavy grind—the blunt ridge of him sliding over the soaked seam of your panties. The noise that tears out of you isn’t dignified. He hums, pleased, then freezes, denying you.
“What inside you?” he presses, cruelly patient. “Use the words.”
You flounder, pride clawing at your throat. “You know what I—”
His hand leaves your jaw and drops under your dress again. Two fingers hook the elastic and snap it against your hip in reprimand. The sting makes your breath hitch; your knees want to fold.
“Not playin’ twenty questions,” he says. “Say the thing.”
“Your…” Your face flames against the wallpaper. He waits. He’s not bluffing. “Your cock.”
He makes a soft, satisfied sound and gives you a firmer grind, the head lining up where you’re hottest even through fabric. Your body lunges to catch it; he holds you off with an infuriating inch of air.
“Better,” he murmurs. “Again. All of it.”
“I want your cock inside me.”
“Where?”
“Inside my—” The word sticks. He slides two fingers over your panties once, slow, and you nearly sob. “—my pussy.”
“There she is,” he says, triumphant. “Good girl words get you good things.”
His hand returns to the hem and this time he drags your dress high enough to bare the tops of your thighs. You feel cool air kiss overheated skin, then the obscene intimacy of his knuckles nudging under the band. He doesn’t go for your clit. He takes his time, stroking along the wet, swollen seam through cotton, mapping the shape of you like he’s learning it for a test he intends to ace.
“You’re going to say it exactly how I tell you,” he goes on, voice gone calm, instructive, mean. “You dodge, I correct. You correct it, I touch. That’s the trade. Understood?”
A strangled nod against the wall.
“Say, ‘I want your cock in my pussy.’”
“I want your c—cock in my… pussy.”
He crooks one finger and presses, just enough to feel the give of you through the soaked fabric. Your hips jolt. He pulls the pressure away instantly.
“Again. Cleaner.”
“I want your cock in my pussy.”
“Add, ‘now.’”
“Now,” you rasp.
He laughs under his breath and slides his fingers to the side. The cotton drags, sticks, peels away shamefully under his knuckles. He pulls the gusset aside and the air hits you—cool, exposing—just before the pads of two fingers stroke the slick length of you in a single, devastating pass. He stops at your entrance and holds there, feeling how you flutter around nothing.
“Say, ‘I want you to fuck me against this wall.’”
Your pride rears up; your mouth offers a euphemism on reflex. “I want you to— to take me—”
“No,” he cuts, immediate and cold. The fingers at your entrance withdraw to hover, a threat of absence. “Crude words only, or you get nothin’.”
You grit your teeth, humiliation burning across your skin. “I want you to… fuck me. Against the wall.”
The reward is instant and viciously precise: his thumb slides up and presses a single slow circle over your clit. You swear your knees disappear. He keeps the pressure light, maddening, then stops dead.
“Good. Now tell me exactly how.”
You chase the vanished touch like an animal, breath coming ragged. “Hard.”
His palm clamps your hip. “Specific.”
“From behind— face to the wall— you holding my throat— deep—” Your voice fractures. “No stopping.”
He exhales, heat thick in the sound. The blunt head of his cock grinds along your slick again through his trousers, lower, heavier, until you feel the promise of how it will fit. You make a ruined sound you don’t recognize; he smiles into your hair.
“Now we’re speakin’ the same language,” he says. “More.”
You hesitate—reach for decorum—and he punishes the instinct: fingers go still, cock eases back that hateful inch.
“Say, ‘Use me.’”
Your breath catches. “Use me.”
“Say, ‘Use my pussy.’”
You choke on the word; he waits. His free hand slides up, closes around your throat, not tight, just enough to remind your body who it’s answering to.
“Use… my pussy.”
He rewards you by dragging two fingers through you again, slow and purposeful, then tapping your entrance with the barest push—nothing that could be called penetration, just a promise that floods your whole body with heat.
“Say, ‘Make me take it.’”
“Make me take it,” you whisper, broken.
“Louder.”
“Make me take it.”
“Say, ‘Make me open up and take your cock.’”
Mortification flares; your hips betray you, rocking shamelessly back into his hand. He lets you get away with it once, savoring the loss of control, then stills you with a hard grip and waits.
“Make me open up and take your cock,” you force out, voice shaking.
“Good girl,” he says, and this time the reward is filthy: he uses his knuckles to nudge your thighs wider, drags your panties off to the side and leaves them there, stretched and helpless. Two fingers slide back to your entrance and press—slow, deliberate—just the first knuckle inside, and your whole body seizes around it, sucking greedily at the intrusion.
“Jesus,” he breathes, viciously pleased. “Tight little thing, aren’t you?”
He holds there, half-merciful, half-cruel, letting you feel the shape of what you’re asking for without giving you enough to lose yourself. His thumb comes back to your clit—one circle, two—then lifts, making you whine into the wall.
“Next,” he says. “Say, ‘I want your cock to split me open.’”
“I—” You reach for a softer phrase, and he answers by withdrawing that shallow finger a hair, your body clenching on emptiness. A strangled noise claws out of you. “I want your cock to split me open.”
He sinks that knuckle back in, slow enough to make you feel every ridge of his skin, then curls—barely—just enough to trigger a wave that has you jerking against his chest. His mouth drops to your ear, voice rougher now in spite of himself.
“Say you’re gonna take it. Say you’re gonna take all of it.”
“I’m— I’m gonna take it. All of it.”
“Say what’s gonna take it.”
“My pussy’s gonna take it. All of it.”
“Say how deep.”
“As— as deep as it goes.”
“And how are you gonna behave?”
You falter. He stills his hand entirely. The loss is brutal.
“I’ll— behave.”
“Wrong.” His tone is soft and lethal. “You’ll do exactly what you’re told. You’ll keep your hands on the wall. You’ll keep your mouth open and your legs where I put ’em. Say it.”
“I’ll do exactly what I’m told,” you whisper. “Hands on the wall. Mouth open. Legs where you put them.”
He hums, satisfied, and pushes that finger to the second knuckle, slow, decadent. Your breath turns ragged. You can feel his cock throb against your hip now, his self-control fraying at the edges as he works you open with obscene patience.
“Words are gettin’ better,” he says, almost approving. “Keep ’em filthy and you’ll get paid.”
He eases out, slick and careful, then drags the head of his cock along your bared seam through his trousers again—lower, precisely cruel—so you understand the difference in size he’s promising you. Your whole body tightens in instinctive anticipation; he laughs softly, mean and delighted.
“Now,” he says, hand back at your throat, thumb under your jaw to keep you facing the wall, “ask for the last piece like a big girl.”
You’re shaking; pride is a pile of ash at your feet. You gather what’s left of your voice and give him what he’s engineered you to say, every syllable a surrender you can feel from scalp to soles.
“Take your cock out,” you whisper, wrecked. “Push these panties aside and— and fuck my pussy. Against the wall. Deep. All of it.”
He exhales—hungry, ragged, satisfied to the marrow.
“That’s my girl.”
You feel the scrape of his belt. The soft, lethal sound of a zipper. His knuckles bump your thigh as he frees himself, hot and heavy and real against your skin at last. He nudges your feet a fraction wider with his shoe, palms you into the wall by the throat and hip, and lines the blunt, slick head where you’re dripping for him.
He doesn’t drive in. He tests the seal first, pressing the crown to your entrance until your body gives that tiny, involuntary bloom. Heat meets heat; your breath breaks. He rolls his hips just enough for the head to kiss inside—no more than a swollen mouthful—and stops dead. The stretch is obscene. Your muscles clutch him on reflex and he hisses at your ear, pleased and cruel.
“Feel that? That’s just the tip, love. Open up.”
You try to chase him; his grip at your hip locks you to the wall. He withdraws a breath and feeds the head back in, slower, meanly shallow—push, stop, let her feel it, pull, press—until the rhythm alone is a torment. Your nails squeal uselessly against the paint; your forehead fogs a damp circle onto the wallpaper.
“Talk,” he orders, voice rough. “Keep those big girl words goin’.”
“Please—deeper,” you gasp, hips tilting.
“Not a sentence.” He spreads his fingers on your throat—ownership, not choke—and rocks the head in again, dragging the ridge around your rim to make you feel every millimetre. “Say it like you mean it.”
“I want your cock deeper—inside my pussy—please—”
“That’s it.” He spits into his palm, slicks himself, then lines up again and presses. The head pushes past the tightest ring with a slow, relentless shove, and your body flutters around him, raw and greedy. He stops halfway through the head, holding you there on the precipice, savouring the quake in your thighs.
“Christ, you’re tight. Gonna take me slow, yeah? Count with me.”
He nudges an inch—barely—and you feel the weight of him seat a fraction deeper. Your mouth falls open.
“One,” he murmurs against your ear, smug. “Say it.”
“O-one.”
He holds. Makes you feel the shape. The pulse. The drag of a vein while you adjust.
Then another incremental glide, a molten, deliberate give that has your toes curling in your shoes.
“Two.”
“Two—oh—”
“Good girl.” His thumb hooks under your jaw, keeping your mouth open as if he’s collecting every sound. “Where’s it goin’?”
“Inside my pussy,” you pant.
“Whose cock?”
“Yours.”
He rewards you with another careful push—three—until the crown is fully home and your walls are clinging, slick and desperate. He doesn’t move. The stillness is vicious. You can feel him throb, heavy and alive, the promise of the rest of him a thick, aching threat just outside.
“Tell me how you want it.”
“Deeper,” you whisper. “All of it.”
“Slow, then,” he decides, mercilessly kind. “Keep beggin’.”
He withdraws a hair—only a hair—so you feel the lip of his head tug your seam, then eases back in to the same depth. The glide is wet, precise, unbearably controlled. Your body tries to pull him further; he refuses. He repeats it. Tiny strokes. Shallow. Deliberate. Designed to make you sob for length.
“Say, ‘Push it in.’”
“Push it in.”
“Say, ‘Stretch me.’”
“Stretch me—please—”
He feeds you another inch—slow enough to count heartbeats—until you’re snug around the broadest part, the stretch turning from burn to bliss. Your knees go soft; his hand at your throat tightens just to keep you upright.
“That’s four,” he rasps, heat roughening the words. “Look at you takin’ it. Proper little fit.”
Your answer is a broken sound. He smiles against your cheek and draws back the barest bit, then presses forward again—fraction by fraction—until you can feel the weight of him settle lower, nudging that spot that makes your vision fizz.
“Say, ‘Deeper—don’t stop.’”
“Deeper—don’t stop,” you breathe, wrecked.
“’Course you want deeper. You’ll say thank you for every inch.”
He gives you one, slow as a blade sliding home.
“Thank you,” you gasp.
Another—still not all of him, but enough to make you bite the wall.
“Louder.”
“Thank you.”
“Good girl.” His free hand finally abandons your hip, slips under your dress, and shoves your panties higher off to the side, baring you completely. His thumb finds your clit—not fast, not soft—just a steady, claiming pressure while he holds himself inside you at that maddening half-depth. “Now tell me how much is left.”
You try to speak; your voice fails. He presses a little firmer on your clit and you find the words.
“A lot—fuck—there’s a lot.”
He chuckles, mean and pleased. “There is. All that cock waitin’, and you’re already clenchin’ like you’re full. Tragic.”
He retreats a fraction—your body chases—and then slides in again just to the same mark, teaching you the rhythm of his control. Your thighs tremble; your breath goes ragged against the wallpaper.
“Ask for the rest.”
“I want the rest,” you choke.
“Use it.”
“I want the rest of your cock. All of it. Please—push it in—make me take it—”
“That’s it.” He sets his jaw, lines his hips, and feeds you another slow inch, then another—never slamming, never losing the cruel, perfect patience—as you open around him, wet and hot and helpless. “How’s it feel?”
“Big,” you gasp, shame flushing bright. “So big—”
“Say, ‘Too big,’” he goads, grinding the thickest part against that tender inner edge without advancing.
“Too big,” you sob.
“Still gonna take it,” he growls, and slips deeper until the weight of him kisses your cervix with a gentle, warning nudge. Your whole body seizes; he holds you there, thumb steady on your clit, palm steady at your throat, making you breathe through the stretch. “There. That’s the wall. Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, wrecked and honest.
He rewards you with a slow, shallow retreat and a just-as-slow return to the same depth, letting you feel exactly how full you are, how perfectly he fits, how the angle pins you to the paint with every careful inch.
“Keep talkin’,” he says, voice frayed with satisfaction. “Tell me you’re open for it. Tell me you’re takin’ all of me like a good girl.”
“I’m open—fuck—I’m takin’ all of you—good—good girl—”
“Mm. Debatable,” he mutters darkly, amused, and gives you one deeper pulse that knocks the breath out of you. “Prove it. Hold still and breathe. Count five strokes—slow—and thank me for each. Then maybe I’ll give you speed.”
He starts to move—barely—drawing out to the ridge, sliding back to the root in glacial, ruinous passes that make your knees tremble and your voice fall apart.
“One—” you gasp, “thank you.”
“Two,” he prompts, driving that same, precise depth, thumb unerring.
“Two—thank you.”
“Louder.”
“Thank you.”
“Three.”
Your nails scrape the wall; your mouth opens on a helpless sound. “Three—thank you—”
“Four,” he says, harsher now, breath hot at your ear.
“Four—thank you—please—”
“Five,” he snarls, burying to the hilt on the last count, holding you there while your whole body seizes around him.
You crumple against his hand on your throat and the wall in front of you, shaking. He kisses your jaw once—mocking, not sweet—and smiles against your skin.
“Beg for the pace,” he murmurs. “And if you ask pretty, I’ll fuck you like you’ve been dyin’ for since Cairo.”
He doesn’t rush the win he’s already engineered. He keeps you pinned where he wants you—cheek to painted plaster, hands splayed, dress rucked high and panties crooked off your hip like evidence. His palm holds your throat in that firm, exacting cradle that isn’t quite pressure, more like ownership; his other hand rides your hipbone, steering the angle with obscene finesse.
“Ask,” he says again, low and unhurried, the rasp of it fraying your edges. “Nice and clear.”
“Please,” you manage, voice gone husky. “Please—give me the pace.”
“Good manners.” He lines his hips and starts to move.
It isn’t jackhammer. It isn’t mercy. It’s the same cruel precision as before—glide, seat, hold; glide, seat, hold—only deeper now, the full weight of him slotting to the root each time before he stills you on it, making you feel the thickness settle all the way through. Your body takes the strokes like a prayer you never learned and somehow always knew—back of your throat open on the breath, thighs shaking, the soft slap of skin on skin an indecent metronome in the quiet.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, not kind. “Open for it. Take me.”
His thumb finds a lazy rhythm on your clit—no frantic scrubbing, just steady, claiming pressure circling the same warm star over and over until the sensation threads itself through your hips and lower back like heat poured into moulds. You hear yourself make a sound you’d never let anyone else hear; he bares his teeth against your jaw and answers with a grunt that lands low in your spine.
“Count again,” he orders, hips still feeding you those measured, devastating drives. “Five more.”
“One—” you gasp, and he buries to the hilt and holds, the fullness a heavy, perfect ache. “—thank you.”
“Two.”
He withdraws to the ridge, drags back in slower than your sanity can take, and you swear you feel each faint ridge along the underside as it passes your rim. “Two—thank you.”
“Three.”
He breathes a rough laugh into your hair when your knees soften, correcting your stance with a shove of his thigh to yours, opening you that fractional degree he wants. “Three—th… thank you.”
“Four,” he says, voice gone gravelly, losing a sliver of polish to the way you clamp around him.
“Four—thank you—please—” Your palms squeal against the wall as you try to climb away from sensation that is everywhere and singular, the rooted weight of him turning your thoughts viscous.
“Five.” He drives home on the word and you feel the nudge at your deepest edge again, a careful kiss to the barrier, then he rocks off it like he’s teaching your body the borders. “Good girl.”
You’re floating and pinned all at once. The wallpaper under your cheek is faintly textured; you can feel the pattern in your skin every time he fills you, like he’s stamping it there with the shape of himself. Somewhere outside the suite a lift chimes and a bell-trolley whispers over carpet—a reminder that this is a building with oxygen and people and consequences—and he uses that knowledge on you, angles his mouth so you hear the smirk in it.
“Quiet,” he says, perfectly indifferent to whether you can obey. “You don’t want our friends from reception takin’ another interest, do you?”
Your body tries to answer with a noise anyway; his thumb presses down and your breath breaks into steam against the paint instead. He rewards the effort with a new cadence—still deep, still measured, but with a mean little pause right at the point your walls flutter the hardest, like he’s listening to exactly where to sharpen the blade. The aftershocks chase themselves through you without ever cresting; he keeps you on the incline, cruelly exact.
“Say it back,” he murmurs into the hinge of your jaw, heat dampening your skin. “What are you doin’?”
“I’m… taking you,” you pant. “All of you.”
“Where.”
“In my pussy.” Shame lights your face; your hips push back anyway, hungry for that next deliberate slide.
“Good. And how?”
“Exactly how you tell me.”
He hums approval and shifts his stance a hair, left foot braced, right knee nudging between yours to open you a fraction more. The change is surgical; the next stroke hits that tender inner point and stays there a heartbeat before retreating. Your vision fizzles at the edges.
“Jesus, listen to that,” he says softly, and you hear it—your body slick and welcoming, every slow withdrawal a wet, filthy sentence, every return a seal. “Drippin’ for it.”
He lets go of your throat long enough to catch your wrist and slide your palm higher on the wall, stretching you, arch deepening, spine curving into a line he can ride. Then his hand comes back to your neck and he pins you there again—gentle for a beat, then firmer, the hold a collar you can lean into. He tests a slightly longer stroke—still controlled, still not fast—drawing out until you can feel the head tug your entrance, then closing you down on him to the hilt. You arch like he’s pulled a wire through you.
“Talk,” he reminds you, thumb finding the same calm circle that’s been unspooling your pride. “Don’t go dumb yet.”
“I—” Your voice shakes. “I’m open for it. I’m… I’m takin’ you deep.”
“How deep?”
“As deep as you go.”
“And how long?”
“As long as you want.” It comes out too eager, too true.
“There she is,” he breathes, wrecked and pleased. He braces harder, chest welded to your back now, his breath bouncing off the wall and back into your ear with every drive. The smell of him—bergamot, wool, clean sweat—wraps around your head and thickens everything. He doesn’t speed up so much as lengthen, each stroke a slow tide that leaves you emptier then fuller than the last, his thumb never losing that cruel, steady orbit over your clit.
You feel the early pull beginning somewhere low and deep, not sharp—gathering. He modulates—eases the thumb a shade lighter, keeps the thrusts just as deep but blunts the last millimetre so the spark doesn’t catch. It is almost unbearable, the way your body reaches and he redirects, gives you heat instead of flame, pressure instead of burst.
“Please,” you whisper, shame-drunk and panting. You don’t even know what you’re asking for—more, less, ruin, mercy.
“Keep earnin’ it,” he counters, calm poison. “Tell me exactly what you’re feelin’.” He punctuates it with one deliberately mean grind right over your softest place that wrenches your mouth open.
“Full,” you gasp. “Stretched—warm—heavy—” Words fall out of you because he asked for them. “I can feel you everywhere.”
A mortifying sound claws its way out of you. He answers with a satisfied grunt and a palm at your throat that says good; then he does the most obscene thing yet—he stills entirely inside you and just rolls his hips, tiny, tight circles that make the head drag around that inner ring like he’s tracing it. Your knees go to water; his hand keeps you vertical.
“Beg again,” he says, harsher. “Use the words.”
“Please—please—fuck my pussy,” you whisper, wrecked. “Keep me open.”
“Better.” He resumes that slow, devastating cadence, notching the angle higher, painting you in sensation without tipping you over. “Hands stay up. Mouth stays open. You moan too loud, I stop.”
You clamp your teeth on a sound and it becomes breath; he rewards the obedience with a deeper, longer slide, the kind that makes you think in bright nothing. Your focus narrows to the pattern he keeps you in: the purposeful drive, the stillness, the thumb, the wall, the heat of him, the words he’s poured into your mouth. Outside, a housekeeping cart rattles somewhere distant; his laugh ghosts your ear.
“Professional, remember?” he taunts softly, pace still maddeningly exact. “Sell the marriage. Take the cock.”
Your forehead presses harder to the cool paint; your hips obey. He gives you another five-count—this time without telling you to number them—each thrust a wrought-iron stroke that brands, each retreat a promise to come back. Your body learns it and moves with him, helplessly precise.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice fraying into something darker at the edges. “There you go. Now say thank you.”
“Thank you,” you breathe, and he answers with a slower, deeper seat that makes your eyes sting.
“Again.”
“Thank you.”
“Again.”
“Thank you.”
He answers with a sound that’s half approval, half hunger—and then he stops being patient.
The grip at your throat tightens to that perfect, possessive bracket, his other hand cinching your hip as he drives into the rhythm he’d been hoarding: harder now, heavier, the kind of pace that makes the wall tremble faintly and turns your breath into broken satin. Your palms skid an inch up the paint; he drags you back into each stroke like he’s putting you where you belong, every meeting of bodies a blunt, ruinous punctuation. No counting. No lessons. Just his weight, his will, his breath hot to your ear:
“Take it.”
You do. You can’t not. The pleasure hits in thick, rolling bands—no sharp edge yet, just that devouring flood that steals the shape of your thoughts. Your mouth opens on a sound you muffle against plaster; he laughs into your jaw, satisfied and cruel, and snaps his hips again—
—and the suite doorbell chimes.
Not a polite ding. A chime with authority, followed by the soft scrape of a master key cover lifting in the slot.
Both of you freeze, still joined, your heartbeat detonating in your throat.
A calm woman’s voice through the door, low and professional: “Imperial Suite. Evening check. Minibar discrepancy. Bitte öffnen.”
Another voice underneath—male, close, radio hush: “Matthias confirming.”
Your blood turns to ice. Security. The minibar—the whiskey you cracked with your teeth.
You try to twist; he pins you flat, chest to your back, palm sealing your mouth before your breath can betray you. “Shh,” against your temple—quiet, precise, already calculating. He breathes once, twice, and in those two breaths he moves with terrifying efficiency: slides out of you with a clenched jaw and a soft, obscene slick; tugs your panties straight; yanks your dress down; smooths the hem with one ruthless pass while you stagger against the wall on shaking knees.
The lock attempts: a muted clack as a master key meets the deadbolt.
“Mr. and Mrs. Astor?” The woman again. “Kindly confirm you’re in. Then we can return later.”
He grabs your chin, tips your face to him; his pupils are blown, voice already rewired to honey. “Smile,” he breathes, then wipes his thumb across your lower lip where color tells on you. He’s gone in a blur—snaps his belt closed, zips, scoops his jacket from the chair, and strides for the door, shirt still open just enough to read as intimate instead of indecent.
You slap cold water across your cheeks at the bar sink—one swipe, two—pinch your nipples through silk because they won’t calm on their own, and force your mouth into something soft and dazzled.
He flips the deadbolt. Opens three inches on the chain.
“Yes?” Polite, faintly winded. Newlywed.
Klara Hoffmann isn’t alone this time. She stands with a leather folio and that velvet smile; to her right, the silver-haired butler from last night; behind them, a man you haven’t seen—short back-and-sides, hotel pin on his lapel, the kind of posture that says ex-police. Matthias. His eyes don’t look at faces; they sweep thresholds, corners, reflections.
Klara’s smile lifts one unnecessary millimetre. “Apologies for the interruption. Our inventory shows a charge for single-malt from the guest room minibar and…” the smallest beat, “an anomaly on your do-not-disturb indicator. Likely a sensor. We’ll correct it, of course.”
Tangerine lets out a low, rueful laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like a man dragged from bed for the silliest thing. “Ah. That’s on me. Couldn’t sleep. Nightcap in the wrong room.” He glances back at you with such saccharine fondness it aches. “Didn’t want to wake the missus.”
You step into his shoulder, soft as a sigh, fingers hooking his belt absent-mindedly—as if that’s normal. Your eyes shine up at Klara with grateful embarrassment. “He’s hopeless,” you murmur, voice warm, a shade hoarse that reads as recently kissed if you sell it. “Please put it on our main tab, Klara? We’ll settle everything at breakfast.”
Klara’s gaze flicks once to the scuff at your cheek where the wall impressed its texture, then to the half-buttoned shirt. The smile never falters, but something behind it does. “Of course.” She accepts the lie like a flower. Matthias doesn’t. His glance tags the corridor camera, notes the chain, listens to the air of the room. Nothing to seize—no panic, no mess. He files it away anyway.
“Enjoy your evening,” Klara says, and the trio withdraw. The butler’s eyes skim your bare feet and are perfectly blank. The latch closes.
The moment the bolt sets, everything moves.
He’s at the piano bench in three strides, palms under the lid—up comes the velvet pad, out comes the slim graphite go-bag prepped for exactly this: fresh passports, cash, burner, a pen that isn’t a pen. He tosses you a pair of flats from the side drawer (hotel slippers stuffed with molded soles and micro-knife—his idea; you used to laugh).
“Coat,” he says, already shrugging into his. “No heels. Hair up.”
You obey on instinct, adrenaline sluicing your blush clean. The room tilts into the mission again—the only mercy you get. You knot your hair, kick off, slide into flats. He checks the peephole—empty—then doesn’t take the obvious exit. Of course he doesn’t. He crosses to the dining console, lifts the silver cloche—under it, not duck, but a brass key and a black fob. He palms both.
“Service corridor,” he says. “Left of the butler’s pantry. You clocked it.”
“I clocked it.”
He’s two beats ahead anyway. “Good girl.”
You swallow the shiver that line still carries and follow him past the terrace doors to the hidden panel that reads as decorative walnut. The brass key slides; the panel gives with a hush into a corridor of matte paint and silence, a spine of the hotel unseen by guests. You slip into its cool throat and let the door kiss shut behind you.
He kills your momentum with a palm to your sternum. “Wait.” Head tilted, he listens—distant rubber wheels, a mutter in German, a radio click. He moves. You move.
Down one flight, the stair smells like starch and stone. You pass a linen cage stacked with folded towels—his hand snags two, tosses them into your arms. “Prop.” You cradle them like you were always meant to, the picture of staff on an errand. He drapes a room-service apron over his suit like a joke that scans as truth in this light.
At the next landing he pauses again, breath steady, eyes bright. “They clocked something,” he says, finally giving you the ugly mercy of honesty. “Not enough to act. Enough to start a file.”
“Because of last night,” you say, low.
“Because of us.” He doesn’t soften it. “Head down. Smile if we’re seen.”
You hit the service level. A maid rounds the corner—young, earbuds in, humming. She blinks at the two of you with towels and a tray and the calm, brazen competence of people who belong. Tangerine tips her a wink like they’ve worked three shifts together; she blushes, throws a “Schönen Abend” over her shoulder, and is gone.
You reach the fire door that exits into a side gallery off the lobby—one of those quiet, carpeted arteries lined with gilt mirrors that reflect trouble a split-second before it’s upon you. He palms the black fob to the sensor; green. The door clicks. You step into the hush of money and orchids.
Everything looks normal.
It isn’t.
The floral display is different—larger, sparser, the kind of arrangement that hides a lens. A bellboy parks his trolley across the gallery in a way that very gently funnels traffic. Klara is nowhere, but a brunette at her desk has her headset tilted like she’s listening to two channels at once. And above the concierge, a camera that had lazed last night now ticks in visible, precise degrees.
“They’re awake,” you whisper.
“Mm.” He slides his hand to the small of your back, warm and saccharine, and smiles like the happiest husband in Vienna. “Then so are we.”
You lean into him like you’ve always belonged there and promise yourself you’ll hold the expression until your face breaks. Together, you stroll the carpet like you’ve just come down for champagne. Past the mirrors (don’t look), past the concierge (smile, darling), toward the revolving door that spits onto the Ringstraße—
—and the lift dings to your right. A security man in a suit you recognize steps out with another you don’t. Matthias lifts his chin once, greeting no one in particular, and turns his head just enough that you see it: the tiny coiled earpiece tucked behind his ear, clear as a confession.
Tangerine doesn’t even blink. He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles—too slow, too sweet—and murmurs without moving his lips, “Left—gallery to the spa. Service exit behind the eucalyptus.”
You melt at the kiss like sugar in tea and steer left with him, two perfect newlyweds drifting toward massages you’ll never take. Behind your ribs, your heart is a trapped bird—but your smile is a weapon, and the hand at your back is steady, and the air smells like lavender and the beginning of a chase.
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Masterlist for more chapters and more fun
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH, AND DO LEAVE COMMENTS
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 (smutty smut) | 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.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Masterlist for more chapters and more fun
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH, AND DO LEAVE COMMENTS
I literally have no words for the way you right. I’m deaduzz tearing up rn. Please don’t ever stop writing. You have a literal gift #thankyoutangerine #myqueen #numba1fan🥀🚬💔✌️
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
Ahhh this seriously means the absolute world to me 😭💗 Thank you for taking the time to say this—I’m genuinely moved. I promise I’m not stopping any time soon. My hyperfixation got me going crazy lol
You and Tangerine — longtime partners with history, bite, and denial to spare — are forced to pose as newlyweds in a luxury Viennese suite. The mission? Infiltrate a Cold War artifact auction. The real challenge? Surviving each other.
Years of repressed tension simmer beneath forced affection and velvet sheets. A single kiss in an elevator cracked the surface — now every touch, every silence, every calculated glance threatens to break the dam.
You’ve faked a marriage. And playing house starts to look dangerously close to foreplay.
Slow-building tension culminating in explicit smut with emotional stakes
♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: Enemies (kinda) to lovers, emotional power play, unresolved sexual tension, possessive behavior, dominant undertones, silent treatment, psychological teasing, physical restraint (implied), graphic sexual thoughts, and depictions of escalating arousal, eventual smut (because I need to get you going before you get the actual thing, hehehehe)
also includes: freezing weather, five-star opulence, and fake marriage dynamics so convincing even the staff are shipping it. Consequences may include broken composure, ruined self-control, and possibly furniture.
♡ word count: 6.6k (No touching. No relief. Just one very repressed man quietly losing his mind. We’re having a great time.)
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Vienna's winter carries an aristocratic cruelty—beautiful in its precision, elegant in its savagery, a predator draped in gilded frost.
You have underestimated it.
Every breath is a jagged inhale of razored air, carving down your throat like shattered glass. Your fingertips have long since surrendered to numbness, sinking into a dull, metallic burn that pulses beneath the skin, slow and insistent as a dying heartbeat. The wind off the Danube carries a wet, marrow-deep chill, the kind that doesn’t just settle in your bones—it colonizes them, turning your joints to rusted hinges, your blood to slush. Your teeth ache with a low, electric hum, as if your very nerves vibrate against the cold.
And then—him.
Tangerine brushes a few stubborn snowflakes from your coat’s squared shoulders, his touch light, deliberate, infuriatingly casual. You flinch, not from pain—your skin is far past that—but from the obscene contrast of his warmth against the winter’s bite. His breath skims your cheek as he leans in, a fleeting brand of heat in the frozen air, and you hate it. Hate the way your body betrays you, the way your traitorous nerves light up at the contact, as if starved.
You turn your face away, your skin cracked porcelain against the wind’s edge. His care is performance, not compassion—he is savoring the excuse, using the cold and the mission as an alibi to touch you, to press closer, to remind you just how helplessly aware of him you are.
A knife-edged gust slices through the boulevard, cutting straight through the thin satin of your gown, which clings to your legs like a second skin of ice. The cold is invasive, greedy, slipping between every seam, every gap, claiming you piece by piece. You mutter a curse, low and bitten-off, your breath a visible specter in the lamplight.
Damn this mission.
Damn the frost gnawing at your spine like a patient lover.
Damn yourself for ever saying yes.
And damn him most of all—for the way his fingers linger, for the way his heat seeps into you, for the way you can’t stop noticing.
Yet he doesn’t seem bothered by your gloomy demeanor. No, he is savoring every moment of this heist, his smirk deepening as he watches you suffer. The bastard. Your elbow is already angled back, movements tight and practiced, muscles coiled to deliver a quick jab to his ribs—sharp enough to make a point, subtle enough not to draw eyes—
His hand snaps up and catches your wrist mid-motion. He twists you into him before you can react, his right arm locking around your waist like steel cable. The bastard grins wider when he feels your nails—those bright red talons you’d sharpened just for this mission—dig into his wrist. You might as well be clawing stone for all he reacts.
"Careful now, love." His voice licks up your neck like a struck match, the rough velvet of his accent catching on your skin. "Keep pokin' like that and I might start pokin' back."
His breath scalds your left earlobe—a deliberate provocation—before his teeth catch your helix in a bite that sends twin jolts of pain and something darker straight down your spine. Then, maddeningly, his mouth softens. He presses a kiss to the spot—slow, hot, intimate in a way that crosses every professional boundary you'd established. His lips linger just long enough to imprint the heat of him onto your skin, long enough for the gold-braided doormen to exchange knowing glances.
This fucker is toying with you.
The doormen murmur something—German or English, you can’t tell, can’t care—as they sweep the doors open in unison. The world narrows to the war of bodies between you, your hand slipping beneath his jacket like a lover’s caress—until your knuckles jab cruelly into the nerve cluster beneath his ribs. He doesn’t flinch. But you feel the shift in his grip, the minute tightening at your waist.
It’s enough.
The hotel's gilded doors part with a hushed sigh, releasing a gust of overheated air thick with lavender and the faintest undercurrent of cigar smoke. You flinch—just a tremor in your right pinky finger, the only betrayal your training allows—before turning toward Tangerine with a smile so saccharine it makes your molars ache. Your lashes dip, your head tilts back just so, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat in perfect mimicry of besotted surrender. The transformation is instantaneous: your body goes pliant against his, your free hand fluttering to rest over his heart in a gesture both proprietary and worshipful.
One doorman—broad-shouldered with a neatly waxed mustache—nods approvingly while the younger one beside him colors slightly and looks away. They see exactly what they're meant to see: the new husband unable to keep his hands off his blushing bride, her melting into his touch with shameless devotion.
Let them see the flush high on your cheeks and mistake it for arousal rather than fury.
Let them hear the breathy little sigh you let slip as his thumb brushes your hip and think it pleasure rather than the precursor to violence.
His performance is flawless. The lie is perfect. And the worst part? Somewhere beneath the rage and the professionalism, a treacherous part of you thrills at how convincing it feels.
His thumb is still there—a brand against your hip, circling slow, deliberate, smug, the pad of it pressing just hard enough to tease the dip of your waist, the very edge of where you’d drawn the line. Testing you.
You strike without warning.
Your hand snaps down, clamping over his with lethal grace, catching him just as his fingers begin their insolent descent. Your grip tightens, nails carving into the tender flesh between his thumb and forefinger, twisting until you feel the subtle shift of tendons beneath skin. It’s not showy. Not dramatic. But it hurts. You make sure of it.
He doesn’t wince. Doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he grins wider, all teeth and devilish amusement, as the doormen chuckle behind their white-gloved hands, mistaking the entire exchange for bashful newlywed playfulness. One gives you a wink, the other a knowing smirk, their faces alight with the kind of indulgent approval reserved for young love.
They think you’re blushing because he touched you like that. They think your sudden grip is love-drunk possessiveness, a woman flustered by her husband’s bold hands. They don’t see the promise of violence in your locked fingers.
You turn your head slightly toward him, your breath tight, controlled, your voice a blade sheathed in silk.
“If you ever—”
But you don’t get to finish.
His lips cut you off.
It’s soft at first—deceptively so—just the barest brush of warmth, his mouth fitting against yours with practiced ease. Then it deepens, just a fraction, his bottom lip catching on yours in a way that’s too deliberate to be performative. His breath is hot, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips not to invade, but to tease, a fleeting temptation before he pulls back—but not far enough.
Your body betrays you.
A traitorous shiver races down your spine, your pulse stuttering in your throat, your fingers—still locked around his wrist—twitching involuntarily. You hate it. Hate how your skin flushes beneath his touch, hate how your lungs tighten when his thumb strokes once, slow, over the frantic beat of your pulse.
The doormen sigh—whether from weariness or wistful admiration, it’s hard to tell. You catch a murmur from the younger one: "Leidenschaftlich." Passionate.
You want to kill Tangerine.
He knows it, too.
His grin is wicked as he pulls back, his lips still damp from yours, his voice a low, rough murmur meant only for you.
Your body has forgotten the winter entirely—the way Vienna’s cold had slithered through the streets like a thief, stealing warmth from any exposed skin, turning breath to frozen lace in the air. The chill that had bitten through your coat, needled its way into your bones—gone.
Erased.
Because now there’s only him, and the heat he’s left seared into your lips, your skin, the places his hands had been.
“Later, love.”
A promise. A threat. You don’t know which. And that’s the worst part.
You cross the threshold gingerly, buying yourself precious seconds before facing the chic receptionist's scrutiny. Months of preparation flash through your mind—studied blueprints, memorized camera placements, every exit route—but none of it prepared for how he keeps unraveling your control. Your pulse refuses to settle, a trapped hummingbird beneath your ribs, and you can't tell if it's fury or something hotter, more humiliating, that you refuse to name.
The lobby matches exactly what you pored over in surveillance photos—all marble and gilded mirrors, the dome cameras rotating lazily in their mounts. Your eyes instinctively trace escape routes when you catch Tangerine's sharp, tactical gaze scanning the room. Seeing him assess threats lets you exhale just enough to take in the opulence properly—the crystal chandeliers refracting light into dagger points, the too-perfect floral arrangements that probably hide surveillance tech. Every detail confirms your intel, yet nothing could have prepared you for standing here, trying to remember your cover story while his heat still lingers on your skin like a brand.
The air inside is too warm, too perfumed, a cloying blend of lavender, polished wood, a lingering bitterness, all cigar smoke and unsaid things. The marble floor gleams like a frozen lake beneath your boots, pristine and treacherous. Every surface reflects light and movement: gilt-trimmed mirrors stretching up the walls like portals, polished brass railings that catch your distorted reflection, and dark mahogany columns that create pockets of shadow deep enough to hide a man.
Bellboys glide across the floor with choreographed ease, wheeling Louis Vuitton luggage and offering greetings too polished to be sincere. In the distance, a grand piano spills something slow and sentimental into the air—live or recorded, you can't tell—but its softness only makes the tension in your spine stand out sharper. This place is theatre. A palace dressed as a hotel.
And right now, you're one of the actors, hoping your mask holds under scrutiny.
Your survey of the lobby is interrupted by a gentle tug—Tangerine ushers you toward the reception desk like he’s leading you onto a stage. The blonde woman behind it watches your approach with a smile that stops precisely at her lips, never reaching those jade-green eyes that track your every movement like a cash register tallying a bill.
Tangerine releases your waist only to capture your right hand instead, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your knuckles in a pantomime of affection. The gesture would almost feel comforting if you didn't know better—if you couldn't feel the calluses from gun grips beneath his tender stroking.
The receptionist's right eye twitches almost imperceptibly as she performs her appraisal. You see the calculations flickering behind her polished demeanor—the slight squint as she inventories the cut of your coat, the barely-there pause when she notes Tangerine's custom shoes. She's deciding whether you're here for the underground auction, or just another overprivileged couple who'll make the neighboring suites complain about headboard banging against the wall at 2 AM when the champagne really kicks in.
"Welcome to The Lucerne Vienna," the receptionist announces with a melodic Austrian lilt, her voice like warm honey drizzled over polished silver. The delicate brushed-gold nameplate pinned to her immaculate navy blazer reads Klara Hoffmann in elegant Art Nouveau script, the letters catching the chandelier light as she moves. Her French-tipped fingers—manicured to lethal perfection—hover above the keyboard like a concert pianist about to begin a sonata. "First, if I may trouble you for identification?" she requests pleasantly, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners with professional warmth. The amber flecks in her irises glow under the crystal lighting, giving her gaze an unsettling depth.
You start to reach for your concealed wallet, but Tangerine is already molding himself against your back before your fingers twitch—his body fitting behind yours with the precision of a custom-tailored overcoat. The sudden heat of him sears through layers of silk and wool, the crisp English wool of his jacket brushing against your bare arms where your own coat has slipped slightly open. His chest presses flush against your spine, aligning his breathing rhythm with yours in a way that feels intimately invasive.
His right hand slides around your front with calculated casualness—not low enough to be vulgar, but high enough that his palm brands itself against your stomach through the fabric of your dress. His fingers splay deliberately beneath your ribs, each point of contact burning like a brand. To the casual observer, it might look like protective affection. To you, it's a cage of flesh and bone, his grip just shy of painful.
Your body goes rigid before you even realize you’re hesitating.
"Documents, love," he murmurs against your ear, his lips barely moving but his breath scalding the sensitive shell. His thumb presses a slow circle just below your sternum. "You're wound tighter than my favorite sniper rifle. Breathe." The quiet, surreptitious words vibrate through you, a private provocation disguised as concern. "Before you make us both look suspicious."
Your stiletto finds his instep with surgical precision, the sharp heel grinding into polished Oxford leather.
Klara doesn’t notice it.
"Identification?" she repeats, her tone still polished but now laced with the first thread of suspicion. Her hazel eyes flick between you, cataloguing the tension thrumming through your joined bodies.
Tangerine produces the passports from your gown’s right pocket before your hand clears it first—black leather cases embossed with gold foil hitting the veined marble counter with the finality of a royal flush revealed. The forged documents gleam under the chandeliers, every detail meticulously crafted to withstand scrutiny. The embossed crests catch the light at perfect angles, the thickness of the paper stock identical to genuine UK passports.
Klara's red-tipped nail hesitates over the security hologram. A millisecond pause as the light refracts just slightly off-center across the fake emblem. Then—clickclickclick—her nails resume their dance across the keyboard, the sound sharp as gunfire in the hushed lobby. "Our apologies for the formalities," she says smoothly, her Austrian accent rounding the vowels. "With the auction preparations, we've implemented additional security measures."
Her gaze flicks to the screen as it refreshes—then her entire posture transforms.
Her shoulders draw back an exact half-inch, her spine straightening into perfect alignment. The movement makes her gold nameplate tilt, catching the light in a sudden flash that could be mistaken for alarm.
"Ah." The syllable drips with new reverence. "The Imperial Suite." Her smile deepens, revealing teeth so perfectly white they nearly glow against her berry-stained lips. "Our most exclusive accommodation. My sincere apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. and Mrs. Astor."
Somewhere to your left, ice cubes clink in a passing champagne flute. Klara's fingers move with newfound grace as she slides two platinum keycards across the desk, each encased in thick gilded sleeves lined with genuine silk. Along with the documents. "We've taken the liberty of preparing '98 Dom Pérignon in your suite," she purrs, the vintage year rolling off her tongue like a lover's name. "And of course, complementary massages at our spa. Will you be attending tomorrow's auction preview?" The last two words hover between you, weighted with unspoken meaning.
You grab the keycards and the documents, put them in your gown’s pocket.
"Yes," you say, your voice cool as the marble beneath your palms.
"No," Tangerine counters, his voice a low rasp against your ear. His hand drifts upward with calculated leisure, fingertips tracing the dip between your collarbones before sliding lower—pausing just beneath the curve of your breast, his thumb pressing into your sternum with enough pressure to make your breath hitch. "She'll go. I'll be...recovering." His lips brush your temple, lingering just long enough to feel your pulse jump. "Rather strenuous flight."
Klara's gaze drops to his moving hand, then snaps back up, her professionalism strained at the edges. "Of course. The concierge will arrange discreet transportation to the preview venue." She inclines her head, the movement making her gold nameplate wink knowingly. An embossed black card materializes between her fingers like a magic trick. "For anything requiring...particular discretion—" the card taps meaningfully against the desk "—my direct line. Day or night."
The moment you turn away, the antique rotary phone lifts from its cradle with a soft click. Klara's hushed German carries just far enough to be intentional: "Zwei Gäste im Imperial Suite. Sofort alles vorbereiten. Und informieren Sie Matthias." Her voice drops further on the last sentence, but the name hangs in the air like smoke.
A boy materializes beside Klara as if conjured by protocol—young, clean-cut, and so quiet you didn’t hear him approach. His name tag reads Jakob, engraved in matte brass. And he urgently makes his beeline for you.
“Mr. and Mrs. Astor,” he says smoothly. “Please follow me. Your luggage is already waiting in your suite.”
His gaze lingers a second too long on Tangerine’s hand at your waist, but he says nothing. Of course he doesn’t. Discretion is paid for.
You walk—Tangerine’s fingers still pressed lightly into your side, steering you like a possession in transit. It’s patronizing, and it pisses you off. You know where you’re going. His hand doesn’t need to be there, and every step you take with it still there tightens the knot of irritation in your chest.
Your breath’s off, your timing’s off—you’re already fucking this up. And god, you told Lemon. You warned him you couldn’t be this close to this fucker for long without losing it, without snapping, and now look at you—spiraling, choking on your own pulse, and he’s still right there.
Jakob leads you behind a carved divider to a private elevator bay. Twin black-paneled doors gleam like lacquered obsidian. No buttons. No signage. From a velvet pouch, Jakob produces a platinum key and inserts it into a discreet slot beside the door. A golden light pulses around the number 13 – Imperial Floor.
“The elevator is private,” he says. “Direct access. No interruptions.”
The doors open soundlessly. Tangerine mutters something to the boy, your mind too rattled to pay attention to it. Inside, the air smells like power—leather, bergamot, and slow-burning saffron. You step in. The doors seal shut behind you.
And you snap.
Your shoulders stiffen, breath coming shallow and sharp. The heat from him still clings to your back like residue—unshakable, invasive.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” you spit, low and venomous.
But you don’t get a single step away.
He’s already there again.
Tangerine closes the distance in a heartbeat, pressing up behind you until the full length of him aligns with your spine. One arm snakes around your waist from behind, locking you flush against him. His other hand slides up the back of your neck, threading beneath your hair—palm warm, fingers splayed like he owns you.
He doesn’t restrain you.
He anchors you. Threatening.
His lips brush your ear—too soft for how hard his grip feels.
“Camera in the corner, love,” he murmurs, voice rough silk. “You want ’em to think we’re fightin’? Or fuckin’?”
Your pulse stumbles.
His arm tightens at your waist, and his hand—still at your front—slides lower, fingers drifting over the flat of your stomach, rising just enough to graze beneath your breasts through the thin silk of your dress. The touch is slow. Measured. Deliberate.
To the cameras, it reads like adoration.
You freeze.
Not out of fear. Out of fury. Out of restraint so tight it hurts.
“You alright, Mrs. Astor?” he says louder now, just for the recording. “You looked a little wobbly back there. Need me to hold you up?”
His mouth finds your jaw—just the edge—warm lips skimming skin. To any outsider, he looks like a man comforting his overwhelmed wife.
To you, he feels like a goddamn wildfire in a velvet box. You clench your jaw, forcing your voice steady, albeit furtive and barely audible.
“Take your hands off me, or I’ll leave you with fewer fingers than you started with.”
He laughs, deep in his chest, pressed right into your back so you feel it in your spine.
“I’d like to see you try,” he breathes, low and thrilled. “Jesus, I forgot how bloody mean you get when you’re turned on.”
Your head whips toward him, but he catches your chin with two fingers, holding you in place like you’re made of crystal. Breakable, but only if he chooses to drop you.
“I swear to God—” you begin.
But he cuts you off with a kiss. Wet.
Not on the lips. Not again. Not yet…
Just below your ear. Just behind your jaw.
A kiss designed to brand you.
His hand tightens around your waist—his thumb now hooked at the top of your thigh, fingers shamelessly splayed across the curve of your ass through your gown.
“You keep threatenin’ me like that, Mrs. Astor,” he murmurs, “and I might start thinkin’ you want to be handled.”
The elevator slows. A muted chime sounds. His expression grows serious, stripped of the previous mischief, leaving only the cold, sharp edge of a blade pressed to your throat.
“Don’t you dare fuck this up.” The words slice the space between you like piano wire—quiet, taut, and lethal. You barely hear him, but you feel it. The consonants crack like bones under his tongue, all British venom and surgical precision. He doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t need to. The threat lives in how still he’s gone.
Level 13.
You barely manage to pull your face back into something neutral.
But the mirror catches it all.
Your flushed cheeks. His hand on your body. His mouth at your neck.
And worst of all—how much it looks like love.
No, fuck it. Fuck him.
You turn into him with the slow, deliberate grace of a blade being sheathed—every movement calculated, every breath measured. Your hand drifts up his chest, fingertips skating over the fine wool of his suit, tracing the hidden outline of the pistol beneath. For the cameras, it’s a lover’s caress. For him, it’s a warning.
You tilt your chin up, offering the lens the perfect angle of devotion—soft lips parted, lashes lowered.
Tangerine’s jaw tightens, just barely. His smile doesn’t falter, but it goes colder at the edges, thinner. He doesn’t stop you—of course he doesn’t—but his eyes flick down to your hand, then back to your face, sharp with recognition. And something else—interest, maybe. Or calculation.
"Baby," you murmur, voice sweet as poisoned honey, "thank you for always keeping me steady."
Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips brush the shell of his ear. The scent of his cologne—smoke and something darker—fills your lungs as you exhale your next words, too quiet for even the walls to hear:
"If I go down, I’ll carve your name into—"
His hand snaps up, fingers biting into your jaw, cutting you off mid-threat.
Then he kisses you.
Not the performative, honeyed press of newlywed affection. Not the teasing nip of his earlier games.
This is violence.
His mouth crashes against yours with enough force to bruise, his tongue sliding past your lips before you can think to deny him. He doesn’t just steal the rest of your sentence—he devours it, swallowing your breath like it’s his by right.
Your back hits the elevator wall with a muffled thud, his body caging yours, one knee wedged ruthlessly between your thighs. The heat of him sears through silk and wool alike, his grip on your hip tight enough to leave fingerprints.
Somewhere beyond the roar of blood in your ears, a throat clears.
You wrench away, gasping, just as the doors reveal a silver-haired butler standing at attention, his expression impeccably blank.
"Mr. and Mrs. Astor," he intones, "your suite awaits."
Tangerine doesn’t even blink. He swipes his thumb over your bottom lip—slow, proprietary—before tucking your hand into the crook of his arm with a smile so polished it could cut glass.
"After you, love," he murmurs, guiding you forward as if he hadn’t just rewritten the rules of the game between one heartbeat and the next.
The butler’s gaze flicks to your flushed skin, your uneven breath.
He says nothing.
He doesn’t have to.
The corridor isn’t just private—it’s a velvet-lined vault, designed to swallow secrets whole.
Walnut panels, polished to a mirror sheen, drink in the glow of gilded laurel sconces, their flames flickering behind frosted glass like captured stars. The carpet—Nepalese silk, navy shot through with gold—yields beneath your heels like fresh snow, absorbing every sound. Every tell.
The air carries the ghost of a century’s worth of discreet transactions: bergamot from the citrus groves of Calabria, leather from Florentine tanneries, oud so rare it costs more per ounce than blood.
Paintings line the walls—not reproductions, but originals. Vienna in the 1890s, all gaslight and shadow, the brushstrokes so thick you could scrape them off with a knife. There are no numbers, no markers, just a single black walnut door at the end, its handle shaped like a swan’s neck.
Tangerine walks beside you, his grip on your arm deceptively light, his posture the picture of aristocratic ease. As if nothing has happened. As if your pulse isn’t still hammering where his teeth caught your lip.
His thumb brushes your knuckle—once, idle, infuriating.
You don’t look at him.
You can’t.
You know exactly what game he's playing—and so does he. You’d spelled it out. Negotiated it. Drawn lines in blood. And yet.
Here you are.
Because you’d known, hadn’t you? Known he’d find every loophole, every excuse, every inch of give in the rules and take a fucking mile. And the worst part? He’s not even breaking them.
Not technically.
Not in any way that matters to the cameras, to the staff, to the mission. To them, you’re just another wealthy couple—passionate, possessive, maybe a little too intense. Maybe you’d argued in the car. Maybe you’re the kind of lovers who fight just for the thrill of making up.
It’s perfect. It’s infuriating. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.
The butler’s presence lingers behind you, his polished Oxfords whispering over the carpet. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t react. But you feel his attention like a scalpel tracing your spine—professional, precise, utterly detached.
He opens it with a keycard similar to the one the receptionist had given you earlier.
“Your suite,” he says. “If there’s anything you require—call directly. Do not go through the front desk.”
He steps inside just far enough to place two envelopes on the console—one black, one ivory—and gestures toward the chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon resting in a bucket of crystal-clear ice.
“The preview dossier,” he adds, tapping the black envelope, “and a personal message from the coordinator.”
His eyes flick between you for just a second too long.
Then, with a bow and a murmured, “Enjoy your stay, Mr. and Mrs. Astor,” he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Silence.
For one breath.
Two.
Then you whip around, not even caring to appreciate the ostentatious space you’re surrounded with.
“You arrogant, smug little—”
He tsks. The air between you hums with unspent electricity, thick as the scent of rain still clinging to his coat.
He shrugs it off with a careless flick of his wrist, the heavy wool landing across the armchair like a fallen shadow. Beneath it, his three-piece suit is a masterpiece of restrained power—charcoal pinstripes tailored to within an inch of their life, the waistcoat hugging his torso with the precision of a second skin. A platinum pocket watch chain glints against the silk, its face hidden but its weight undeniable.
His Oxfords, polished to a mirror shine, scuff faintly against the parquet as he turns. The light catches the signet ring on his right hand—old money, old family, old secrets—and the slimmer platinum band on his left that means nothing at all.
You take a step forward. Your heels strike the marble with a sharp echo, the sound slicing through the silence like a warning.
Another step. Close enough now to count the melted snowflakes still caught in his dark, perfectly coiffed curls, slicked back with ruthless precision. Close enough to see the way his mustache—trimmed to aristocratic sharpness—quivers with the faintest exhale. Close enough to drown in the ice-blue of his eyes, usually so full of mocking amusement, now stripped bare.
He watches you. No smirk. No quip. Just the slow, measured rise and fall of his chest beneath that impeccable waistcoat.
Your breath hitches.
His gaze drops.
Not to your lips. Not with hunger.
To the single undone button at your collar, the one that’s slipped free without your notice. The one that parts the silk just enough to reveal the hollow of your throat, the flutter of your pulse.
He moves.
Slow. Deliberate.
His hand lifts—long fingers, knuckles dusted with faded scars, the glint of his watch catching the light—and the back of his knuckles graze your collarbone. The touch is featherlight, almost reverent, as if you’re something sacred he’s afraid to shatter.
Then his fingers find the button. He fastens it with painstaking care, the pad of his thumb brushing the hollow beneath your jaw.
"Someone’s got to keep you put together," he murmurs, his voice rough as aged whiskey.
Your hand snaps up, locking around his wrist. Hard enough to bruise.
His eyes meet yours. No apology. No regret.
"You don’t get to do that," you breathe. "You don’t get to act like you care."
Silence stretches between you, taut as a wire.
Then—
"I told you the rules," you continue, your voice a blade wrapped in silk. "No contact without purpose. No kissing. No—" Your throat tightens. "No touching like you mean it."
His jaw flexes. Once.
You tighten your grip. "If you touch me like that again—off-script—I’ll make sure you don’t use that hand for the rest of the mission."
Still, he says nothing.
But his eyes—those damnable blue eyes—burn with something hotter than anger, deeper than amusement.
"You finished?" he asks at last, his voice dangerously soft.
You close the space between you in a single, measured step. He doesn’t back away.
“You kissed me in the elevator,” you say, voice like silk stretched over wire. “Not because of the cameras.”
His eyes stay on yours, steady, unreadable.
“You did it because you wanted to.”
A pause.
Then—his mouth curves. Slow. Infuriating.
“Don’t flatter yourself, love,” he drawls. “It was either that or slap you. Figured this one made for better optics.”
You scowl, but he’s already turning—casually, mockingly, as if your accusation hadn’t lodged itself under his skin like a blade.
“And let’s be honest,” he adds over his shoulder, loosening his cuffs, “you liked it. Bit too much, maybe.”
You stalk after him, heat prickling under your skin. “Don’t spin this like I’m the one who broke protocol.”
He stops at the console, picks up the black envelope, but doesn’t open it.
“You’re the one who moaned.”
You freeze. Did you?
“You’re lying.”
His grin returns—razor-sharp and smug. “Am I? Shame we can’t check the tape.”
Your pulse hammers. Silence crashes down again—hot, electric.
The envelope crinkles in his hand, still unopened.
And between you: the truth, unspoken and unwelcome.
Not because it’s complicated.
But because it’s too fucking simple.
You step forward—slow, deliberate, each movement a calculated provocation, refusing to let him off the hook. The air thickens, coiling like a serpent ready to strike.
"That button you fixed," you murmur, voice a velvet-wrapped razor. "Was that for the cameras too?"
He turns fully now, the smirk still playing at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—are locked onto yours with unsettling intensity.
"What, tremblin’ already?" he sneers, not even bothering to soften the edge. "Didn’t take much in the lift — thought I’d have to carry you out, the way you melted like a bloody amateur."
You’re close enough now to count the faint scar above his brow, close enough to enjoy the scent of his cologne and gunmetal clinging to his skin. You ignore his words.
You hold his gaze, unflinching. "Do it again—just once—and I swear I’ll make sure you never hold anything with that hand again." Your finger lifts—slow, deliberate—as you point to his right hand like marking a target.
His head tilts, a predator considering its prey, but his hands remain still, relaxed, infuriatingly unbothered. Instead, he lifts the envelope between two fingers, dangling it like a challenge.
"You finished puttin’ on your little power trip?" he asks, eyes raking down your body. "Because if you keep twitchin’ like that, I’ll start thinkin’ you like when I take control."
Your jaw tightens. The envelope flutters between you, caught in the sterile draft like it knows what's at stake. You reach for it.
He draws it back—subtle, smug. A little tug just to remind you who’s still playing games.
The paper crinkles under his hold, his knuckles brushing yours not by accident, but by design. His gaze meets yours—steady, unreadable.
“You always reach for things that don’t belong to you?” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Or is that just with me?”
You reach for the envelope again. This time, he doesn’t pull it back. Now you’re both holding it—fingers brushing, knuckles tense. Neither of you lets go. It’s not about the information anymore. It’s about control.
And right now, he’s winning.
“You know your body gives you away, right?” he murmurs, voice silk-wrapped steel.
You don’t move. Don’t blink.
“Still pretending it’s part of the act?” you reply, your voice ice-laced venom.
His smile returns—too sharp, too cold to be called charming. “Course it is, love,” he says, not letting go of the envelope. “That’s why your pulse skips every time I breathe too close.”
Your lips curve—barely.
“That’s not my pulse. That’s your delusion.”
Neither of you lets go.
Neither of you backs down.
The tension shatters—but only because you force it to. You wrench the envelope from his grasp, the motion clean, swift, final.
He lets it go.
But not before his fingers skim yours, the touch lingering just a second too long.
Not before he lets you know—without words, without smirk—that he allowed you to take it.
And somehow, that—the unspoken concession, the quiet arrogance of his surrender—burns hotter than any defiance.
The envelope is in your hands now.
The game isn’t.
You drop your coat like you’re done with it—like you’re done with him. It slides off your shoulders in one slow sweep of cashmere and spite, pooling at your heels with all the drama of a crown falling from a queen’s head.
You don’t look at him. Not once. You just walk past, cold and quiet, and fuck if that isn’t your favorite move.
He knows this game. You pull it every time you feel you’ve lost control. You shut down. Play delicate. Pretend you’re above it all while giving him the silent treatment like some sulky little debutante with a grudge.
It’s your version of a tantrum—quiet, vicious, and calculated. A way to cool your nerves, reassert the upper hand. As if silence makes you untouchable. As if ignoring him strips him of power.
And god help him—it’s working. It always fucking works.
You move through the suite like it’s yours. Like he’s yours. Fingertips grazing the edge of the console—not scanning the room, claiming it. Your nails leave pale half-moons in the lacquer when you open the black envelope, flipping it with the same indifference you probably reserve for pulling a trigger or rolling off a lover you’re bored of.
He watches you. Watches the way your dress shifts as you walk, how your hips move beneath silk that clings like sin. You’re not even trying. Or worse—you are. You fucking are. Every sway of your ass, every flick of your hair, it’s choreography designed to torment.
There’s no real kiss to remember. Nothing to jerk off to in the dark. Just that goddamn elevator—his mouth crashing into yours like it was oxygen and he was drowning. And you let it happen. Didn’t kiss him back, not fully. Just opened your mouth and let him taste you. Let him press you against the wall and think, for one goddamn second, that maybe you needed it just as bad.
And now? Now you won’t even spare him a fucking glance.
You glide toward the bar cart, not to pour a drink, but to touch—just touch—the Baccarat decanter. Your fingers drag along the cut glass like you’re teasing it. Stroking it. Your touch is all wrists and elegance and fucking implication. His dick twitches. It shouldn’t. But it does.
You cross to the chaise and lower yourself like a queen choosing a throne. One knee lifts. Your legs cross. Silk parts. And there it is—that goddamn flash of skin. That hint of the crease where thigh meets heat. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from growling. Because you know. You always know.
He tries to focus. The dossier. The note. The chandelier. The mission.
But his eyes keep dragging back. To your legs. The tilt of your hips. The sliver of lace he thinks—knows—he glimpsed for half a breath. You don’t fix your dress. Don’t tug it down. Don’t care.
Or maybe you do. Maybe you want him right there—on edge, fuming, needy—and unable to do a damn thing about it.
The envelope dangles from your hand like an afterthought as you lean back, one arm tossed over the chaise. Your head tilts, hair slipping down your collarbone like temptation made flesh. Your throat’s bare. Vulnerable. Begging to be bitten.
His hands curl behind his back. Not for control. Not for composure. Just so he doesn’t lunge. Just so he doesn’t cross the fucking room, tear that dress off, and fuck you against the window until you scream his name like you mean it.
Your heel taps against the table. Sharp. Measured. Mocking. A countdown. A beat.
His brain scrambles. Because now he’s remembering what you tasted like. You sitting there like you’re bored out of your mind while he stands five feet away with a pulse like a fucking war drum.
And you know.
Of course you know.
You shift. Just slightly. Legs tilted, dress sliding higher. And it’s not obscene—it’s worse. It’s poised. Controlled. The kind of thing you crawl for.
The heat rolls low in his gut. Not a spark anymore. Not a flicker. Full-on ignition. Not full arousal yet—but close. So fucking close.
His breath stumbles. Just your fingers—those cruel little things—and already he’s unraveling. Picturing them dragging down his stomach. Circling the base of his cock. Flattening against his mouth when he’s got you pinned under him, whispering all the filth you’re dying to hear but too proud to ask for.
No. No, he can’t. He won’t.
He shifts his stance. Sets his jaw. Stares at the wall. The chandelier. The Dom. Anything.
But your heel bounces again. Your lips part. You read like you’re mouthing the words. Eyes half-lidded. Head tilted.
And suddenly every fucking surface in the room is a crime scene in the making.
That chaise? You bent over the edge, silk ripped to your waist, your hands fisting the velvet as he ruins you.
That table? You on it, legs spread, hair wild, panting his name through clenched teeth.
And the window. That massive floor-to-ceiling goddamn window. Your face pressed to it, your breath fogging the glass, your voice wrecked as he makes you say what you really want—louder, filthier, meaner.
But you don’t speak.
Don’t even glance his way.
And that? That’s what cracks him open.
Because you’re punishing him again. Pretending he doesn’t exist.
And he—sad, fucked-up, dying-to-touch-you bastard that he is—is ready to fall to his knees for the privilege.
The game has always been yours—you simply didn’t know you were holding the cards.
Every move, every breath, every calculated glance—you’ve been playing him from the start.
And the most dangerous part?
You don’t even realize you’ve already won.
You’ve been running the game since day one—and you haven’t even clocked it.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Masterlist for more chapters and more fun
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH, AND DO LEAVE COMMENTS
I wanted to hop in and say THANK YOU for the Tangerine content, you are truly feeding our tiny fandom 🙌 I read your two one shots back to back just kicking my feet giggling omg and I'm so excited to dive into your Run Rabbit series!!
✎˖ᝰ✧˖°
Omg STAAWP! This made my whole week — thank you for reading and taking the time to send such a kind message!! I'm so glad the Tangerine content hit, I had way too much fun writing those one-shots (feet-kicking energy is EXACTLY the goal lol).
Run, Rabbit is a bit of a personal experiment — me dipping my toes into action-heavy storytelling — so it may start a little differently, but I promise it’ll grow on you. I really hope you enjoy the ride.
Seriously, your message means the world — thank you again!!
Also if you have any ideas, anything specific you'd like me to write about (sth kinky or not so much), please make sure to ! let me know !
Tangerine (Bullet Train) x Reader / Y/N | Smutty one-shot
You fucked up the mission on purpose.
Not enough to get anyone killed—just enough to get him angry. Because it’s been two months since Tangerine touched you, and you’re done pretending you don’t want it again. You just didn’t expect him to take it so personally.
Now it’s late. You’re alone. And he’s about to remind you exactly what happens to brats who go looking for trouble.
With his hands. With his voice. And with no intention of being gentle.
!NSFW! | Please do not engage if you're a minor
Masterlist
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: a dangerously hot British man in a three-piece suit, rough and mean, brat taming, degradation + praise, fingering (f receiving), orgasm denial, overstimulation, dominance/submission dynamics, filthy mocking dirty talk, power play, slight breathplay (hand on throat), begging, rough handling, clothing destruction, emotional tension, and one very desperate, ruined reader.
♡ word count: 5.2k (yes, I love teasing; yes, I love taking it slow; yes, I love desperation)
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The safehouse was a rotting husk of a place, barely lit, walls stained with time and someone else’s failures. Fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow that flickered every few seconds like it was just as irritated as he was. The smell of old ramen, gunpowder, and sweat clung to the walls like it had settled there decades ago. The single window overlooked an alley filled with rusted pipes and neon reflections in dirty puddles. Outside, Tokyo pulsed. In here, everything was still.
Too still.
Tangerine hadn’t spoken since they got back.
He stood with his back half-turned to you, weight shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, like his body was begging for violence even if his mind was trying to hold it together. His shirt was sticking to his back—blood or sweat, maybe both—and his shoulders were tight beneath the stretched fabric of his brown pinstripe vest. The jacket was gone, tossed across the floor in a moment of silence you hadn’t dared break.
He was all angles and tension. The white collar of his shirt was open, the top buttons undone, exposing the sharp line of his throat and the beginnings of a bruise blooming along his collarbone. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with muscle and littered with small cuts. His knuckles were scraped raw. One hand flexed at his side like he was itching for something to hit.
Or someone.
The tie hung askew around his neck, the fabric dark and fine—black silk, maybe—with a subtle gold pattern you hadn’t seen before. It should have looked ridiculous, the whole put-together, three-piece ensemble crumpled and stained with the aftermath of the night. But it didn’t. It looked like him. Unraveling, yes, but powerful. Dangerous. Beautiful in the most violent kind of way.
He hadn’t looked at you since the safehouse door slammed shut.
And you knew why.
You’d fucked the job. Deliberately. You’d left your post, let the target slip just long enough to force him into the line of fire. Not enough to get him killed—never that—but enough to get his attention.
Because he hadn’t touched you in two months. Hadn’t looked at you like he did that night. The night where hands had been fists in your hair and your back was against a motel mirror while he told you you made him lose control.
And then he spent the next sixty-three days pretending it didn’t happen.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
So you lit a match.
And now he was smoldering across the room, jaw clenched, shoulders squared, eyes fixed somewhere far away like looking at you might make it worse.
You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the table, watching him with the kind of calm that begged to be shattered.
“Go on, then,” you said, voice low, sharp around the edges. “Say what you’re thinking.”
That finally got his eyes.
Blue. Cold, but burning from the inside out. He turned his head, slow like a weapon, and when his gaze hit you it felt like it scraped down to the bone.
“I’m thinkin’ if I open my fuckin’ mouth, I won’t stop.”
You tilted your head, the corner of your mouth lifting, just enough to challenge.
“Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”
His face twitched. Just a flicker at first—barely noticeable. A muscle in his cheek. The flare of his nostrils. But his hand curled into a fist again, and this time he didn’t bother hiding it.
He took one step forward. Then another.
The air thickened with the weight of him. The crackle of a storm you’d summoned on purpose.
“You’re gonna tell me what the fuck that was tonight.” His voice low enough to make your chest tighten.
You blinked slowly, meeting his fury with something steadier. Something reckless.
“Sloppy fieldwork,” you said, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m only human.”
His mouth twitched—something between a laugh and a threat.
“Don’t insult either of us.”
You leaned in slightly, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue near his pupils.
“Sloppy fieldwork,” you said, letting the words hang just a second too long, the barest tilt of a smirk on your lips. “It happens.”
He laughed—short and bitter, no humor in it. The kind of sound that said he was seconds from either snapping or walking out.
“Not to you, it doesn’t.”
You didn’t answer. Just leaned back against the table, palms braced behind you, fingers curled loosely over the edge of the wood. Casual, like you weren’t waiting for him to explode. Like you hadn’t been hoping for it since the second you let that target go.
Tangerine took another step forward. The overhead light caught on his cheekbone, the cut just beneath his eye, the sweat shining on his throat. His eyes narrowed as they swept over you—slow, assessing, like he was looking for something to break.
You didn’t look away. That was part of it. Letting him see that you weren’t afraid. That you wanted him on edge.
“Why’d you pull off your post?” he asked, quieter now. Controlled. Dangerous.
You shrugged, deliberate. Shifted your weight on the table like you were bored of the conversation. But you knew he caught it—how your thighs pressed together for just a second. How your fingers dug in a little too hard.
You couldn’t help it.
Because even as you stared him down, you remembered.
His hands gripping your hips so tight you thought he’d leave bruises under your skin. His voice, rough and low and wrecked, right against your ear—telling you to shut the fuck up, telling you you were taking it so well, telling you he was going to ruin you. The bathroom mirror smeared with fog and sweat, the sink digging into your spine. Your legs shaking. His breath ragged as he came with a snarl and refused to pull out until he’d wrung you dry.
You swallowed. Blinked. Blinked again.
He was still staring. Still waiting. And you weren’t giving him anything.
“You’re gonna tell me,” he said, stepping in close now, voice edged like a blade. “Right now. Why you botched the job. Why you put me in the fuckin’ crosshairs.”
You met his eyes, heat curling tight in your chest. The line between danger and desire was paper thin and fraying fast.
“I already told you,” you said softly. “Sloppy.”
He scoffed, looked away for the first time, like the sight of you was making it harder to breathe.
And maybe it was.
You watched the muscle in his jaw jump as he tried to reel it back in. That same jaw you remembered grinding against your shoulder as he buried himself in you with a force that bordered on punishment. The smell of gun oil and sweat. The taste of him, salt and adrenaline. Your name torn from his throat like it cost him.
“Careless,” he said, quieter now, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re going with?”
You nodded once. The picture of calm.
But your fingers were still gripping the edge of the table.
And your whole body was humming.
He stepped in close enough for his thigh to brush yours, close enough that the warmth of him hit you like a fist in the ribs. His hand dropped to the table beside your hip—knuckles split and still stained with dried blood.
When he leaned in, his breath hit your cheek. His voice dropped to a murmur.
“You trying to piss me off?”
You tilted your chin up just enough to look him square in the eyes.
“Wouldn’t take much.”
For a second, neither of you moved. The air was buzzing, brittle. One word, one shift, and the whole room would ignite.
And beneath your skin, under the sarcasm and bravado, your nerves were already burning. Because whatever happened tonight, you knew it wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be gentle.
It hadn’t been, that night.
And if you got your way—it wouldn’t be now either.
You didn’t move.
Not when he leaned in, not when the edge of his knee bumped yours, not even when the muscles in his forearm tensed just beside your hip—like he was resisting the urge to put his hands on you. Maybe around your throat. Maybe under your shirt. You couldn’t tell which would come first, and god, you wanted both.
He didn’t touch you.
And somehow, that was worse.
You stared back, letting your gaze flick from his eyes to the corner of his mouth, then lower, to the sharp ridge of his throat. His pulse ticked there, hard and fast. And he saw you watching it.
That silence cracked at the edges.
“You think this is funny?” he asked, low, voice fraying around the edges. “You think I’m gonna let this slide?”
You gave him a small smile—just enough to piss him off, just enough to say I dare you.
And beneath it, that memory flared again—sharp and fast like a slap. His hand buried in your hair, yanking your head back as he panted over you, saying things no one else had ever dared. That voice, filthy and raw, hissing how tight you were, how needy, how he knew you liked it rough because your cunt didn’t lie the way your mouth did.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them. A flicker of motion. But he saw it. Of course he did.
His lip curled—not a smirk, something darker. Something more like disgust twisted with heat.
“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head, but he didn’t pull away. “That’s what this is.”
You arched a brow, kept your tone light even though your chest was tight.
“What’s this, exactly?”
He exhaled hard, sharp through his nose. Like he was trying to keep himself tethered.
You didn’t let up.
“You’re mad I fucked up,” you said, quiet, letting your voice go soft enough to pull him in closer. “But you’re not mad because of the job, are you?”
That was the final crack.
His fist slammed down onto the table beside you—not close enough to hurt, but loud enough that your bones flinched.
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t twist this into something else.”
You blinked slowly. Held his gaze.
But your mind twisted anyway.
To the way he’d held you down against the mattress, both wrists pinned with one hand while he’d taken you so deep you’d sobbed into the sheets. To the snarl in his voice when he told you no one else would ever fuck you like he did. No one else would be allowed.
“You pretending that night didn’t happen?” you asked, voice quieter now. Not mocking. Curious. Wary.
He didn’t answer. Just stared. A war behind his eyes.
You pushed.
“You pretending you didn’t like it?”
His hand twitched again—like he was imagining wrapping it around your throat. Or your waist. Or back into your hair, where it had been when you came on his cock so hard you nearly blacked out.
You looked at him, and your voice dipped into something dangerous.
“I’m not.”
That landed. Hard.
He stepped back, just half a pace, like your words hit harder than they should’ve. Like he needed distance to breathe.
You missed the heat of him immediately. Missed the threat. Missed the weight.
And that was the cruelest part of all. You didn’t just want him angry. You wanted him to break. To admit that he hadn’t stopped thinking about that night any more than you had. To touch you like he was still haunted by it.
But Tangerine?
He was a master at pretending. At swallowing down the heat until it festered.
Still, even now—his chest heaving, teeth clenched—he wasn’t moving.
And that was fine.
Because neither were you.
You could wait.
But not forever.
Tangerine stepped farther back, just enough to breathe, like proximity to you was a chokehold all its own. His tongue rolled against the inside of his cheek, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped like it was trying to tear free.
You stayed where you were—legs still slightly spread on the table edge, palms resting behind you, fingers still curled.
Another flick of the match.
He was shaking with the effort not to touch you.
“I should’ve let you eat the bullet back there,” he muttered, more to himself than you, pacing in a tight, agitated line now. “Would’ve solved the fuckin’ problem at its root.”
You cocked your head, slow and lazy. Watched him like he was theatre.
“Big talk for someone who dove in front of it instead.”
He stopped mid-step. Turned.
“Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself.”
You gave him a look. That slight lift of your brow that always meant oh, darling, I already have.
He laughed again—mean this time. Dry and incredulous.
“You’re unbelievable. You know that? You botch the op, nearly get me fuckin’ gutted, then sit there like it’s a performance and you’re waitin’ on applause.”
You shrugged. Let your eyes slide down his frame—those wrinkled suit pants, the strained buttons on his vest, the deep shadow of sweat at his chest.
“Didn’t say anything about applause,” you said, sweet as poison. “But you are putting on quite a show.”
That did it.
He moved before you could blink.
One hand slammed down on the table beside your thigh, the other wrapped hard around the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. His grip wasn’t cruel—but it wasn’t gentle, either. Firm enough to hold. To command. To warn.
His face was inches from yours now. Close enough you could feel the heat rolling off him, could see every thread of fury stitched into the cut of his mouth.
“Is that what this is, then?” he hissed. “You wanted this? Wanted me fuckin’ angry? Wanted a reaction?”
You didn’t flinch. Let him feel your pulse hammering against his palm.
“Maybe I just missed the version of you that actually felt something.”
His breath hitched. He didn’t blink.
“Careful.”
You smiled.
“You weren’t careful that night.”
That was it.
The snap wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a yell or a punch or some dramatic outburst.
It was quieter.
Sharper.
Like a lock giving way.
Then he moved.
Your back barely had time to register the press of his palm before it slammed against the table. You let out a startled grunt, palms catching on the rough edge of the wood, the impact jolting up your spine. One of his knees shoved between your thighs, kicked them apart like he was claiming territory, not asking for space. He crowded into you from behind, hips against your ass, chest heavy against your back.
“You don’t know when to shut the fuck up, do you?” he growled, voice right in your ear, low and hard and seething. His accent clipped, brutal. “Pushin’ and pushin’, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a fuckin’ word.”
His hand found your waist and yanked you back against him, grinding his hips into yours so you could feel the full, heavy length of his cock through your clothes. No teasing. Just a warning.
A promise.
“That what you want, love?” he hissed. “You want me pissed off? Want me to treat you like a fuckin’ brat who needs to be put in her place?”
You made a sound—half gasp, half yes—but that wasn’t good enough.
His fingers tangled in your hair, yanked your head back until you were arched over the table, neck bared.
“I said,” he growled into the shell of your ear, “is that what you fuckin’ want?”
“Yes,” you gasped.
He chuckled, dark and sharp.
“Course it is. Dirty little thing like you—actin’ up on purpose, flashin’ your attitude around like I won’t take you apart for it.”
His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing yet, just there, firm and steady. Controlling. Holding you still as he ground into you again, the pressure of his cock making you squirm. He hissed through his teeth.
“Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you were actin’ out. Could see it the second you pulled off your post. You don’t want discipline, love. You want to be ruined.”
He pushed forward again, his grip tightening slightly, just enough to make your pulse throb under his fingers.
“You want to be reminded what it feels like to be nothin’ but a hole for me to fuck.”
Your breath stuttered.
He smiled against your neck, mean and satisfied.
“That’s it. Go quiet now, yeah? Finally understand the fuckin’ gravity of what you’ve done?”
His voice rasped against your ear like gravel and heat, the scent of sweat and cologne rising off his chest where it pressed to your back. One hand still braced against your thigh, holding you open, and the other curled under your shirt—rough fingers palming up over your stomach, your ribs, until his hand was full over your breast.
“Gravity of what you’ve done,” he muttered again, almost to himself now, like he was trying to tether his own restraint by repeating it aloud. “Can’t fuckin’ believe you—”
You made the mistake of laughing. Just once. Sharp, breathless, defiant.
“Bet you say that to all the girls who nearly get you killed.”
His hand on your breast squeezed—firm, punishing. You gasped, and he leaned in, biting the corner of your jaw just enough to sting.
Then he stepped back, just barely, and in one sudden move ripped your shirt clean down the middle—buttons pinged off across the floor like gunshots.
“Hey,” you managed, grinning despite yourself, “this your version of foreplay? You planning to leave me naked and unemployed?”
He looked down at you—disheveled, mouth flushed—and there was no mercy in his expression. Just disgusted arousal, and fury held at the edges of his clenched jaw. His lip curled under that sharp moustache, brows drawn low and tight. His chest rose hard with every breath, the veins in his forearms standing out like he was fighting himself not to ruin you entirely.
He reached between your thighs again—but this time, not to touch.
To strip.
His hands gripped the waistband of your jeans, and without a word he yanked—hard. The fabric caught at your hips for a second before giving way, seams protesting as he shoved them down your thighs. You could barely catch your breath before your panties followed, dragged down with the same rough urgency, cool air rushing over soaked skin.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered under his breath, and the words weren’t even meant for you. More like a slip of truth he hadn’t meant to let out. His jaw clenched hard as he tossed the bunched fabric somewhere to the floor behind him, like it offended him just by being in the way.
You were bare now—legs spread on the table, breasts heaving from your ruined shirt, hair tangled, lips parted.
He looked at you like he wanted to break something.
Then he spit.
Right into his hand. No hesitation. Just raw, wet, unceremonious.
“Cheeky little fuckin’ brat,” he growled. “I’ll give you somethin’ to laugh about.”
Two fingers—slick and thick—shoved into you in one cruel, punishing thrust. Your legs jolted, and your cry was strangled into a half-formed word. He didn’t ease up. He fucked you with them, hard and fast, like he was trying to make you regret every word that had come out of your mouth.
His other hand kept your breast pinned under his palm, his thumb brushing over your nipple in hard, tight circles—just enough to make your back arch.
And still he watched you. Jaw tight. Moustache twitching slightly as his mouth parted with a hissed breath.
“You feel that?” he said, voice low and vicious. “That’s me bein’ nice.”
You whimpered.
He smirked. The cruel kind.
“And I’m not fuckin’ known for bein’ nice.”
He curled his fingers inside you, hit something sharp and mean, and you cried out again—louder this time. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then your throat, then lower.
He leaned in, kissed your neck—open mouth, teeth grazing skin. Then down—lips trailing to your shoulder, the slope of your breast where your shirt hung off in tatters.
“You go quiet now,” he murmured against your skin, voice like thunder low to the ground. “Or I’ll make it worse.”
But his fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they went harder.
You tried to hold still. Tried not to give him the satisfaction.
But it was useless.
You were dripping around him, and he knew it, your thighs trembling where he held them open, your breath caught somewhere between a whimper and a sob.
And he could feel it. The way your body clenched, fluttered, desperately close to the edge. It only made him meaner.
“Look at you,” he muttered, lips dragging across the curve of your shoulder, his voice like a blade against your skin. “Legs spread, tits out, cunt so wet I could drown in it—and still you act like you’ve got control.”
His thumb slid up—slick from your arousal—and found your clit without mercy. Not teasing. Not soft. Just pressure. Hard and steady and cruel.
You choked on a moan, spine arching against his hand, trying to pull back from the overstimulation, but his other hand was already at your waist, pinning you to the table like you were nothing but a body to be used.
“You gonna come already?” he asked, mocking, a sneer in the back of his throat. “That easy for you? Thought you were tougher than that.”
His fingers curled inside you again—deep, punishing—and he growled when you gasped his name like it might save you.
“Oh no, love,” he murmured, breath hot against your ear. “You don’t get to come just 'cause you sound sweet beggin’ for it.”
You were so close—your muscles locking, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in desperate stutters—and he knew. Of course he did.
So he stopped.
Pulled his fingers out like he was disgusted with the feel of you. Your body jolted, air punched from your lungs in a stunned sob of denial.
You turned your head, dazed, mouth open, ready to plead without shame.
But he was already looking at you. Smug. Dangerous. His fingers, slick and glistening, flexed in the air between you like he was toying with the idea of giving them back.
Then he reached out and grabbed your chin, hard, forcing you to face him.
“Yeah, there it is,” he said softly, a cruel kind of satisfaction in his tone. “That’s the look. All wide-eyed and ruined, like you’ve only just realised you’re not the one in charge.”
His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, pressing into your mouth until you opened for him instinctively.
“Good girl,” he muttered, then pulled his hand away just as quick.
You whimpered again—helpless, ruined, empty.
He leaned in, voice low and tight in your ear.
“You wanna come?” he asked.
You nodded.
He bit down on your earlobe—just hard enough to make you flinch—and said, “Then fuckin’ earn it.”
He didn’t give you time to breathe.
One second, you were laid out and gasping, and the next—he grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over with a grunt, manhandling your body like it didn’t matter how it landed, just that it was his to move.
Your chest hit the table, cheek pressed against the cold surface, your ruined shirt hanging off your arms. Your ass bare, thighs still trembling. He kicked your legs farther apart with his foot, planting one firm hand between your shoulder blades and pressing down until your back arched deep and low, your body exposed and helpless for him.
“Fuckin’ look at you,” he muttered behind you, breath ragged, voice full of venomous praise. “This body—drives me bloody mad. All curves and heat and attitude. Always walkin’ around like you don’t know exactly what you do to me.”
His free hand found your ass—gripping it, spreading you wide, his fingers hot on your skin.
Then, just as your breath stuttered, he reached around and shoved those same fingers—slick from your cunt—right up to your lips.
You tried to turn your head, but he caught your jaw with his thumb, guiding you, forcing you to face him as he leaned in over your shoulder, lips brushing your ear.
“Suck.”
It wasn’t a request.
You hesitated—just for a second.
He laughed.
“Come on, love. Don’t get shy now. You were so loud a minute ago.”
You opened your mouth. He slid both fingers in, deep past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. You tasted yourself instantly—hot, slick, filthy—and your eyes fluttered as he held them there.
He groaned, rough and low.
“There you go. Tasting your own fuckin’ mess. You make such a state of yourself for me, don’t you?”
You whimpered around his fingers.
He leaned in, lips at your ear again.
“Makes sense. That’s all this mouth is good for—bein’ stuffed full or shut the fuck up.”
Then, without warning, he pulled them out—wet with spit and your slick—and shoved them straight back inside you.
You cried out, body jolting as he fucked his fingers deep, hard, and perfect, angling just right to hit that one unbearable spot inside you. Over and over. Fast. Precise. Cruel.
His other hand wrapped around your throat from behind—fingers strong, holding you down against the table, not squeezing but anchoring you in place.
“Don’t you dare come,” he hissed, thrusting his fingers in again. “You even think about it, and I’ll stop right fuckin’ there.”
You were shaking—helpless, dripping, your body a live wire under his control.
And he wasn’t touching your clit. Not once. Just that steady, brutal pace, fingers curling perfectly inside you, dragging along that spot like he was studying your body, not letting you have what you wanted.
“Oh, you want more, don’t you?” he mocked, voice low, breath hot at your neck. “Grindin’ down like you’re fuckin’ desperate. Like I didn’t tell you to behave.”
His fingers slammed into you again—harder now, fast and deep—but still controlled. Still measured. Still maddeningly just shy of what your body was begging for. His palm remained locked around your throat, keeping your chest pinned to the table, your breath shallow, your back arched like a perfect offering.
You were stretched out across the table, bare and trembling, every muscle burning with tension. His palm stayed firm around your throat, anchoring you down, forcing your chest into the cool wood as your back arched involuntarily—offering yourself like some desperate little thing. Your breath was ragged, catching in tiny gasps as his fingers drove into you, punishing, unrelenting.
And then you broke.
It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t a choice.
It spilled out of your mouth like a sob.
“Please—fuck, please—I need to come, I need you to—please, fuck me—”
He let out a low, incredulous laugh. Not amused. Just vicious.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he said, tone sharp and dripping with smug satisfaction. “There she is.”
You whimpered, legs shaking, face pressed to the table, humiliation burning hot beneath your skin. You didn’t care. You needed it.
“You talk such big fuckin’ game, don’t you?” he murmured, leaning close, voice rough against your ear. “And now look at you—soaked, spread, and sobbin’ for it.”
Then his hand lifted from your throat.
Not slow. Not gentle.
It left you cold for a beat—exposed, air rushing in. But before you could even process it, his hand found your clit, finally, and pressed down with filthy precision. His fingers inside you never slowed, never lost rhythm. But now his other hand worked tight, devastating circles over that bundle of nerves, dragging you toward the edge with terrifying efficiency.
“You want to come?” he asked, lips grazing your jaw. “You want to come like a good little mess?”
“Yes—yes—please—”
“Then fucking apologise.”
You blinked. Shuddered.
“I—” Your voice caught, breath shaking. “I’m sorry.”
He rewarded you with a slow, deep curl of his fingers that made your hips jerk violently.
“Again,” he snapped.
“I’m sorry—fuck, I’m sorry I—”
He stopped. Both hands. Just... stopped.
The emptiness hit like a slap.
You whined—desperate, broken—hips twitching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
“No stutterin’,” he said coldly. “Say it properly or you get nothing.”
You sucked in a breath, forcing your voice out steady through the trembling of your entire body.
“I’m sorry I acted like a brat. I’m sorry I ruined the job. I just wanted—wanted you to fuck me again. Please.”
He groaned low, dark and pleased.
“There’s my good little mess.”
And then he gave it back.
Fingers deep again, thrusting hard, relentless. His thumb circled your clit with practiced cruelty, and your body sang with it—hips grinding into the pressure, legs twitching uncontrollably as he built you up again.
“Say it while you come,” he growled, voice thick with power. “Apologise while you fall apart for me.”
But he didn’t rush you there.
No, he took his time.
His fingers worked inside you in relentless, aching rhythm—deep and punishing, stroking that perfect spot again and again while his thumb dragged slow, filthy circles over your clit. You were shaking, twitching under his hands like your body had stopped belonging to you, like it only answered to him now.
“Yeah,” he murmured, lips dragging along your spine, breath hot and thick against your skin. “That’s it. Good girl. Feel it. Every fuckin’ second of it.”
He leaned in, kissed your shoulder—open mouth, tongue hot and heavy on your skin. Then lower. The blade of your shoulder blade, the dip of your back. His moustache scratched over your skin, and the heat of his breath raised goosebumps in the wake of every kiss.
“Made such a fuckin’ mess of yourself for me,” he muttered, dragging his mouth up to your ear again. “All that mouth, all that fight, and now look at you. So fuckin’ wet I could hear you beggin’ before you said a word.”
Your breath broke on a sob. The pressure was unbearable now—pleasure wound so tight it felt like pain. His fingers never stopped. His thumb worked faster, harder, and you could feel it coming—rising slow, sharp, like a wave with nowhere to crash but through you.
“Go on,” he growled, voice hot against your ear, fingers fucking into you like he owned every inch. “Come all over my fuckin’ fingers, you needy little mess. Show me what that bratty cunt was beggin’ for.”
And you did.
The orgasm took you like a blow—violent and all-consuming, your muscles locking, your back arching hard against his chest as the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, his mouth, his voice.
“I’m—fuck—I’m sorry,” you gasped, broken and raw, the words tumbling from your lips again and again. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—Tangerine, please—”
He didn’t stop. Not for a second.
You came hard, sobbing through it, body convulsing in his grip, and he watched you. Felt every tremor with his hands, every flutter of your cunt around his fingers, and just held you there—working you through it like you were something to be played.
And as you slumped, twitching and spent against the table, he leaned in close. Pressed his lips just beneath your ear, voice low and thick and utterly filthy.
“That’s my girl. Wrecked and sorry for me. You’ll remember this every time you get mouthy again, won’t you?”
He kissed your temple—surprisingly soft.
But then he laughed, low and dark.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not fuckin’ finished with you yet.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH.
PLEASE DO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK AND IF YOU LIKE IT, IT KEEPS ME GOING.
Nina Virelli was raised to follow rules — especially her father's. When danger whispered, she was meant to lie low, wait, obey. But she ran. Always, and eventually for good.Now, far from safe, blood on her hands and fire at her back, Nina is being hunted for reasons no one will explain.
But the shadows chasing her aren’t the only ones with secrets.He finds her in the wreckage: sharp-suited, sharp-tongued, and entirely unwelcome. Tangerine. A British bodyguard-slash-assassin with a violent reputation and eyes that see straight through her bravado. He doesn’t answer questions. He doesn’t ask permission. And he's not letting her out of his sight.Thrown together by a threat neither of them fully understands, Nina and Tangerine navigate a world of coded warnings, burning lies, and dangerous chemistry.
She wants answers. He wants her alive. But as the lines blur between protection and possession, staying ahead of the kill order might not be the hardest part.She was supposed to stay put. She ran. Now he’s the only thing standing between her and the next bullet — and maybe, the only one who sees the girl beneath the name Rabbit.
TW: blood, profanity, injuries, a very hot British man, not really proofread
Chapter 4
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Masterlist
“Time to move. Now.” That girl yelps at Nina, pervading every corner of her mind, eradicating every bit of fear that was stashed there.
The fear gets overwritten.
By instinct.
By the animal need to live.
Nina lunges for the window, knees slamming into the narrow ledge beneath it. Her fingers scramble for purchase on the flaking sill. The switchblade slips from her grip and clatters to the floor — useless now.
The window’s tighter than she thought. Her shoulder barks in protest as she twists sideways, socks skidding on the dusty wood, legs half-folded, half-jammed. Panic crowds her throat, but she pushes — not gracefully, not quietly — just enough to wedge one elbow through.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
It’s flat. Not surprised. Not impressed. Like she’d just tried to rob a corner shop with a hairbrush.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t have to.
One boot crunches over shattered bits of plaster. The other nudges the collapsed desk aside as he closes the distance, gaze fixed on the scene in front of him: a t-shirted girl halfway jammed through a piss-yellow window, socks scrabbling, elbow wedged, dignity long gone.
“Halfway to freedom with your arse in the wind. That the plan?” His voice drips with disbelief. “Christ, you’re gonna pop your shoulder and still be here when they torch the building.”
She pushes harder. The window frame creaks. He steps closer.
“Stop. Moving.”
It’s not barked. Just low and cold, like a threat that doesn’t need spelling out.
One hand clamps the back of her t-shirt. The other grips hard at her hip, fingers digging in for leverage as he hauls her back through the frame in one swift, practiced motion. Her legs — bare, scraped, socked — drag awkwardly against the sill before giving way. She spills to the floor at his feet, a heap of limbs and failed escape, breath knocked out of her.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” Nina hisses, voice low and ragged, bluffing like hell that he won’t call it. Maybe he needs her alive. Maybe he won’t—
She finally looks up.
And sees him.
He’s tall. Built like the kind of man who never runs, because people move for him. His suit is pitch-black — tailored brutality, wrapped in thread. The three-piece ensemble fits like sin: the waistcoat tight enough to mute a heartbeat, buttons gleaming like stray bullets. The jacket’s cut is severe, angular at the shoulders, every line screaming precision.
His tie is still on — barely — a deep, navy silk, tugged loose like he’d meant to relax but changed his mind halfway through a murder. The collar of his shirt is open, crisp white now shadowed with grime and heat, and the faintest edge of a scar peeks out just above the collarbone. The coat slung over his shoulder is drenched — rain or blood, unclear — but the steel-toe Oxfords still gleam like he polished them after killing someone.
His face is clean — too clean. No beard, just that sharp, immaculate moustache. But it’s the eyes that hit hardest — cold, clinical, like he’s already assessed exit points, her vitals, and the fact she’s still barefoot in a pair of damn socks and boxers, shaking like a leaf.
He stares down at her, one brow ticking up.
“Touched you already, sweetheart,” he says, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. “Didn’t see you complainin’ ‘til you hit the floor.”
Nina dips down fast, her socked foot slipping slightly on the warped floorboards, but she recovers — grabs the switchblade, flips it open with a shaky flick, and raises it toward him.
“Who are you?” she demands, voice tight but steadier than before. She’s not as scared now. Not exactly. He hasn’t hit her. Hasn’t lunged. Just stood there, letting her unravel while making snide comments like he owned the room.
He shrugs the coat back over his shoulders in one fluid motion, like it’s a reflex. Then lifts his hands with a mockery of surrender, eyes flicking to the blade in her grip.
“Oh, brilliant,” he scoffs. “Plannin’ to butter me to death, were you?”
He grins, eyes skating over her stance. “That grip’s adorable, by the way. You hold it like a posh girl holdin’ a fish knife.”
But he doesn’t move closer.
Doesn’t try to disarm her.
He just lets her keep it — because it doesn’t matter.
She wants to lunge. Wants to drive the blade forward and watch him finally react — flinch, bleed, something.
But the way he stands there, utterly unmoved, deliberate… it cuts deeper than any threat. The girl she used to be would’ve fought.
The girl she is? She just wants it to stop.
And that split between instinct and exhaustion leaves her trembling — not from fear, but from the sudden understanding that she might not win this. Not like this.
Nina’s fingers twitch.
Her brain races, calculating — not because she trusts him, but because she doesn’t. He’s too composed, too sure of himself. That ease in his voice? That wasn’t kindness. That was someone used to being the one who walks away.
So she makes a choice.
She throws the switchblade. Not to hit — but to make him flinch.
He doesn’t.
But that split-second distraction is all she needs. She pivots hard on one heel and lunges for the window again, her shoulder shrieking, thigh pulsing, ribs clawing for every breath. She knows how it works now, understands the angle, the trick of the latch. She’s halfway through — one arm out, torso scraping through—
And then—
Snap.A hand wraps around her ankle like a vice.
She yelps — too late.
He yanks. Hard.
She’s dragged back so fast her hips slam the sill, knocking the air from her lungs. She lands flat on the splintered floor, her skull thudding against the boards, body folded, eyes wide with disbelief.
Before she can crawl away, his hand finds her ankle — not yanking this time, just locking her in place. Like he’s done being gentle with the scared animal routine.
She squirms, but he climbs over her with controlled weight — not crushing her, just enough to pin her there. One knee beside her hip, one palm flat on the floor to cage her in.
His other hand wraps around her wrist — firm, unshakable.
“No more of that shit.” His voice is low. Measured. Dangerous.
She tries to twist, but it’s useless — his grip doesn’t budge. His presence alone makes her freeze.
“You run again, and I will put you over my shoulder like a sack of flour and walk us both through gunfire, understood?”
Her breath is shallow, eyes wide, heart stuttering against her ribs. Then, just like that, he lets go — not flinging her, just releasing. Standing tall again, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat.
“Now. Get your shit together.”
Nina pushes herself up onto her elbows, wincing as her hand grazes the spot on her head where she’d hit it. The ache throbs, dull and stubborn. She stays low, spine taut, not trusting him enough to stand. Not yet.
Her voice cuts through the silence, sharper this time — frustration layered over fear.
“Who are you?” It’s not a plea. It’s a demand. His snubbing her earlier didn’t go unnoticed.
He lets out a slow, incredulous breath, like her question personally offended him.
“Are you takin’ the piss?”
He runs a hand down his face — not out of exhaustion, but restraint. Like he’s genuinely debating whether she’s stupid or just a piece in the wrong game.
“You nearly carved me like a Sunday roast, dove through a bloody window like a cat with rabies — and now you wanna get civil?”
His laugh is dry. Mean. No teeth, just edge. Nina remains frozen where she is, eyes locked on him, unsure what exactly she’s meant to feel — did she miss some signal, some detail that should’ve told her who he was?
“Jesus. You weren’t briefed on anything, were you?”
He takes a step closer, and Nina tenses, but he doesn’t reach for her. Just looks at her differently now — not like a nuisance, but like a problem dumped in his lap with no warning.
“Fuckin’ typical. They throw me the keys, tell me to collect the girl, and forget to mention she’s got no clue who I am.”
Another beat, then finally:
“Tangerine.”
His voice is clipped, sharp as a snap. She glances to the left, searching her mind for the reason that name nags at her — because it does mean something. And then it clicks. The tangerine. Nestled in the duffel bag like a signature. A sign.
Nina groans, dragging a palm down her face. Of course. Tangerine. The tangerine that she had found in the duffel bag was a mere hint.
She rolls her eyes and shifts, trying to sit up properly, but her body protests — stiff, battered, the aftermath of her failed escape still pulsing through her ribs and thigh. Every movement is a slow negotiation between pain and momentum.
He pauses, eyes flicking down to the bruises on her leg, the cuts on her shoulder, her clenched jaw. The man gives a slow, deliberate nod. Not exactly kind, not mocking either — just... satisfied.
Right. Not bloody hopeless, then. Just rattled. Or thick with a concussion.
His fingers adjust the cuff of his shirt, movements smooth, practiced. He watches her drag herself upright, still wincing, still confused — but finally putting things together.
Good. The gears are turning. Not a crisis, then. Just a complication. A manageable one.
His stance loosens slightly, the weight of his coat settling around his frame like a shadow reluctantly retreating. He’s still poised, still coiled with that lethal readiness—but no longer on the razor’s edge of grabbing her again. For now.
“You’re lucky I’m the one who kicked that door in.”
A beat. The words hang between them, heavy with unspoken violence.
“Anyone else, love? You wouldn’t be sittin’ up askin’ names.”
Tangerine’s gaze sweeps the room again — the toppled desk, the paperbacks strewn like fallen bricks, the black jacket and those leggings tossed across the sunken mattress. Not shoved into the bag like everything else, no — left out deliberately, just an hour ago. A choice made in haste or foresight, Nina placing them there in case she needed to run, to move, to dress in seconds. The bed itself sags under the weight of it all, one exhale away from collapse.
Then his eyes return to her — the tangled mess of her hair, the mottled bruises blooming across pale skin, the stubborn set of her jaw even as her chest rises in fractured, uneven breaths.
He exhales—short, sharp— like a man forcing patience into a bullet casing. Then, in one fluid motion, he steps back and unfastens the tie from around his neck, the silk whispering through his fingers.
“You keep throwin’ yourself out windows and swingin’ knives at me, and I’m gonna have to start treatin’ you like the problem you’re actin’ like.”
Nina barely has time to tense before the tie loops around her wrists. She jerks instinctively, but his grip is firm, his movements efficient—not cruel, just ruthlessly practiced. The silk tightens, binding her hands in front of her with a knot that’s too clean, too precise, like everything else about him.
“What the f—”
He cuts her off with a look that isn’t anger. It’s something worse—disappointment edged with weary irritation, like she’s a chore he’s already tired of.
“Temporary measure, sweetheart.” His thumb brushes over the knot once, testing, before he releases her. “Consider it a safety precaution. Yours and mine.”
She tugs at the tie, but it doesn’t give. The silk bites into her skin, smooth and unrelenting.
“You’re tying me up with a tie,” she spits, voice thick with disbelief.
He shrugs, already turning away to snatch her duffel bag from the corner. “Well. I don’t travel with rope.”
Then, as if struck by the absurdity of it all, he glances back—a smirk flickering at the edge of his mouth, cold and humorless.
“And frankly, you’re not worth the duct tape.”
The bag sails toward the door with a thud, his coat flaring behind him like a warning flag.
“On your feet.” The command leaves no room for argument. “We’re leavin’. You’ve made enough of a bloody impression.”
Nina hesitates, her pulse hammering in her throat. But the look he levels at her isn’t a threat—it’s a promise. Move, or I’ll move you.
The silk around her wrists feels like a leash.
And he’s holding the other end.
Yet Tangerine’s halfway to the door when Nina calls after him, tone flat and furious:
“Are we seriously leaving like this?”
He doesn’t turn around. “Like what, exactly?”
“I’m not wearing pants.”
That stops him. He glances back over his shoulder, his gaze dragging down the length of her—the sharp jut of her knees, the lean muscle of her thighs, the way that jetblack T-shirt barely skims the hem of her boxers. A flicker of something unreadable passes through his expression before it shutters again.
A pause.
“Well,” he says slowly, “you’ve got socks. That’s halfway there.”
She glares. “My leggings are right there. On the bed. And I can’t exactly put them on, seeing as some asshole decided silk restraints were the move.”
Now he turns. Fully.
“Let me get this straight. You tried to stab me, dove through a window twice, and now you want me to pants you?”
Nina lifts her bound hands, deadpan. “Unless you want me walking into the night like a hostage at a pyjama party, yes.”
Tangerine exhales through his nose. Paces once. Then — with exaggerated care — he walks over, snatches the black leggings off the bed with two fingers like they’re radioactive, and drops to one knee in front of her.
“Leg up, princess.”
Nina’s jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope.” He taps her ankle. “Come on, let’s not pretend we’re above this now.”
She reluctantly lifts one leg, and he slides the leggings over it — not gently, not cruelly either. Just brisk, efficient, like he’s changing a tire under gunfire. When he gets to the bad thigh, he pauses, glances up.
“This one’s a mess.”
“No shit.”
He adjusts the fabric, careful not to press too hard. Then the other leg. He gets them both on, yanks the waistband into place with a sharp snap.
“Dignity: restored. You’re welcome.”
She just stares at him. “You’re really enjoying this.”
He shrugs, already heading back to the door. “Bit, yeah.”
She shuffles after him, wrists still bound, leggings on, pride hanging by a thread.
“I’m getting out of these, just so you know.”
Tangerine glances back, smirking. “That right? Better hurry up then, sweetheart—might trip over all that confidence.”
He throws the door open. “Let’s go.”
Nina doesn’t move. The silk tie bites into her wrists as she shifts, the friction raw against her skin. “You can’t seriously expect me to follow you like this.”
He turns—slow, deliberate, like a blade settling back into its sheath—and his gaze drags down to her bound hands like she’s a particularly daft labrador who’s pissed on the carpet. “Your name’s already been whispered down four bloody corridors and bought twice at market rate.” His voice is all gravel and cigarette ash. “That means some proper nasty fucker’s paid—twice—to see you stop breathing. We leave. Now.”
She stays rooted, her breath coming too fast, her fists curled tight enough to bleach her knuckles. “Untie me.”
He huffs, his jaw working like he’s chewing on the words before spitting them out. One hand brushes his jacket aside just enough to flash the matte black grip of his pistol—not a threat, just a fact of life, like rain or taxes. “You’ve got ten seconds, sweetheart.”
He flicks his wrist, the polished platinum of his Patek Philippe catching the dim light—a watch worth more than this entire hotel. The sapphire crystal is flawless, the moonphase complication a silent mockery of the chaos around them. His gaze flicks to it like she’s not a person but a reservation at a Michelin-starred restaurant he’s about to forfeit.
“Walk, or get dragged. Frankly, I couldn’t give a shit which.”
Her face tightens. “You’re joking.”
He meets her eyes then—flat, cold, the kind of look a butcher gives a side of beef before he chops it. “Eight.”
She flinches despite herself. “Tangerine—”
“Seven. I’m not here to hold your hand and recite fucking Wordsworth. I’m what’s left after the civilised options piss off into the sunset.”
He shifts his weight, one boot already angled toward the corridor like a man halfway out the door of a pub fight.
“Six.”
The walls press in, the air thick with the acrid sting of gunpowder and cheap nylon burning. Somewhere outside, a siren wails—not for them, not yet, but close enough to raise the hairs on her neck.
He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t blinked. “Five.”
Her knees lock, every muscle coiled between bolt or bite. Everything in her screams not to go with him—but outside that door? Something’s waiting with sharper teeth.
She swallows. Steps forward. The tie stays knotted.
He lets out a small, derisive sound through his nose—more air than laugh. “There’s a good girl.”
And just like that, he’s turning on his heel, coat flaring like a dismissal, already striding off as if he’s absolutely certain she’ll heel like a trained terrier.
She does.
But not without digging her nails into her palms hard enough to leave crescents, her jaw clenched so tight she could crack a tooth.
The stairwell yawns open like a gullet, narrow and chokingly dim, concrete steps slick with something that might be condensation — or something else entirely.
Each step is a negotiation. The leggings cling to her thighs like a second skin, and every shift grinds fabric into open wounds, the fire of it blooming fresh behind her knees and up her quads. She sways once — the banister too far, her hands still bound — and barely catches herself with a hiss.
Tangerine doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back. Just mutters, “Keep up, will you? Not in the mood for another dramatic tumble.”
She grits her teeth. One more step and she feels it — the jarring thud of socked heel against concrete. Thin black cotton does nothing to dull the shock. She glances down. Right.
No shoes.
Of course.
Panting, she forces the words past her cracked lips. “Shoes. From the bag.”
He pauses mid-step, glances down like she’s just asked him to carry her. Then pivots on his heel with a theatrical sigh and unzips the duffel in one motion.
“Could’ve mentioned that before we started the bloody descent,” he mutters.
Tangerine crouches beside the duffel without a word, unzipping it with the same rough, purposeful motion he used opening the door. His hand rakes through the contents — burner phone, cash, antiseptic, hoodie — until it closes around the ruined sneakers. He yanks them out and gives them a look like they’ve just insulted his tailor.
“Jesus. These still count as footwear?”
He rises, drops them at her feet with a thud, then tosses the hoodie onto the steps behind her like it’s charity.
Nina lowers herself awkwardly, wrists still bound tight in front. She tries to jam one shoe on using just the edge of the stair and her fingers, but the heel collapses under her sock, and the pressure sends a bolt of pain through the raw meat of her thigh. She nearly loses her balance, catching herself just in time with a hiss through her teeth.
Tangerine watches, arms folded, expression unreadable but smug by default.
She forces the other shoe on with even less grace, breathing shallow. Her pride’s already taken too many hits to count — but she’s still bristling from earlier.
She glances up. He’s halfway turned already, barely watching her.
A flicker of something tightens in her chest. Frustration. Spite. The echo of his voice still ringing in her ears from moments ago:
“There’s a good girl.”
It clicks — and before she can stop herself, the words come tumbling out.
“Good boy,” she says, light and mocking. “Now be useful. Untie me. Or put them on for me, yeah?”
His movement stops — not sudden, just a subtle stillness. Then he slowly turns, one shoe scuffing the concrete as he faces her again.
He looks at her like she’s a pigeon that’s just tried to steal chips off his plate.
A beat.
Then he clicks his tongue, low and dismissive. “Nah.”
He doesn't step closer. Doesn't raise his voice. Just tilts his head slightly, tone dry enough to desiccate bone.
“That don’t suit you, love. You sound like a kid tryin’ on mum’s heels. Bit wobbly, bit sad.”
He starts to turn again, then stops with a sigh sharp enough to cut. “Christ.”
Without another word, he steps back toward her. Drops to a crouch. Grabs her ankle, firm and unceremonious, like she’s furniture that’s not pulling its weight.
She tenses, tries to pull back, but he shoots her a look — bored and cold.
“Hold still, would you? You’re useless enough without fallin’ on your arse.”
He jams the collapsed heel of the sneaker into place with two fingers, then adjusts the tongue, yanking the fabric straight. It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s just done with the kind of grim, practiced motion you’d use fixing a jammed lock or resetting a faulty trigger.
The second shoe goes on just as fast. He doesn’t speak again until both feet are planted flat and miserable on the stairwell floor.
Then he stands. Brushes his hands off like she’s dirt he just cleaned up.
“There. Now you won’t slip and die on the way out. Lucky you.”
She opens her mouth — to say what, she’s not sure — but he’s already walking again.
The black hoodie lies behind her, one step up, just out of reach.
He doesn’t point it out. Doesn’t offer to help. Doesn’t even look back.
Nina turns slightly, eyes flicking to the fabric. It would take effort. Awkward effort. Painful, probably humiliating.
She hesitates.
Then stoops, slowly, and retrieves it with the tips of her fingers.
No one helps her.
They descend in silence, tension clinging to the concrete walls like smoke. Her steps drag, pain sharpening with each landing, the bound wrists cradling the black hoodie — more dead weight than warmth.
At the next stairwell turn, she shifts the hoodie in her bound hands — awkward, bunched fabric pressing into raw wrists — and closes the distance between them.
She holds it out toward his back. Not dramatic. Not begging. Just an offering, flat and sharp-edged.
“Since you’re in the mood for charity.”
He glances over his shoulder. Doesn’t break stride.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he snatches the hoodie from her hands — only to toss it straight back into the duffel, mid-step, without so much as a pause.
“You’ll be cold,” he says over his shoulder, voice all mock-sympathy. “Try shiverin’ quieter, yeah? I frighten easy.”
He zips the bag closed like sealing a joke inside and keeps moving.
She stares at the space where the hoodie had been. Just for a second.
Then grits her teeth and follows.
The lobby is a graveyard of bad decisions.
Too bright under the flickering fluorescence, too quiet save for the low buzz of dying bulbs, too empty except for the ghosts of everyone who ever regretted walking through those doors. The pale tile floors are scuffed from a decade of dragged suitcases and half-hearted mopping, the grout permanently stained the color of regret. Somewhere, a faucet drips—a slow, syncopated rhythm that feels like a countdown.
The girl behind the desk is still there.
She’s standing now, spine straight, fingers splayed against the laminate countertop like she’s bracing for impact. The phone lies abandoned beside the monitor, receiver off the hook, the dial tone a thin, reedy whine. Her dark eyes track them—not fear, not curiosity, but something sharper. Something like recognition.
Tangerine moves like a man who owns the air he displaces.
And wouldn’t fucking care if the world choked on it.
Nina stumbles in his wake, the silk tie digging into her skin.
“Where are we going?” she asks, voice raw.
Silence.
She tries again. “Who’s after me?”
Nothing.
Her voice tightens. “You could at least—”
“Could.” He doesn’t look at her. “Won’t.”
The girl rounds the desk as they reach the center of the lobby. No words—just slow, deliberate steps, her sneakers whispering against the tile. She holds out a bottle of water, the plastic slick with condensation, her fingers trembling slightly. Her expression is equal parts fear and defiance, like she’s feeding a stray dog knowing it might bite.
Nina blinks. Takes it. The plastic is cold against her palms.
Tangerine glances sideways, mouth curling. “She your pen pal now?”
But he doesn’t stop her. Just watches, eyes narrowed, reassessing.
Nina squeezes the girl’s hand. No thank you needed. The girl nods once, chin lifted—a quiet rebellion.
Tangerine doesn’t pause at the door. He grabs the handle, swings it open with one smooth pull. No noise. No dramatics.
Just control.
Nina glances back. The girl hasn’t moved. Still watching.
“She was trying to help,” Nina mutters.
“She’s not the one with a bounty stapled to her spine.”
Outside, the street is the same as every other this side of nowhere — washed in the jaundiced glow of sodium lights, the cracks in the sidewalk spreading like fault lines. A stray can rolls across the curb, rattling like a loose bullet casing. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfires — or maybe it’s a gunshot. Hard to tell, in a place like this.
The cold hits her fast — not biting, but mean and steady. It creeps through the sweat-damp fabric clinging to her back, crawls up the sleeves of her thin T-shirt. She grits her teeth and keeps walking, refuses to let it show. She won’t ask for the hoodie. Not now. Not after the way he tossed it back into the bag like it was a joke. She swallows it down. Keeps her chin up. If he feels her shivering, she doesn’t want to see the look on his face.
Tangerine’s pace never falters. Controlled. Straight line. No wasted steps.
Nina hurries to keep up, pain flaring in her legs, wrists still bound tight in front of her. The water bottle is slick with condensation in her palm.
She tries again — faster this time, words spilling before she can stop them. “This is about Monaco, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. That’s why someone—”
“I said quiet.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t look at her. But it lands like a command. Heavy. Final.
His hand closes around her arm in the same breath — sudden, unflinching. Fingers locking above her elbow, hard enough to bruise.
She sucks in a breath, twisting toward him, about to bite back—
Then she sees it.
Just a flicker.
A red dot. Faint. Fleeting. Skating across the inside wall of the lobby behind them, near the potted plant by the check-in desk. It moves like a lazy housefly, then vanishes.
Her stomach lurches.
Tangerine doesn’t wait.
He yanks her sideways in one sharp movement, and everything spins — her shoulder slamming into the doorframe, the water bottle slipping from her grip. It hits the tile with a hollow clack, then rolls under a cracked plastic chair, out of reach.
They land in shadow — the narrow wedge between the hotel’s entrance and the alley wall, his body angled between her and the open street.
He doesn’t look at her. Just watches the rooftop across the way.
“They’re not just followin’,” he mutters, voice low as a blade unsheathing. “They’re watchin’.”
A pause. Then colder, sharper:
“Eyes on the fuckin’ bricks, now.”
Nina’s breath stutters in her throat. She doesn’t ask what he means.
She doesn’t need to.
She just drops her gaze to the pavement and follows.
Fast.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Masterlist for more chapters and more fun
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH, AND DO LEAVE COMMENTS
Tangerine (Bullet Train) x Reader / Y/N | Smutty one-shot
He gave you three rules when he took the job. The first — do exactly as I say. But you broke that one today, didn’t you? Now you're back in the safehouse with blood on your hands, wrists bound with his tie, and Tangerine crouched between your legs — not to punish. To remind. With his mouth. His fingers. And a promise you’re too wrecked to doubt.
!NSFW! | Please do not engage if you're a minor
Masterlist
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: a hot British man, smut, profanity, oral (f receiving), edging, orgasm denial, bondage, mocking dirty talk, overstimulation, desperation, and many very hot words.
how many words: 6.1k (yes, I know, I got too carried away, gotta keep this fandom alive. Oopsie, not oopsie)
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The first thing you notice is how fucking quiet it is.
No radio crackling with static. No hum of ventilation pushing stale air through rusted vents. Just the old ceiling fan above, its blades warped from years of neglect, ticking like a bomb with every uneven rotation. It spins slowly, laboring against the heat, as if each turn might be its last. The room is thick with the scent of sweat and gunmetal—a metallic tang that clings to the back of your throat, sharp enough to make your pulse stutter even though the fight’s over.
Technically.
The door behind you is shut. Locked. The floor beneath your boots is a graveyard of cracked tiles, still dusted with debris from where he’d shoved a bookshelf against the entrance—precaution, he’d said, voice clipped.
But he hasn’t said a word since.
He’s at the window again, framed in fractured afternoon light, his silhouette carved against the glass. Same posture as the last time you nearly got yourself killed: shoulders rigid, jaw locked tight, eyes fixed on the city below like it owes him something. The sunlight spills gold across his back, catching the dampness at his nape, the single dark curl that’s escaped its usual discipline and now clings to his skin.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. You watch him in the shattered mirror propped against the far wall—his reflection distorted, fractured into jagged pieces. He hasn’t looked at you. Not once. Not since he hauled you out of that alley by the scruff of your shirt and spat blood onto the pavement like it was poison.
You should say something. Anything.
But what the fuck do you say to a man like Tangerine when you’ve just made him look like a goddamn fool?
The silence stretches, thin as a tripwire.
Your mouth is bone-dry. You’re still half-suited in your gear—utility vest hanging open, dust ground into the fabric, the sting in your thigh a constant reminder of how close you came to catching a bullet instead of just a scrape.
And he’d been the one to stop it. Again.
Which is why the quiet is worse than shouting.
You remember the first time he agreed to watch your back. You’d been jittery, pacing the length of some shitty motel room, words tumbling out of you like loose change.
He hadn’t bothered with reassurances. Just three rules, delivered in that low, gravel-cut voice of his:
"One—you don’t lie to me. Not ever."
"Two—you don’t fuck off alone, not even for a piss. You stay where I can see you."
"Three—you do what I say, when I say it. No attitude, no backtalk. I say drop—you hit the goddamn floor before your brain catches up."
You’d laughed then. Tossed back something smart like, "What are you, my handler or my dad?"
He hadn’t smiled. Just looked at you with those cold, assessing eyes and said, "Dead girls don’t get to make clever jokes, sweetheart."
You think about that now. About how you did wander off. How you didn’t drop when he barked the order. How you’d bolted left when he’d snapped right, convinced you’d seen an opening, convinced you could handle it.
And instead, you’d ended up pressed against the reeking side of a dumpster while he traded fire with a rooftop sniper—blood on his teeth, fury in every syllable of your name.
He moves now, turning from the window with that slow, deliberate grace that always makes your stomach knot. His jacket’s long gone, discarded somewhere in the chaos. His waistcoat hangs open, buttons undone, the crisp white shirt beneath rumpled and streaked with grime. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with tension. His knuckles are split, the skin raw. There’s blood on his collar—not his, not yours.
But the way he’s looking at you?
You owe him.
You swallow.
"Tangerine—"
His gaze cuts across the room like a blade.
"Don’t."
One word. And it flays you.
You straighten without thinking, spine locking. Something flickers in his expression—disdain, disbelief, maybe both. He steps closer, each footfall measured, deliberate, like he’s counting the seconds between your heartbeats.
"You got somethin’ to say, sweetheart?" His voice is a low rasp, edged with something dangerous. "Go on. Enlighten me. Tell me how it all went tits-up despite you ignoring every fuckin’ word outta my mouth."
Your lips press into a tight line.
"I thought I saw an opening," you mutter. Weak. Pathetic.
He barks a laugh—sharp, humorless. "Yeah. Saw an opening all right. Right between your goddamn eyes."
You flinch.
He notices. Doesn’t care.
"You know what pisses me off the most?" He’s closer now, close enough that you catch the scent of gunpowder and leather, the faint copper tang of blood still clinging to him. "Not that you threw yourself into the fire. Not even that I had to clean up the mess. It’s the look on your face right now."
"What look?"
You can’t help, but look away.
Shame burns under your skin. Hot and deep and curling like smoke in your lungs. He’s not wrong. That’s the worst part. Every word hits. You had told yourself you were helping. That you'd made the call because you had instincts. That you weren’t some stupid girl playing action hero. But that’s not how it looked. That’s not how it felt, pressed to the pavement with his hand on the back of your neck, his body shielding yours from gunfire, fury practically pouring off of him like heat.
He’s right in front of you now. Too close. The air turns thick, suffocating. You can smell the smoke in his clothes. The blood. The sweat. The ghost of his cologne buried under it all — sharp citrus and something darker beneath. Something that smells like ruin.
"I gave you three rules." His breath ghosts over your cheek. Not quite touching. Not quite not.
You don’t answer. Not because you don’t know — but because your throat’s closed up around something raw and ugly.
"I said, don’t lie to me," he murmurs, low and steady. His voice isn't raised. He doesn’t need to raise it. It’s more dangerous this way. The calm before something breaks.
His fingers ghost up to your jaw — not touching, just tracing the space around you. Testing your nerve.
"I said, don’t go off alone. No wandering off like you’re in some fuckin’ spy film."
Your chest rises. You can’t stop it. He sees it.
"And the third one?" he asks, quiet as a confession. "Say it."
You hesitate. Your gaze flicks up to his, just for a second.
His eyes are sharp. Focused. Blue, but darker now — all the humor scraped out of them. What’s left is something razor-edged. Something... deliberate.
"Do what you say. When you say it," you whisper.
He watches you. Not moving. Just... watching.
Then he nods.
"That’s right," he says. "And yet here we are."
He takes a step around you. Slow. Measured. Circling now — like you’re something to be inspected, studied, judged. Your spine straightens before you can stop it. Every part of you screams to move, to shrink under the heat of his attention, but you don’t. You stand your ground.
Even when he’s behind you.
Even when he leans in — voice brushing the shell of your ear.
"Tell me, love," he says softly. "Are you tryin’ to piss me off?"
You close your eyes. Just for a second.
"No."
"But you do it anyway."
He moves again. Around. Back in front of you now. The way his eyes rake over you isn’t hungry — it’s calculating. Like he’s pulling apart every impulse in your body just to see what breaks first.
"I think maybe," he says, tilting his head, "you’ve forgotten how very fuckin’ real this is."
His fingers flex at his sides — slow, controlled. You feel the shift in the room like a pressure drop. Like something old and heavy has rolled into place.
"And I think maybe," he continues, taking one more step forward, "you’ve been gettin’ away with too much."
You inhale sharply — then curse yourself for the sound.
Tangerine smiles. Slow. Crooked. Like a shark that’s finally caught the scent.
"Thought so," he murmurs.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He just lets the moment sit there, thick and humid and awful, your pulse thrumming in your throat like a warning bell.
Then, finally — softly, so soft it shouldn’t be scary — he says:
"Take your vest off."
The words hit harder than a shout ever could. Not barked. Not forced. Just laid there between you, like a test. Like bait. And somehow, that’s worse. He isn’t angry in the way people usually are. He’s angry in the way a storm holds back on purpose — lets the sky stay quiet just long enough to make you pray for thunder.
You don’t move.
Not right away.
He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t even look like he needs to.
You feel stupid. Small. Hot all over, and not just from the heat.
This wasn’t how you thought today would end — not crouched in a half-collapsed safehouse, stripped of your pride and common sense, with blood on your shoulder and Tangerine standing three feet away like he’s about to rewrite your nervous system.
You had a plan. You always do. You were going to prove you weren’t just some wide-eyed liability. That you could anticipate, adapt, handle yourself.
By the time you hit the ground, he was already over you — cursing, dragging you by the arm, pressing you down with his full weight until the shot cracked past your ear like thunder.
You were lucky.
You were stupidly lucky.
And the worst part — the very worst, most unbearable part — is that you can’t even be angry at him for being angry.
You broke the rules. And you remember what he said when he gave them to you — not just the words, but the tone, like he was giving you the only thing he had to offer:
“I don’t fuckin’ babysit. If you don’t follow orders, I leave you behind.”
He hasn’t left you behind yet. Not physically. But the way he’s looking at you now?
Like you’re one more disobedience away from being someone he doesn’t have to protect anymore.
You shift your weight. Not enough to move — just enough to feel like you haven’t frozen completely.
His eyes track the motion. Still silent.
The vest is heavy on your shoulders, caked with dust, sweat clinging beneath the straps. It’s uncomfortable. Claustrophobic. But you don’t take it off.
You’re still holding onto something — pride, maybe. Or fear.
You don’t want to give in too easily. You don’t want to lose. Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it? Not a debrief. Not a punishment.
A test. Of power.
And you’ve always hated being told what to do.
Even when part of you wants to obey.
You try not to let your breathing change. Try not to let your eyes flick downward — to the knot of his tie, now loose around his collar. To the sleeves of his shirt, pushed up over his forearms, exposing the scrape on his left wrist. The small streak of blood at his temple. The ring on his finger, subtle and scuffed.
He doesn’t move a muscle. Just watches. Like he can hear every argument in your head, and already knows how it ends.
And for one ugly, breathless second, you realize something that makes your pulse stumble:
You want him to make you.
You want him to take that choice out of your hands entirely. Because then it wouldn’t be weakness. Wouldn’t be surrender. You could tell yourself you didn’t have a say. That you weren’t already aching to submit, just to feel something clear and clean after all this fucking noise.
But he won’t.
That’s not who he is.
He’ll wait. Until you decide.
Until your pride cracks under its own weight and you give him what he asked for. Until you hand it over.
So you do.
You lift your hands. Slow. Reach for the buckles on the vest. Your fingers tremble — just a little. Not enough for him to comment, but enough that you know he sees it.
You peel the vest off and let it fall to the ground beside your feet.
He nods once. Doesn’t praise. Doesn’t smile. Just…
Waits.
And now you’re bare in a way that has nothing to do with armor. Your tank top is thin, sticking to your spine. Your mouth’s dry. Your knees don’t quite feel like they’re holding you up anymore.
Still, he says nothing.
And the silence is louder than anything you’ve ever heard.
He nods once when the vest hits the floor — like it confirms something he already knew. Like you passed the first gate, but barely.
Then, finally, he moves.
Two slow steps toward the corner of the room. His shoes grind dust into the tile. You follow him with your eyes as he reaches for the only freestanding chair — a squat, heavy thing with scuffed wooden legs and a warped cushion that’s seen better decades. Probably used to belong to a kitchen table. It groans when he lifts it.
He drags it to the middle of the room. Right under the lazy churn of the ceiling fan, where the sunlight leaks in through the slats and paints long, golden stripes across the floor. No theatrics. Just deliberate motion.
He turns the chair to face you. Then he sits.
Not carefully. Not stiffly. He drops into it like he owns gravity, thighs spread wide, elbows braced on his knees, posture loose in that way that always makes you feel too visible. The air between you tightens. The fan ticks overhead, barely moving the heat. There’s a faint stain on the tile beneath the chair — something old and rust-coloured. You can’t tell if it’s blood or water damage. Maybe both.
You’re suddenly very aware of how little is left between your skin and him.
Under the vest, you’re in just a tank top — thin, ribbed cotton clinging to your skin, soaked with sweat from the run. No bra. You hadn’t expected to need one. You wore it because it was easy to layer under gear, because it kept you mobile — not because it covered much.
Now, in the heat and tension, it’s practically see-through. The fabric stretches tight across your chest, nipples outlined starkly, the curve of your breasts more visible with every breath you take. It clings to your back, sticks to the slope of your spine, leaves your shoulders bare.
You feel… exposed. In a way that makes you straighten your posture, as if standing tall could somehow preserve a shred of control.
But his gaze? It drags over you slow — deliberate — and makes it clear:
That top won’t save you.
He pats his thigh.
“Come here.”
Just that.
And when you hesitate — not long, but long enough — his expression doesn’t shift, but the room does. It feels like it shifts. Like the oxygen content dropped.
“That hesitation?” he says. “That’s what nearly got you killed today.”
His voice is quieter now. Controlled. But the threat isn’t gone — it’s just changed shape.
You walk. Slow. Steady. Toward the chair in the center of the room — not just a chair anymore, but a spot. A fixed point where something about to happen has already been decided.
You stop between his legs. The air between you electric.
He doesn’t reach for your face. Doesn’t grab your arm.
He goes for your wrists.
Not sudden. Not soft. Just certain.
His hand wraps around one first — firm, steady — before sliding down to catch the other, bringing them together like it’s already decided. There’s no hesitation in him, no flicker of doubt. Only the kind of precision that comes from years of using his hands to bind, break, or end.
And then comes the tie.
Not just some office accessory. Not just fabric. It’s thick — double-stitched silk, dark navy with the faintest herringbone pattern that only shows in the right light. The kind of thing you don’t notice until it’s around your skin and too late to stop it. It’s still warm from his neck.
He unloops it with one hand, smooth and methodical, like he’s folding a weapon back into place. The other keeps your wrists in place — motionless — and when the silk brushes your skin, it isn’t soft.
It’s tight.
You expect restraint. But not this — not the precision of it, not the bite. He winds it once, twice, three times around your wrists, high enough that it forces your forearms close. Then pulls. Hard.
The knot locks like a cuff. No slack. No give. No way out.
Your breath catches.
It isn’t painful. But it’s not gentle, either. There’s no room for wriggling, no margin for second thoughts. He binds like someone who’s done it before — like he’s had to make people stay where he put them, and isn’t interested in repeat offenses.
His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow — deliberate. The gesture could almost pass for tender if it weren’t laced with something colder.
A reminder: he's letting you breathe.
You glance up.
He’s still seated, legs apart, posture deceptively loose — but there’s a tautness under his skin now, something coiled. His jaw is dusted with stubble and set firm, like he's bitten down on the urge to speak and is letting the silence do the work. His curls are damp around the edges, sweat clinging near his temples. One sleeve of his shirt is bloodied at the elbow, rolled high and careless, showing the muscle and tension under his skin.
His eyes? Calm. But flat. Like the surface of a lake right before the body drifts up.
You test the tie — instinct, nothing more — and it holds. Of course it holds.
His gaze drops to your bound hands. Then flicks back to your face.
One eyebrow lifts — faint, sardonic.
"You always this twitchy, or just when you know you’ve cocked it up?"
He glances at the space just beside him — the open tile next to the chair, where the light is falling soft and golden. And you know.
That’s where you’ll be.
Down there.
That’s where this is heading. You can feel it in the air — in the way his hand lingers at your bound wrists, thumb ghosting over your pulse like he’s timing something.
You don’t know what.
Not really.
But when his gaze flicks past you — to that strip of cool tile bathed in gold beside his chair — your stomach turns. Not from fear. Not exactly.
"You don’t strike me as the quick learner type," he says, voice calm. Conversational, even.
It doesn’t feel like a dig until he keeps going.
"Bit stubborn. Bit slow to take instruction." His thumb presses into the edge of the knot. "But you’ve got potential. Underneath all that noise."
You swallow.
He’s not asking for permission. Not giving you instructions. He’s just speaking — like this is all inevitable, like you already agreed to whatever this is going to become.
Then he shifts — not standing, not even fully rising, just leaning forward into the space you’re in now. His spine unfurls slowly from where it was curled over his knees, and suddenly he’s closer. Not upright, but forward, forearms braced against his thighs as he draws your bound wrists toward him.
Your hands hover at chest height now — yours, not his — and the angle forces you to tilt forward just slightly to stay balanced. It puts your face near his, too near, so that when he speaks next, his breath does brush your cheek. Cold and precise.
“And after today?”
A pause.
The knot tightens just slightly between his fingers.
You brace for it — the scolding, the threat, the command.
But instead, he huffs out a small, near-silent breath. Almost a laugh.
"Let’s just say," he murmurs, "you’re not exactly startin’ from the top."
Then he lets go of your wrists.
And gestures — not sharply, not clearly. Just tips his chin ever so slightly toward the floor beside his chair, where the light hits and the tile waits.
No command. No sentence.
Just the implication.
And somehow, it’s worse than being ordered.
You don’t move.
Not at first.
You stand there with your wrists bound, skin hot and pulse fluttering beneath silk, and try to pretend this is still a negotiation. That you’ve got some say in the matter. That just because he didn’t say it, doesn’t mean you have to do it.
But he doesn’t fill the silence.
He just sits there, one arm slung over the back of the chair now, the other resting on his thigh. Head tilted slightly, watching you with the kind of detached focus usually reserved for a chessboard or a body. Like he’s already planned three moves ahead — and your pride is just a pawn waiting to fall.
The tile beside him catches a streak of gold from the window. Dust floats in the air above it. It’s nothing. Just floor.
But somehow it feels like a cliff.
Your legs won’t move at first. Not because you’re frozen — but because some stupid, shame-wet part of you still wants to win. Wants him to demand it, drag it out of you with clipped words and sharp teeth.
But that’s not how he works.
You know that now.
So you lower yourself.
Slow. Controlled. Like if you do it carefully enough, it won’t count as giving in.
Your knees touch the tile first — hard and cold, the stone biting through the thin fabric of your trousers. You shift to one side, closer to him, thighs brushing the inside edge of his chair. The position is awkward — vulnerable. But you keep going.
Down onto your hip. Then your back. Arms still bound against your stomach, knees bent, the stretch of your spine arching just enough that your shoulder blades meet the floor.
The fan clicks overhead. That’s the only sound.
And then — a shift.
You hear it before you see it. The creak of the chair as he rises, slow and deliberate. No rush. No sound but the scrape of his shoes on the tile. The scrape of the chair legs being pushed back. A pause — just long enough for you to feel the emptiness where he was sitting. And then the space fills again — this time with him, above you.
He crouches low between your legs, the stretch of his body controlled, dangerous. A scuffed oxford plants beside your hip. The other presses into the tile near your thigh. His knees cage you in. His vest gapes open slightly now — revealing the sweat-darkened curve of his shirt beneath, the line of his collarbone, the top of that bloodied sleeve. He's all sharp shadows and heat.
The chair was never meant to hold him.
It was just a throne — a test.
Now he wants you beneath him.
His hand finds your thigh — warm, broad — and presses. Not cruel. But unyielding.
He shifts your legs without asking. One over his shoulder. The other bent outward, leaving you exposed in a way that makes your throat tighten.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t comment on the way your hips shift under his hand, the way your breath hitches as his palm slides along the seam of your thigh. Your pants are still on — tactical cut, scuffed at the knee, waistband clinging to the sweat just above your hipbone — but the implication’s there.
He adjusts your legs like you’re a thing. One over his shoulder. The other angled outward to the side. Not all the way open — not yet — but enough to make your lungs forget how to pull in air properly.
You feel the pressure where his shoulder presses between your thighs. Feel the warmth of his breath, his shirt brushing your knee.
He doesn’t undress you.
Not even close.
He just… waits.
Not cruel. Not patient either. Just quiet. Controlled.
He looks down at you like he already owns everything he hasn’t even touched yet.
And you don’t know which is worse — that he hasn’t taken anything from you yet, or that your body’s already giving it up anyway.
Your wrists are still bound.
The silk digs in now — tighter than before — where he pulled the knot clean after you flinched. They rest across your torso, the backs of your fingers brushing your ribs, as your body shifts against the floor.
It’s cold. The tile beneath you is rough and sun-warmed in some places, ice-cold in others. You feel every uneven line of it. Your back aches from the angle, hips tilted just enough to expose the waistband of your pants — slightly askew from how he dragged your legs apart.
He doesn’t say a word as he lowers himself.
You inhale sharply as his hand moves between your legs. Not to undress you — not yet — but to press.
The heel of his palm slides along the seam of your pants. Up. Then back down. A test. A reminder. You’re fully clothed. Bound. Under him.
And he’s the one deciding when — and if — you get anything more than this.
“Mm.” The sound escapes him, deep and short. Almost clinical. “You’re fuckin’ buzzing already.”
You don’t respond.
Your voice’s gone tight in your throat, caught somewhere between yes and please and shut up.
He smirks.
And then he drags the zipper down — slow. Metal teeth parting with a rasp that might as well be thunder in your ears.
Your hips twitch. He presses them back down with one hand.
“Not helpful,” he mutters, without looking at you. “Stay still.”
You do.
Because you don’t have a choice. Because the sound of the zipper and the way his hand slips beneath the waistband is enough to pin you harder than the tile ever could. His fingers hook into your pants. Slow. Like it’s nothing urgent. Like he’s just unwrapping something that already belongs to him.
You lift your hips without meaning to — reflex, desperation. It earns you a short breath of laughter.
“Oh, now you’re helpful.”
He drags them down — tactical fabric scraping over your thighs, catching on your calves, tugging your underwear along with it in one smooth, practiced pull. You’re bare from the waist down in seconds. The air hits your skin like a slap. The tile’s colder now. Sharper. You’re too exposed to breathe properly.
He sits back just enough to look at you.
Takes his fucking time doing it, too. Eyes dragging up the inside of your thighs, over your hips, lingering where you're already wet — not touching. Just seeing.
And the look on his face?
Not angry. Not reverent. Just… disappointed and lustful. Like you’re a lesson he has to teach again, and again, and again.
“Messy little thing,” he mutters, almost to himself. “And for what? You didn’t even do anything worth gettin’ wet over.”
His fingers come next.
Two of them — middle and ring — slipping down without warning, without invitation. They glide through the heat of you, collecting slick with maddening slowness before trailing back up. They don’t press in. Not yet. They circle your clit instead — lazy, deliberate strokes that make your thighs jerk and your breath catch in your throat.
Your whole body jerks.
He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t react. Just keeps going — the same slow circle, again and again. Not enough pressure. Not enough speed. Just enough to drive you out of your skin.
His free hand presses down on your hip, holding you flat. His thumb brushes a faint, rhythmic line over your thigh like he’s bored — like he’s passing the time, not touching you.
You whimper. It escapes before you can stop it.
He raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t stop.
“Oh, now you wanna behave?” he says, voice all mockery and low heat. “Now that I’ve got your legs open and your hands tied, suddenly you’re fuckin’ obedient.”
He leans forward.
His mouth hovers just above you now. You feel the breath. Warm. Damp. Cruel.
“You want it?”
You nod.
He clicks his tongue.
"Not good enough."
You barely register the shift — not until his mouth is on you.
There’s no warning. No teasing preamble. Just the sudden, searing heat of his tongue dragging through your folds in one long, filthy stroke that tears a sound from your throat. Your back bows off the tile before you can stop it — hips jerking up, thighs clenching around his head in a desperate, unthinking reflex.
It’s too much. Too good. And then it’s gone.
He pulls back instantly, lips wet, breath ghosting over you as you gasp for air, still trembling.
His grip tightens on your leg — hard now — fingers biting into the soft flesh above your knee. You feel your pulse fluttering wild beneath his thumb.
Then—a slap. Sharp. Stinging. Right to the inside of your thigh.
Not cruel. Not punishing.
Just a reminder.
"Did I say you could fuckin’ move?"
His voice is rough, dark, curling around you like smoke. You shake your head, lips parting on a silent plea, but he doesn’t give you the chance to speak. His hand slides higher, possessive, pressing you back into the floor as he lowers his head again.
This time, he doesn’t go straight for where you need him.
No—he teases.
His lips brush the crease of your thigh, his mustache catching against your sensitive skin, the coarse hair sending shivers through you. His tongue flicks out, tracing a slow, torturous path just beside your clit, close enough to make you whimper but not close enough to give you relief.
"Already soaked," he mutters, his breath hot against your skin. "Pathetic."
You let out a broken sound, hips twitching, but his free hand slams down on your stomach, pinning you in place. His blue eyes flick up to yours, sharp as shattered glass, gleaming with something between amusement and disdain.
"You want it?" he asks, voice low, mocking.
You nod, desperate, fingers twisting in the silk of his tie where it binds your wrists above your head now.
He tsks, shaking his head. "Not good enough."
Then—contact.
His tongue drags over your clit in one slow, deliberate stroke, the tip flicking just enough to make your entire body jerk. He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves, and you bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.
He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t give you more. Just keeps that same maddening rhythm—slow circles, lazy flicks, his lips brushing against you like he’s savoring the taste. His mustache scratches at your skin, rough and intoxicating, the contrast of soft lips and coarse hair making your thighs shake.
You whimper, writhing, but his arm presses harder across your stomach, keeping you still.
"Barely touched you," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. "And you’re already fallin’ apart. Thought you were fuckin’ tougher than this."
You choke out a sob, hips lifting, but he growls—a deep, warning sound—and suddenly two fingers are pushing inside you, stretching you open with a slow, merciless thrust.
"This what you wanted?" he rasps, curling his fingers just right, making you clench around him. "You thought you could run off like some reckless little shit and then come back here and get rewarded?"
His tongue flicks over your clit again, harder this time, and you cry out, back arching.
"No," he says, pulling back just enough to watch you squirm. "You don’t get to come until I say so."
His fingers pump inside you, slow and deep, while his thumb circles your clit in tight, punishing little strokes. You’re gasping, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, your entire body coiled tight with need.
"Look at me," he orders.
Your eyes snap to his, and the sight is maddening—his lips glistening, his mustache damp, his blue eyes burning with something dark and possessive.
You hold his gaze — barely. Your whole body’s trembling under the weight of it. His face is wrecked with slick, his mouth red and glistening, his mustache damp from your skin. The curl of it scratches against your thighs every time he moves. He looks like he’s just gotten started.
And he has.
Because instead of mercy, he drags his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up — one long, slow lick that leaves your spine arching off the floor. It’s not rushed. It’s deliberate. Cruel. He’s tasting you like you’re something he might critique afterward — something indulgent, but undeserved.
"God, you're sweet," he mutters against you. “And you really think you’ve earned this?”
Then he spits — slow, filthy — directly onto your clit. The wet sound makes your head jerk back.
You gasp — full-body, bone-deep.
His tongue follows immediately, spreading it with a lazy swirl, lips dragging close behind. He flicks — once, sharp — then sucks with a drawn-out pull that makes your toes curl, your bound wrists strain.
Your back arches. “Please—”
He hums like you’re interrupting him. Then pulls back just slightly, tongue barely grazing now, just the tip, tracing precise little half-circles around your clit without ever touching the center.
It’s torture in the most exquisite sense.
The air is cool where he was, and warm where he is. Your cunt pulses, empty and aching, clenched around nothing. You need him to do more — just a little more — but he doesn’t. He stays there, tongue soft, feathery, patient in the worst possible way.
Your wrists twist in the silk — helpless, bound tight against your stomach. You want to beg, to plead, to just move, but your voice won’t obey you. Your body’s not yours anymore — it’s his. Strung high on every flick, every curl, every low sound he makes against your skin.
You're so close it hurts. Too close.
You try to say his name — just a broken syllable — but it crumbles on your tongue.
He hears it anyway.
And he laughs.
Low. Cruel. Mocking.
“Oh, sweetheart. That desperate already?” His voice is a rasp against your thigh, still damp from his mouth. “Barely touched you. Haven’t even earned it yet.”
He shifts, mouth dragging back down to your clit — and this time, he doesn’t lick. Doesn’t suck. Just breathes. Hot and maddening, hovering right there. So close your legs shake.
You gasp, hips jerking up again, and he moves fast — arm pinning you down across your hips like steel.
“No,” he growls. “You stay still, yeah? You don’t get to fuckin’ chase it.”
You writhe anyway. You can’t not — not with the way his fingers curl, press, withdraw, push in again like he’s reading your reactions and choosing every one he likes.
“All that squirming,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your thigh. “You keep that up, I’ll stop. Leave you soaking and sore with nothin’ to show for it. You want that?”
You shake your head — frantic, tears slipping now. Your legs quake against the hold he has on you.
“Thought not.”
Then finally — finally — he seals his mouth to your clit again. Wet, slow suction. His tongue flattening, then flicking with obscene patience. Like he’s not trying to make you come. Like he’s trying to watch you fall apart trying not to.
“You think this is what happens when you break rules?” he says, nuzzling between your thighs, breath hot and damp. “You think you get my fingers, my mouth, my fuckin’ time, just because you look pretty and make a mess?”
His hand snakes beneath your ass, lifts your hips — just enough to change the angle — and then he’s tongue-fucking you, slow and deliberate, like he wants to feel every twitch, every clench, every pathetic sound ripped from your throat.
His tongue curls inside you, then pulls out with a slick drag. Then back in.
Your legs are shaking now, and he holds them apart easily, pressing your knees wider with both hands, thumbs stroking up the inside of your thighs like he’s calming a tantrum.
You’re not even speaking anymore — just gasping, eyes glassy, body wracked with pleasure you’re not allowed to finish.
"Aw, you're close, aren’t you?" he says, voice full of mock pity. "I can feel it. The way you're fuckin’ clenching around nothing. Poor girl."
And then — tongue to clit. Direct. Pressure. Rhythm.
Small, tight circles, the kind that undo you fast. The kind that feel so close it starts to hurt. He keeps going. Tongue moving just right, lips closing around you to suck once, then again.
You cry out — louder this time — your body arched, trembling, so close you’re practically coming just from the promise.
Then—
He stops.
Everything.
Pulls back with a wet sound and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand again, like he’s done cleaning up a spill.
You’re wrecked — slick and soaked and shaking, your wrists pulled tight, your legs wide and utterly abandoned.
Tangerine looks down at you. No sympathy. No softness.
Just a smirk.
“Still don’t know how to follow simple fuckin’ orders.”
And then he stands. Quiet. Unhurried.
Leaves you there.
Wet. Empty. Denied.
Exactly like you deserve.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH
Nina Virelli was raised to follow rules — especially her father's. When danger whispered, she was meant to lie low, wait, obey. But she ran. Always, and eventually for good.Now, far from safe, blood on her hands and fire at her back, Nina is being hunted for reasons no one will explain.
But the shadows chasing her aren’t the only ones with secrets.He finds her in the wreckage: sharp-suited, sharp-tongued, and entirely unwelcome. Tangerine. A British bodyguard-slash-assassin with a violent reputation and eyes that see straight through her bravado. He doesn’t answer questions. He doesn’t ask permission. And he's not letting her out of his sight.Thrown together by a threat neither of them fully understands, Nina and Tangerine navigate a world of coded warnings, burning lies, and dangerous chemistry.
She wants answers. He wants her alive. But as the lines blur between protection and possession, staying ahead of the kill order might not be the hardest part.She was supposed to stay put. She ran. Now he’s the only thing standing between her and the next bullet — and maybe, the only one who sees the girl beneath the name Rabbit.
TW: blood, profanity, injuries, a very hot British man
Chapter 3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Masterlist
2pm | 9 Hours and 33 Minutes ago
Nina knew it was happening — she just didn’t know what exactly. Was she blacking out from the pain? Finally passing out from dehydration, or just nodding off like her body had made an executive decision without her? Maybe it was the air — thick with cigarette tar, stale sweat, and something moldy that bloomed the moment she sat on the mattress. The stench hit her like a physical blow, dizzying, like the room itself had exhaled after being sealed shut too long.
Her vision tilted.
The floor swayed.
And for a second, Nina couldn’t tell if she was about to faint, fall asleep, or just die a little from the sheer weight of everything.
She didn’t so much lie down as collapse sideways, gravity doing the rest. The room spun around her, the walls bending like heat haze.
And then—nothing.
Blank.
Somewhere around 7pm | Approximately 4.5 Hours Earlier.
A soft whimper escapes Nina’s cracked lips. Reflexively, she licks them — a futile attempt to soothe the raw sting of dehydration. Her right hand lifts, slow and clumsy, to rub at her eyes. Her hands feel heavy, sunken. The whole body buzzes with a dull, throbbing ache. She blinks at the faded ceiling above her, disoriented, a dreamer half-surfacing, unsure of how much time has passed or why she’s even conscious.
Didn’t she pass out? Or… die?
No, clearly not. She tsks — not just in thought, but out loud, the dry click of her tongue barely audible in the stillness. The room smells even worse now, like damp mildew baking in the warmth of her own breath.
And then — she hears it.
The reason she’s awake.
A sound. Muffled. Just outside the door.
Voices.
Low. Tense.
And her name.
Nina jerks upright, her body rebelling at every motion. She has to use both arms to prop herself up — arms that feel like they’ve been wrung out and left to dry. Everything aches. Her shoulder protests first, then her ribs, then the deep-set burn in her right thigh that flares like it’s been freshly sliced open. Her breath hisses out through clenched teeth.
She doesn't know how long she’s been out — an hour? Two? More? The window still lets in the same dim light, but it feels thinner now, more distant. And without adrenaline to mask the damage, her body feels impossibly heavy. The skin itches with sweat and grime, and the bruises she hadn’t counted before are now screaming in unison.
It takes her three attempts to stand.
By the time she’s on her feet — if that’s what this unsteady, limping posture could be called — she’s already panting. Her left hand drags along the peeling wall for balance as she hobbles toward the door. Her knee buckles slightly, and she nearly collapses again.
She leans her weight into the door — half to brace herself, half to listen, albeit gingerly. Her body trembles with the effort, but she shifts just enough to avoid creaking the hinges or nudging the frame. She didn’t want the weight of her body to make any sound — not a sigh, not a shuffle, nothing that might draw attention to the tarnished brass digits bolted crookedly to the wood.
Room twelve had to stay invisible.
There it is again.
Voices. Blurred by distance and muffled by the warped wood. Nina can’t even tell if the voices are male or female.
One of them clipped, precise.
The other more fluid. French? No — maybe. She can’t tell.
But had she heard her name? Nina? Or was it just something similar, twisted by sleep and language into something familiar?
Or something worse?
She presses her ear tighter to the door, heart thudding against it.
Her head’s still thick with sleep — that heavy, airless kind that leaves thoughts half-formed and everything too slow. The room tilts slightly, or maybe that’s just her. One eye still refuses to open all the way. Her limbs ache, but it’s her mind that stumbles.
The voices shift again. A scrape of a heel? A laugh?
She tries to chase meaning, but the words slither away before they settle. Just echoes in the dark.
Maybe it was her name. Maybe it wasn’t.
But the certainty that someone is out there — talking, moving, watching — roots itself deep in her gut.
She doesn’t move. Not yet. Doesn’t breathe.
Just listens.
Because if they’re here for her — really here — then the worst mistake she could make is being sure too soon.
Nina holds her breath, pressing her ear into the wooden door as hard as possible, to a point where the helix starts hurting and reminding her that’s pushing a bit too hard. But there’s nothing heard from that corridor.
A minute passes, Nina breathes out, relieved.
Thud, thud, thud.
A knock — no, a pounding — rips through the silence. Heavy. Intentional. Not far, but not close enough to explain the terror now blooming in her chest.
She jerks back, slaps her hand over her mouth. Not just to stifle a scream — to stop even a breath. Her eyes slam shut like that might make her disappear.
But it doesn’t.
The thudding shifts. Another door. Closer now. Each blow is deliberate — not curious, not concerned, not some hotel clerk checking in. This was the kind of knock that came with consequences. That came with intent. The kind you’d hear if your downstairs neighbor had finally had enough and wanted you to feel it.
Her pulse is racing, nausea curling behind her ribs.
Then — voices. Not distant anymore.
The first one is sharp, female, fast French — angry, unmistakably hostile. Nina flinches. She can’t make out the words, but the tone is the kind that doesn’t leave room for misunderstanding.
Another voice answers — small, cracked. A young girl. Nina freezes. The one from the lobby?
Then a third — older, rasping with smoke. An older woman. But not cruel. If anything, it mirrors the girl’s: frightened, conciliatory.
Footsteps — retreating, fading unevenly down the hall. One set lighter, hurried. Another, slower, heavier. Then nothing.
Silence.
Not peace. Not safety.
Just that awful, stifling quiet that comes after a storm hasn’t hit — yet.
Nina stays frozen, her ear still pressed to the door, as if the wood could promise her answers. Her breath is shallow. Her body aches from tension.
She stays glued to the door for five minutes—maybe longer. Long enough for her pulse to stop clawing at her throat. Long enough for the ringing in her ears to settle into a dull hum. She doesn’t know if what just happened was real danger or just noise twisted by fear and exhaustion, but she’s not taking chances.
Besides, she physically can’t move yet. Her limbs aren’t responding, not properly. Every nerve is drenched in fatigue, her muscles pulsing with lactic acid and trauma. The door is the only thing keeping her upright. If she lets go now, she might fold.
Eventually, she pushes herself off it, swaying slightly. Her eyes fall to the bed, where she dropped the duffel bag — or near it. She limps toward that corner, one dragging step at a time, her right thigh radiating sharp, concentrated pain with each motion. Her shoulder throbs. Her body feels like it’s been hollowed out and filled with concrete.
She finds the bag — a dingy, dirt-streaked shape collapsed beside the bedframe. Her fingers fumble with the zipper. Maybe there’s something inside. Pills, at least. Anything. Because if someone knocks again, she doubts she’ll have the strength to run. Or even fight.
One slap, and she’s out.
And a part of her — the smallest, most beaten-down part — might even welcome that.
She takes her time, combing through the contents of the duffel with methodical care, her fingers clumsy from exhaustion but deliberate. Nina is careful in her movements, more aware of the pain, and endeavoring not to exacerbate it, she avoids using her right thumb. Maybe she missed something outside — maybe the clues were always meant to be here, waiting in the folds.
The first thing she pulls free is a square of black fabric, neatly folded and still holding the creases from whoever packed it. Nina brings it to her face and inhales.
Lavender. And something citrusy.
Tangerine. Right. It dawns on her — that strange, almost tender detail. A tiny, perfectly round fruit that had been resting on top of the bag’s contents when she first unearthed it. The scent clings faintly to the fabric — bright, citrusy, unmistakable. It’s not perfume. It’s real. At some point, it must’ve rolled and gotten buried. She digs deeper and finds it: a small, slightly bruised — not as perfect any more — tangerine nestled between the folds of fabric. Its rind has rubbed off on everything, leaving behind a ghost of sweetness that lingers in the seams.
Her stomach knots instantly. She hasn’t eaten in hours. Maybe longer.
Still, she doesn't peel it. Not yet.
She unfolds the piece of fabric — a T-shirt, baggy, anonymous. Perfect. It’ll cover everything that needs hiding: the cuts, the blood, the shape of her fear.
She keeps digging.
Two pairs of black underwear — boxers, plain, utilitarian. A dark hoodie with a reinforced hem. Leggings, stretchy but heavy enough to pass for pants, also jet black. A single pair of socks. A cap. At the bottom, almost an afterthought: sunglasses in a hard shell case, tucked deep and wrapped in tissue.
Her fingers find the passport next. Canadian. She remembers it, the fake name, a weirdly edited photo of her.
A toiletry kit sits just under the clothes. The standard one: toothbrush, travel toothpaste, bandages, tampons, antiseptic gel, wipes, band-aids, shampoo and shower gel sachet, a dull razor. The essentials, carefully rationed. None of it comforting. All of it calculated.
And then, deeper — a second bag, smaller, heavier, deliberately hidden beneath the others. Nina unzips it slowly, bracing for something worse.
Instead, she finds exactly what she needs.
Pills — blister packs of paracetamol, penicillin, and two sleeping tablets sealed so tightly the foil resists her pulsating thumb. A small orange bottle of caffeine pills rattles when she picks it up. Practical. Sharp. Lifesaving.
A switchblade — compact, cold, and wickedly sharp. She tests the grip but doesn’t open it.
Yet, her fingers linger on the switchblade. Next to it, the red ink pen — metal-bodied, heavier than it looks. She turns it over once in her hand.
Weapons.
Both of them. Not overt, not dramatic, but tools that could maim, kill, survive.
A tremor ripples through her chest, and she shuts her eyes. No. She doesn't want to be that girl again — the girl who memorized soft spots on the human body and practiced slicing motions on fruit. The girl who was always ready for violence. She left that girl behind. Buried her, even.
But apparently, not deep enough.
The sob punches out of her throat before she can stop it — raw and tight and involuntary. It bubbles up fast, a full-body ache she’s kept caged since the boutique.
But she doesn't let it win.
Nina clenches her jaw, forces the sob back down, bites it into silence. Then she looks at the tangerine, and lunges.
She tears the rind open with shaky fingers, peeling fast and messy, like an animal starved. Juice splatters across her hand. She doesn’t care. The citrus stings the cuts on her fingers and thumbs but she’s already stuffing the segments into her mouth — tart, bright, overwhelming. It burns her tongue. She devours it anyway.
Between mouthfuls, she grabs the painkillers. Two pills, bitter and dry against her tongue. She swallows them with the next wedge of fruit, barely chewing.
She shoves the bag onto the floor beside her. The scent of lavender and citrus clings to everything, faint but insistent, incongruous in this room reeking of smoke, sewage and mold.
Something plastic clinks quietly as it rolls out from under a not-so-folded-any-more T-shirt.
Gum.
A slim silver pack — breath-freshening, sugar-free, still sealed. Ridiculously ordinary. The kind of thing you’d buy in a train station kiosk, right before vanishing into a crowd. Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. Of course. Survival, but with minty breath.
Then her fingers close around something small and cylindrical — a lipstick tube. She freezes.
Matte black. Heavy. Expensive.
She pops the cap and twists. The color is bold — deep red, too theatrical to be practical. She knows the brand, knows the weight, the shade, the statement. This isn’t for blending in. It’s for control. For defiance. For performance.
Of course he packed it.
“You disappear, Rabbit,” he’d said once, “but never look like you running.”
Nina reaches for the burner phone again. The screen flickers — battery nearly gone — but still no signal. She checks just to make sure, and the SIM must’ve been deactivated. Perfect. One more dead end.
The digital clock reads 19:23.
7:23 p.m.
She blinks. Five hours. Somehow, her body had shut down that long. It doesn’t feel like rest. Her limbs are jelly, her head is full of static, her insides twisted from hunger and stress.
And now what?
One body. One bag.
Was she supposed to find a body? Guard the bag? Be the body?
She digs into her back pocket, finds the crumpled note, still faintly damp at the edges. The red ink has bled across the fold lines like tiny veins. It’s ripped near the corner — maybe from when she shoved it in too fast — but the writing is still legible.
Rue des Iris.
One bag. One body.
Stay put. He’ll find you.
Don’t do anything stupid.
"Stay put?" The words tear out of her throat like broken glass. She crushes the note in her fist, knuckles whitening, tendons standing rigid. It dares to give her nothing—no explanation, no mercy, just that infuriating, useless command.
A snarl rips from her. "You ruined everything." Her hands move before she thinks—rip, shred, destroy—the paper splitting apart like it deserves. Red ink sprays like arterial spray across her jeans, her hands, the floor. Good. Let it look like what it is: violence.
Gone. All of it—her cousin’s stupid birthday cake, the vacation she’d begged her dad to give her money for, the life she’d clawed together. Even her own skin feels like a betrayal, stiff with dried blood and grime.
She yanks at the denim stuck to her thigh, pain screaming up her leg. "Fuck!" The fabric peels back with a sickening tug, revealing raw flesh beneath. Dirt. Blood. Weakness.
Her breath comes in jagged heaves. She needs to clean the wound. All of them.
But first? She grinds the shredded note under her heel. Harder. Let it be dust.
Nina drags her palms down her face, fingers digging into her temples—then pain. A jolt, white-hot, as her fingernail grazes the wound. She hisses, jerking upright. Right. Clean up. Move.
She staggers toward the chipped, piss-yellow, her reflection splintered in the glass. Barely noticeable paper cups litter the counter—stained, warped from old moisture. Her eyes light up — drink. She snatches one, crushes it too hard in her grip before forcing her fingers to loosen.
The faucet groans. Brown water sputters out, swirling with sediment. Nina’s stomach lurches. "Christ," she mutters, but her throat is sandpaper, her tongue still burning from the tangerine’s cruel acidity. She shuts her eyes—don’t think, just drink—and gulps it down.
Metallic. Chlorine. Salt. It coats her teeth, her gums, wrongness in every swallow. But her body betrays her, desperate. Cup after cup, water sloshing over her chin, dripping onto her shirt—
Then her arm gives out.
Water slashes across her cuts. She gasps, the sting a bright, clarifying agony. Enough.
Panting, she lifts her head to the mirror. For a heartbeat, she’s terrified she’ll see her—that cold-eyed ghost of the girl they tried to mold. But no. Just Nina. Her Nina. Wide green eyes, pupils blown with fear. Mouth slack, water dribbling like she’s a kid who forgot how to swallow. A mess. A human mess.
Behind her, a light bulb flickers, dying. Once. A barely noticeable strobe-light glimpse of the room behind her—a door. Slightly ajar. Dark.
Her pulse kicks.
A clue? A body? A bag stuffed with something worse? Her thigh burns with every limping step, painkillers just beginning to blur the edges, but her shoulder still shrieks when she shoves the door open—then exhales, sharp. A bathroom. Of course. Cracked tiles, rust bleeding from the faucet, a showerhead crusted with neglect. The air reeks of mildew and something sour underneath, like the ghost of sweat and old piss.
Shower. Now.
She drags the listing desk across the floor, its legs screeching. Flimsy barricade, but better than nothing. The duffel bag yields its contents: antiseptic, bandages, the razor. All uselessly sterile. She hesitates over the shampoo and shower gel sachets—peach-scented, absurdly cheerful—and makes that face, the one that says why the hell not. Grabs it.
Peeling the jeans off is hell. The fabric clings to her skin, practically fused there by layers of dried blood, sweat, and grime. Inch by inch, she fights it down her legs, wincing as the denim tugs at every cut and bruise.
Two phones tumble from her back pockets and hit the floor with a dull clack — the burner, already dead, and hers. She blinks. She’d forgotten about it entirely, tucked there before the bombing, before everything spiraled.
Maybe it works. Maybe the city’s back online. It’s been hours — surely the blackout’s been dealt with by now?
But no. The screen is cracked down the center, flickering dimly, and at the top corner: No Service.
Nothing.
She steps into the shower, bare feet pressing onto the stained tile floor. The water is cleaner than expected, than from the sink’s tap— cloudy at first, then running clearer — but cold. Not even a trace of warmth. The kind of cold that stings, then numbs.
She scrubs anyway.
A sachet of cheap peach-scented shampoo tears open between her fingers. It’s too sweet, cloying almost, but the lather feels like absolution. She works it through her hair, then over her skin with the matching shower gel, watching streaks of dirt, blood, and soot spiral down the drain.
The wounds sting, especially when the water hits them directly. Shallow slices along her thigh, her shoulder, the raw patch where the shard had been. She winces but keeps going, jaw locked.
Afterward, she brushes her teeth at the sink in the main room. Her gums bleed a little. She spits pink and leans on the rim with both hands, blinking at her reflection in the warped mirror.
She dries off with the smallest towel imaginable she found in the tiny bathroom — barely more than a rag. Her skin is still damp, her wounds pink and angry. The raw patch on her thigh throbs. Water made it worse — or made her feel it for real. She doesn't know.
She eyes the leggings in the bag.
Tight. Dark. Meant for running, or hiding. For someone uninjured.
Nina hesitates.
Her hand hovers over them, then drops. No. Not yet. Not until the pain stops screaming. Instead, she pulls on the oversized black t-shirt and the boxers — loose, merciful. Enough to cover her. Enough for now.
She limps back to the mattress.
Still damp. The air around her thick, soured by mildew and time. The faint scent of peach clings to her — too sweet, too clean for this place.
The paper cup is still where she left it, warped and limp. She refills it from the shower head where the water is cleaner, and drinks again — slower this time. Less desperation. Her throat doesn’t burn anymore. Her hands shake a little less.
She draws her knees up beneath the t-shirt and wraps her arms around them, careful not to press too hard against the wounds. The thigh bleeds a little again — or maybe it’s just weeping. Either way, she ignores it.
Staring at the wall.
Thinking.
Ruminating.
Waiting.
11:40pm
She’s zoned out—eyes open, but seeing nothing. Her thoughts loop, stuck on today’s chaos, dragging every moment back up for dissection, as if sense might emerge if she turns the angles just right. Sipping repulsive water, and going over everything that’s happened to her.
The torn pieces of the note lie scattered like debris across the room. Ink red, loud, even in fragments. One bag. One body. Stay put. The words won’t leave her alone. They’ve embedded themselves in her skull more than the paper ever did her hands.
What did it mean—one body? Was the tangerine in the bag a warning? A code? Or just her father’s twisted version of tenderness?
She doesn’t know how much time has passed.
The light outside’s different now. Cooler. Dimmer. The walls haven’t moved, but something’s shifted.
Her wounds have dried, scabbed over a little, in stinging constellations. No more fresh blood. No more weeping. Just a dull ache in her skin, and a heavier one behind her eyes.
Still, she doesn’t move. Not yet. Her body’s here, but the rest of her isn’t.
Yet her consciousness is pulled back—yanked hard, like a rope snapping taut around her ribs. It jerks her into her body, into the weight of her limbs, into the damp cling of fabric against tender skin.
Noise.
Somewhere downstairs.
The lobby.
It’s not loud, not yet. Just movement. A voice, maybe? Or the creak of old hinges. Her ears feel full of cotton, slow to catch up, but her instincts are faster. They latch on to that sound, dragging her back from whatever mental drift she’d sunk into.
She stiffens. Every muscle suddenly aware of itself.
Not again.
She rises instinctively, joints cracking like old furniture, one hand reaching for the phones on the floor.
Then the pain hits. A chorus of aches flaring to life like a light switched back on. Her shoulder protests first, then her thigh—an angry, pulsing reminder of the sprint, the glass, the collapse. Even her ribs chime in with a sharp, disapproving twinge that shudders through her chest.
She winces, dragging in a shaky breath. The painkillers have already worn off. She’d underestimated her body’s limits.
The burner’s dead—nothing new there. A useless hunk of plastic now. But she grabs her own phone, just in case. Maybe something’s changed. Maybe Monaco’s managed to reboot itself in the past hour, maybe the sim card is actually working, and it was just a blip a few hours ago.
No signal. The screen flickers. Still cracked. Still silent.
A bitter exhale leaves her.
It’s dark outside now — really dark. The kind of quiet that presses in through the window and coats the room in stillness. Her phone’s screen glows faintly in the gloom, the only working light source in this place.
11:40 PM.
It’s been thirteen hours.
Jesus.
There’s no time to cry about it. No time to mourn her phone crawling down to 15%, no charger in sight. No skincare routine to salvage what the smoke and stress have done to her face. No TikTok to scroll through mindlessly, no clean sheets to burrow into and pretend the world isn’t unraveling.
All she has is this bare, piss-yellow mattress, and the stolen black jacket she laid over it like a sad excuse for a barrier. Just enough to keep her open wounds from pressing against whatever lives in the fabric of this bed.
Yet the noise downstairs only builds — not urgent, but insistent. A raucous swell of voices, overlapping, sharp with agitation. Not screams. Not violence. But the kind of heightened tones that come with frustration, or too much cheap alcohol, or both. Male voice, definitely…a few female ones threading through. Laughter, maybe. Or shouting. It’s hard to tell.
But then she glances down.
She’s standing in the middle of the room in nothing but the black boxers and a T-shirt someone had so neatly packed for her. No pants. No armor. Her body still humming with the aftermath of exertion, her skin pulled tight around bruises and scrapes that haven’t had time to heal.
And the door—right, the door—is still barricaded.
Not ideal.
Getting it unjammed would mean straining her shoulder again, maybe even her thigh. And if she does manage to move it, the sound would echo all the way down the hall, like an announcement: Here I am.
Besides—what then? She’s in no state to run. Definitely not to fight.
So she stays.
Bare-legged. Breathing. Listening.
And waiting for the noise to either go away… or come up.
So, Nina limps back to the jacket-covered mattress, and waits, listening, straining her ears. Her ears strain to filter meaning from noise, her breath shallow, her fingers twitching where they rest on her thigh. They are still not shouting, but talking, and talking, and eventually, the noise stops. Nina breathes out, relieved—
But something shifts.
Footsteps. Heavy, confident, determined. She breathes in, holding her breath, waiting for what’s about to come. Maybe that’s someone who came in earlier, thudding on the doors. Now they sent in a man.
She slides off the mattress, slow, controlled, reaching for the duffel bag at the edge of the bed. Her fingers find the switchblade. Cold. Compact. Too small. But it opens with a click — sharp and mechanical — and she crouches with it, blade glinting under the room’s sickly yellow light.
It’s not enough.
She knows that. The girl in the back of her mind tells her so — the one who never forgets. This isn’t power. It’s theater. Comfort. Delusion. What she needs is a real knife. A Glock. Something that makes people back off, not bleed out slowly if she gets lucky.
The footsteps grow louder — the weight of them sinking into the floorboards with precision. Whoever it is, they’re not sneaking. They’re announcing. Nina’s heart races, blood rushing in her ears. No, please, not this time. Not after everything. She isn’t ready. Not to fight. Not to die.
The steps stop.
Right outside her door.
Nina crouched by the bed, spine rigid, the switchblade clutched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. The blade wavered ever so slightly, not from uncertainty, but from the tremor in her hand she couldn’t suppress. Her breath came shallow and sharp, like each inhale had to sneak in unnoticed. The muscles in her jaw ached from how hard she was clenching her teeth.
She hated this part — the waiting. The horrible not-knowing. It was worse than the run, worse than the noise, worse than the smoke and screams. At least then, adrenaline had carried her. But now? Now there was only stillness. And fear.
The door handle moves.
The sound is microscopic — a twitch of metal, barely more than a breath — but it detonates inside Nina like a bomb. Her entire body locks up, muscles seizing, every nerve ending lit up in a scream. The handle doesn't rattle. It turns. Slowly. Deliberately.
Not a mistake. Not some drunk guest fumbling with the wrong door.
Someone knows she’s here.
Her fingers tighten around the switchblade, her thumb brushing the cool spine of it to remind herself — yes, it’s real, it’s sharp, and it’s all she’s got. The room seems to shrink. The peach-scented air from the shower curdles with sweat and fear.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Nina’s eyes snap to the window — the only fracture in the room’s suffocating enclosure. It’s narrow, not made for escape. But she’s narrow too. And right now, narrow is enough.
She pushes herself upright with a grunt, the switchblade still clenched tight in one hand. Her sock-covered feet slip slightly on the dusty floor as she moves, quiet but clumsy, her body a patchwork of protests. Her thigh screams, her shoulder throbs, but she forces herself to the wall anyway.
Each step toward that sliver of salvation costs her, but she makes it. Plants herself just beneath the window, heart pounding, breath shallow.
If the door bursts open, she’ll only have a second — maybe less.
Yet, the door doesn’t open. Of course it doesn’t — she locked it the second she stumbled into this room. But it’s an old door. Warped, tired wood with a rusted bolt that barely held when she twisted it shut. It wouldn’t take much. One good kick — two, maybe — and it would give. Splinter, cave in, shatter like everything else today.
Nina stares at the handle, frozen.
“Nina? Come on now, don’t make me ruin these poor sods’ nice little hotel. Be polite, yeah? Open the bloody door.”
Nina doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
The voice hits her like a blow to the chest — male, thickly British, biting with sarcasm. The same one. From the alley. From the threat.
Her hand spasms around the switchblade, fingers aching with how tightly she’s clutching it. Not the careful grip of someone prepared to fight — the desperate grip of someone trying not to drop it.
She presses back against the wall, just under the window’s narrow ledge, as if she could vanish into it. Her whole body is rigid, joints locked, jaw clenched so hard her teeth throb.
Her brain is screaming move, climb over, but her limbs won’t. She can’t think. Can’t plan.
He’s here.
He’s here.
The door explodes inward with a single kick — a crack of splintered wood and warped metal.
The desk she'd shoved up against it collapses instantly, one of its uneven legs — the stack of old paperbacks — shooting out across the floor with a dull thud.
Nina lurches back, pressing herself closer to the wall, to the narrow window, switchblade trembling in her grip. Her breath catches, lodged somewhere in her throat.
He steps into the room like a goddamn threat in silk. Every inch of him is composed, dangerous, and far too sharply dressed for a place like this.
His suit is midnight black, cut within an inch of obsession — a three-piece tailored masterpiece that hugs his frame like it was sewn on mid-gunfight. The waistcoat gleams faintly under the hallway light, lapels sharp, pocket square crisp, tie knotted like a noose made for someone else. Over his shoulder, he’s slung a black coat — long, dramatic, heavy enough to sweep like a cloak when he moves.
His face is clean — disarmingly so. No stubble, no blood. Just that full, brutal moustache, immaculately groomed. But his right hand? Caked with dried blood. Knuckles bruised, gold ring dull with gore. The cuff of his shirt is soaked through, the fabric around his wrist dark and stiff. Like he stopped to fix his sleeve after beating someone into confession.
He doesn’t just see her. He reads her. Those eyes — pale, deliberate, the kind that clock exits before introductions.
Nina can’t meet them. She doesn't dare. Her gaze snaps to his shoes, to the doorframe, anywhere but his face. Looking him in the eye feels like a provocation, a mistake she doesn’t want to make.
He clocks her state in half a second — the trembling, the boxers, the damp black t-shirt sticking to her bruised frame, the cracked lips and dried blood like paint on her thighs.
He lets out a low whistle, something mean curling in his throat.
“Well, fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, with a kind of amused pity. “You look like roadkill that got un-run over.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
His gaze sweeps the room next — the sunken mattress, the jacket covering it like a shroud, the sour air hanging thick as soup.
“Christ, love — this your idea of a safehouse or a bloody hostage negotiation with mildew?”
He steps in, boots crunching against god knows what on the floor, eyes sweeping the wreck like it personally offended him.
“Smells like regret and cheap shampoo. You nestin’ or decomposin’ in here?”
Her mouth stays shut, jaw clenched so tight it aches. One word might tip this into something irreversible. He glances at the desk crumpled at his feet and then back to her.
“You done with your little panic attack, love, or should I let you get back to pissin’ yourself quietly?”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
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Nina Virelli was raised to follow rules — especially her father's. When danger whispered, she was meant to lie low, wait, obey. But she ran. Always, and eventually for good.Now, far from safe, blood on her hands and fire at her back, Nina is being hunted for reasons no one will explain. But the shadows chasing her aren’t the only ones with secrets.He finds her in the wreckage: sharp-suited, sharp-tongued, and entirely unwelcome. Tangerine. A British bodyguard-slash-assassin with a violent reputation and eyes that see straight through her bravado. He doesn’t answer questions. He doesn’t ask permission. And he's not letting her out of his sight.Thrown together by a threat neither of them fully understands, Nina and Tangerine navigate a world of coded warnings, burning lies, and dangerous chemistry. She wants answers. He wants her alive. But as the lines blur between protection and possession, staying ahead of the kill order might not be the hardest part.She was supposed to stay put. She ran. Now he’s the only thing standing between her and the next bullet — and maybe, the only one who sees the girl beneath the name Rabbit.
TW: blood, profanity, injuries
Chapter 2
Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Masterlist
Notes: Tangerine doesn't appear until Chapter 3. You can skip ahead if you're only interested in his part, but the first two chapters are important for understanding the story and the original character's personality.
12:14pm | 11 Hours, 19 Minutes Earlier
Nina knows she’s on a clock. Just an hour ago, it was about getting to Nadia’s party on time — lashes curled, perfume tested on the right wrist, not a single smudge on her blouse. She was panicking over being late.
Now?
It’s a countdown not to die. In a country she barely knows. With blood on her hands and fire in the air.
Nina laughs, can’t help it. A short, bitter sound — involuntary. Ridiculous.
The contrast is so obscene, so absurd, she almost doubles over from it. One moment you're trying not to get chewed out by your cousin for showing up without glitter on your eyeshadow, the next you’re crawling through smoke with glass in your leg.
What a joke.
What a fucking joke.
She remembers Nadia’s last message. “Just don’t flake this time.” There’d been sparkle emojis.
Now Nina’s hands are red for real — not lipstick, not blush, but the kind that smells like iron and won’t wash off.
And Nadia? Nadia could be—
Nina stumbles into the shadow of a rusted stairwell, back pressed to the wall, lungs dragging in hot, chemical air. Every nerve is raw. Her legs are shaking, her vision swimming. But she forces herself still.
She doesn’t want this.
She’d spent years outrunning this — the drills, the survival prep, the constant pressure to be ready. She moved countries to forget that life. And yet here it is, blooming in her bones like it never left.
But she knows what to do.
Not because she’s brave — but because she was raised like this.
Her father’s voice is in her bones, not her ears. Barked over kitchen tables, muttered during drills, never gentle.
"Three breath. One — shoulder. You move it? Not dislocated. Two — ribs. You breathe deep? No crack. Three — face. Hurt to touch? Maybe break."
It was always broken English. Harsh. Practical. He never softened for her — just made her repeat until it stuck.
She obeys, hating that it helps.
One breath — her shoulder sears, but rotates.
Second — her ribs bite, tight and bruised, but she manages a draw.
Third — her temple stings, but not bad. Blood’s dried already.
She exhales shakily. She's still in one piece. Sort of.
She crouches lower, behind a busted tile crate. Her palms stick to the concrete, tacky with grit. A half-burnt flyer drifts past — it curls like a dead leaf, edges blackened, the words Summer Sale still visible in scorched pink.
Somewhere above, glass continues to crackle and fall like brittle snow. The alley's full of distant screaming. Somewhere, metal shrieks as something collapses. The air smells like burning wires, melting perfume, and fear.
Another lesson surfaces. She wishes it didn’t.
"Check what bleed. Check what break. You count pain later."
She looks down. Her hands are trembling — smeared with ash, blood, and something slick. Her thumb’s pulsing. She flips it, sees the shard buried near the joint.
She remembers that too.
"Small? You pull. Deep? You leave. Better slow bleed than fast."
She grits her teeth, presses her thumb against her jeans — and yanks. The pain is white-hot. A breath hitches in her throat, but she doesn’t scream.
Blood beads up, quick and red. She tears a strip from her ruined shirt and wraps it tight.
"Tight press. Up if you can. Clean later."
Next — her thigh. Shallow slices crisscross the skin, already drying at the edges. She wipes them roughly. Perfume oil smears with blood. Her jeans cling like a second skin — stiff with dried blood, soaked through with perfume and sweat, nearly glued to her thigh.
Her ribs still throb. Breathing’s sharp. Her shoulder aches every time she leans.
But she can move. And nothing’s broken. Yet.
She spits on the pavement. Rubs at her face with a shaking hand. Her knuckles are scraped, raw — from a wall maybe, or the floor.
"If it hurt, good. That mean you alive."
Nina wants to scream. Not from pain, but from how right he was. How this language of wounds and damage is the one she understands best.
She checks her phone again — desperate now, practically begging it to work in her head. To call Nadia. Her dad. Josh. Someone. Anyone.
But it’s still dead.
Still useless.
A breath shudders out of her — half sigh, half curse. She tucks the phone into her back pocket now; it had been in the front one earlier. But that spot’s too sore to bear weight anymore — the skin there tender and bruised from sprinting with the hard slab jabbing into her hip. It aches with every step, radiating heat.
She presses her palm there briefly, as if that might ease it. It doesn’t.
But there’s no time to coddle pain.
Habitually, she glances around. Not just for danger, but for eyes. Shadows. Anything that feels off— or more off than everything already is.
Nothing. At least, not yet.
She moves fast. Peels off what’s left of her coat — more ruin than fabric now. The left sleeve’s torn open at the elbow, threads dangling. One lapel scorched. The beige has turned nearly black with soot and perfume oil. A gash over the shoulder’s leaking, dark and slow, but not deep. She checks it with practiced fingers — no stitches needed, not if she’s lucky.
Nina balls the coat in her hands, hesitates — then wipes her face with the least ruined edge. It smears more than it cleans, but at least it clears the worst of the ash on her face.
Her hair is falling into her eyes — gritty with dust, matted with sweat. She fumbles a tighter ponytail into place, tugging the strands back with a wince. It doesn’t make her look better. But she’s curious, and Nina considers pulling out her phone again — not to toy with hope, not this time. But to take a selfie or at least look at herself in the camera.
No, not the best idea.
She’s terrified the reflection won’t show the person she’s become — but the girl she spent four years trying to bury–
Dread fills her body. Rapid, immediate, making her freeze, eradicating every thought she had in her head before.
A sound.
Not sirens. Not rubble shifting. Not the echo of someone else's disaster.
A voice.
“Nina?” Said with a heavy accent, but her name is unmistakable.
A pin drops inside her skull. Then everything inside her plummets.
Her blood turns to ice. No — glass. Splintered, brittle, sliding jagged through her chest. Her fingers go numb. No one here should know that name. Not in this city. Not now. Not after what just happened.
She freezes.
Arabic follows — the words curling through the alley like smoke, unfamiliar but heavy with something else. Certainty. Ownership. Like she’s already been claimed.
She doesn’t recognize the speaker. Doesn’t need to. Somehow, that’s worse.
Her brain scrambles. No face to assign. No reason. No why. Just the terror of being seen.
Her legs lock. Her lungs seize. Every instinct screams run, but she doesn't — can't. Running would mean she believes it. That it's real.
Instead, her body jerks sideways. Left.
She doesn’t have a plan — just the note burned into her mind.
Iris. A flower. A name. A thread.
Then—she remembers.
A plaque. Crooked, rusted, nailed halfway up a soot-streaked wall.
Rue des Lilas.
Not Iris. But close enough.
The letters on the plaque are faded, half-covered in ivy, but clear enough to spark something like hope — or desperation disguised as logic. She tells herself the streets must be connected, that Rue des Iris will branch off from here, or that someone nearby will recognize the name. The truth doesn’t matter. She just needs a direction. A reason to keep moving.
So she chooses this one.
Her legs begin to carry her forward, unsteady but committed. Each step feels like a negotiation between instinct and collapse.
The street opens in front of her, lined with old, sand-colored buildings and bright blue shutters, but she notices none of it. Her eyes are busy scanning every corner, every shop sign, every plaque bolted to aging stone.
She’s looking for the word Iris. Just one word. That’s all she needs.
But it’s not there.
What is there, though, are people. And they are watching.
They turn, some subtly, some without shame. A man seated outside a bakery leans back in his chair, gaze following her movements like he’s waiting for her to speak. Two older women pause their conversation near a fruit stall. A boy clutches his mother’s arm and points before being tugged along hurriedly.
Nina barely registers the attention, but she feels the weight of it settle onto her. And no wonder. She must look a state. Her face itches with soot. Her knuckles are scraped. There is a lot of blood on her—some of it hers, some not. Every movement tugs at the skin beneath her jeans. Her arm presses tight to her ribs, instinctively guarding the pain there.
And her eyes — if she dared to look at herself — would probably belong to someone else entirely.
She quickens her pace. Not enough to look like she’s fleeing. Just enough to keep the world at arm’s length.
There’s still no Rue des Iris. Only Rue des Lilas, growing narrower the farther she walks. She tries to convince herself it means something — that maybe the clue wasn’t literal. Maybe it’s symbolic, or coded, or half of something larger.
But the doubt keeps creeping in.
Eventually the buildings begin to thin, and the street comes to an end — a quiet cul-de-sac with cracked pavement and shuttered windows. Nothing here says iris. Nothing says safe.
Nina slows to a stop and stands very still.
Her lungs are heaving again. The heat in her body is unnatural — not just exertion but feverish. Her skin sticks to her clothes, her mouth tastes like ash, and her head swims with the onset of something she doesn’t want to name. Shock, maybe. Dehydration. Or just the body catching up to what the heart already knows.
She’s made a mistake.
She turns toward the nearest shadowed doorway and leans her weight against the cool stone.
And for the first time since the blast, she lets herself feel the edges of fear without masking it in movement.
She isn’t where she’s meant to be.
And the street has run out.
But Nina knows there’s no time to spiral. No time to pity herself or dwell on what hurts. Someone is out there — looking for her — and every second she wastes gives them a head start.
She has to move. Think. Act. Survive.
The only option that comes to mind, reckless as it is, is reaching out. Someone must know something. Maybe they’ve seen the sign. Maybe they’ve seen him.
She knows the risks.
She knows exactly what she looks like — a girl covered in ash and sweat and streaks of blood, stumbling through unfamiliar streets with eyes too wide and clothes torn at the seams. If someone is following her trail, all they’d have to do is ask. Anyone would remember her. Hell, they’d point her out before the question finished.
But that doesn’t change the fact: she needs help. And she has no other choice. A breath in. It tastes like metal and regret.
She pushes off the wall and tries again.
12:36pm | 10 Hours, 57 Minutes Earlier
Nina's voice cracks as she grabs the sleeve of a passing cyclist. "Rue des Iris? Please—" The man yanks his arm free, pedals churning air as he flees. His back says everything: Not my problem.
She turns to a mother herding two wide-eyed children. "S'il vous plaît—" The woman pulls the kids behind her like a human shield, crossing the street without breaking stride. The little girl stares over her shoulder, mouth forming a perfect O.
"Just—does anyone know—?" Nina's words dissolve into the hum of distant sirens. A shopkeeper slams his metal grate down. An old man makes the sign of the cross when she approaches.
Her gestures grow frantic—fingers sketching flowers in the air, the crumpled note waved like a white flag. A businessman in a torn suit finally stops, but his response is a machine-gun rattle of French: "...non...police...folle..." His hand slices the air between them as he backs away.
It's not just the blood streaking her jeans or the soot ground into her skin. It's the way their eyes slide over her—not seeing a person, but another piece of the day's chaos. The mall's smoke still hangs in the air. Somewhere, glass shatters. A woman screams into her phone.
Everyone wears the same stunned expression, the same thousand-yard stare. Survivors calculating risks: Help the bleeding stranger or protect what's left? The math never works in her favor.
She turns a corner blindly, head down, vision swimming. Nina takes a moment to steady herself — to breathe, to gather what’s left of her composure — before she starts asking around again. The pain and shoulder in her leg spikes. Her lungs ache. And still—
She keeps walking, turning down an alley so sharply her injured leg nearly buckles. The pain is a live wire now, each step sending white-hot sparks up her thigh. Leaning against damp brick, she presses her forehead to the cool surface and counts:
One breath. Two. The third sticks in her throat.
When she pushes off, the world tilts — briefly — before grudgingly righting itself. Every muscle protests, nerves buzzing, thigh pulsing with heat beneath the blood-soaked denim. She moves slower now. Purposeful. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Her entire body aches, and she doesn't give a damn — not when it’s taking everything she has just to stay upright.
Then — the gate.
Rusted iron, sagging on its hinges. And there, bleeding down the pitted metal like a fresh wound: A crimson iris.
Crude. Hurried. The spray paint still glistens in places where it hasn't dried. Someone came this way. Recently.
Her fingers hover over the petals, not quite touching. The red is too bright, too familiar. The note in her pocket burns like a brand.
Not an address. A trail.
Her lips part, but no sound comes. The relief is too vast, too terrible. This is how traps feel when they snap shut - with the perfect click of a puzzle solved.
She steps through the gate.
12:57pm | 10 Hours, 36 Minutes Earlier
The gate groans as Nina forces it open, rust flaking beneath her fingers. It resists—just enough to make her shoulder burn—before yielding with a metallic shriek.
She hesitates.
One glance back. Then another. The alley remains empty, but the silence feels deliberate. Like the city itself is holding its breath.
Stepping through, her sneaker catches on the elevated threshold. Pain erupts—white-hot, jagged—racing up her thigh like a lit fuse. She grits her teeth, fingers digging into the iron gate until the metal bites back.
Move.
But her legs aren’t cooperating anymore. The adrenaline that had carried her this far is leaching away, leaving behind only the raw, glass-sharp agony of wounds neglected too long. Every step sends fresh needles through muscle, as if the shards are still embedded in her flesh, splintering deeper with each movement.
For a dizzying second, she considers stopping. Collapsing right here in the dirt. Letting exhaustion win.
Then the gate creaks shut behind her with a sound like a hammer cocking. She flinches.
Her gaze sweeps the surroundings in sharp, quick cuts — scanning windows, doorways, rooftops. She’s slipping back into that hyper-aware state she hasn’t lived in for years, the one her father drilled into her like a second spine. Her hands tremble as she shakes her head, almost violently, flinging sweat and ash, trying to disassociate herself from that past. Stray strands of hair cling to her forehead—clammy, bloodied, and ashy.
She quickly adjusts her hair, using both hands, sloppily, like a toddler, but focuses her attention on what she’s seeing in front of her.
Behind the gate, shadowed in the alley’s throat, is a narrow courtyard — cluttered and half-sunken. A forgotten space. A toppled moped lies on its side near a pile of broken crates. A sagging clothesline sags overhead, holding bits of fabric. There’s a doorway in the back wall, solid and bolted shut — too sturdy to kick through.
She’s trapped. The gate clanged shut behind her, and now the courtyard feels more like a cage than a clue. Doubt begins to creep in, slow and insidious — had she misread the signal? Made another mistake?
But the graffiti paint still looked fresh. Recent. Deliberate.
This has to be the place. Doesn’t it?
Nina pushes deeper into the courtyard, scanning every wall, every surface. There has to be something. A sign. A mark. Anything. Climbing back over the gate isn’t an option — not in her state, not when it towers over her like a verdict. Her legs wouldn’t make it halfway.
She starts checking corners in quick bursts — frantic, barely breathing. Around broken bins, behind sagging crates. Her hands shove aside warped metal sheets and shattered bottles.
Nothing.
Only wind-stirred ash, rusted junk, and the sound of her own heartbeat pounding louder with every second.
Then — something catches her eye.
Near the back wall, half-buried beneath a dented crate, a corner of black plastic glints under the weak light.
She freezes. Moves closer. Brushes away the debris — a strip of cardboard, a scorched receipt — and pulls it free.
A phone.
Cheap. Burnt along one edge. Screen cracked. But it’s a burner. And it’s not old.
Still warm.
Still on.
She flips it over with a trembling thumb. No passcode. No apps. Just one thing on the screen:
1 NEW MESSAGE
No sender. Just a time stamp.
She clicks the message with a trembling finger, still covered in her shirt to stop the bleeding. Heart thudding so violently it feels like it might bruise her ribs from the inside. For a split second, her mind conjures every worst-case scenario — a photo of Nadia bound and gagged, a confirmation of her father's death, coordinates to her own execution. Her vision swims with panic, but when the screen loads, what’s there is something else entirely.
And still, relief washes over her like a wave — sharp, almost painful in its suddenness. Because no matter what the message says, it means someone planned for this. Someone knew. This phone wasn’t here by chance. She hadn’t stumbled into survival — she was supposed to find it. Which means she was supposed to run. That everything up until now wasn’t just chaos. It was part of something.
She exhales, ragged and shallow, and her grip on the phone tightens. But the question claws at the back of her mind with teeth: if she was always meant to find this — if this message was part of the plan — then what the hell did stay put mean?
She stares at the message.
“Сумка. Жвт готель. Чкй там.”
"Bag. Ylw hotel. W8 there."
Three broken phrases. Not even proper sentences. But unmistakably him.
Not just the clipped commands — but the Ukrainian. He always switched to Ukrainian when things were serious. Always said it was cleaner, harder to misinterpret, and not a lot of people spoke it. English was for business, for diplomacy. Ukrainian was for truth.
Bag. Yellow hotel. Wait there.
Nina exhales shakily. It’s real. All of it. The burner phone, the graffiti, the note — not some panicked coincidence, but a system. One she’d forgotten she was part of. She swipes the message closed and holds the phone to her chest, as if the warmth of her skin might make it more than code.
He knew. Maybe not everything, not the bombing or the exact time — but something. Enough to plant this, to trust she’d follow the thread.
The phone sat heavy in her palm - a useless slab of glass and metal. Nina thumbed the power button again, watching the screen flicker pathetically before displaying the same empty status bars. No signal. No networks. Just digital silence stretching into infinity.
1:10pm | 10 Hours, 23 Minutes Earlier
The gate wouldn’t budge.
Nina rattled it again, shoulder slamming into cold iron, but the lock held firm. No keypad, no handle—just smooth, unyielding metal. Behind her, the courtyard loomed like a cage, its high walls offering no other exit.
She exhaled, breath fogging in the air.
No choice.
Her fingers found purchase in the ornate scrollwork, boots scrambling against the bars. Every movement sent fresh knives of pain through her thigh, muscles screaming in protest. She gritted her teeth and hauled herself up, arms shaking with the effort.
Halfway over, her grip slipped.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. She hit the pavement on the other side in a graceless heap, biting back a cry as her wounded leg took the brunt of the fall. For a long moment, she just lay there, cheek pressed to damp concrete, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
When she finally pushed herself up, her body protested in a chorus of bruises and burns. Her hands were scraped raw. Her ribs ached with every breath. And her thigh—
She didn’t need to look to know it was bleeding again.
But she was already moving — limping toward something jaundiced and conspicuously yellow, or so she hoped.
Nina stood in the middle of the street, phone clutched in her trembling hand. The screen glared back—no bars, no Wi-Fi, no flicker of hope. Just that single message, stark against the void, before it too dissolved into darkness.
She tapped the screen again. Nothing.
Around her, the city was unraveling.
People clutched their own devices, shaking them, slamming them against their palms like malfunctioning toys. A man in a suit shouted into his, his voice cracking with frustration before he hurled it to the pavement. Glass shattered. No one flinched. It’s getting worse.
This wasn’t just a blackout. Not just some temporary glitch from the mall explosion. Not aimed just at her sim card.
The silence was deliberate. No emergency alerts. No news updates. No frantic calls for help. The entire city had been severed—cut off mid-breath, like a call dropped into oblivion.
She shoved the burner into her left back pocket — the regular one still tucked into the right. That made two useless phones and one fucking note to her name.
Nina looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of—
There it was. It hadn’t been hidden — just overlooked. She hadn’t thought to scan the skyline, too focused on the street level.
A tall, jaundiced-yellow building, standing like a bad joke against the smoke-washed skyline. Nina hadn’t noticed it before — too busy scanning for Rue des Iris, for painted petals, for something scarlet or floral or obvious. But this thing didn’t hide. It loomed.
Fifteen minutes away. Maybe twenty-five, in her current state — dehydrated, starving, aching in places she hadn’t even catalogued yet.
She’d get there. She had to.
Maybe her father would be waiting. Though that was wishful thinking — reckless, even. He wouldn’t risk that. He never had. If someone was waiting, it wouldn’t be him.
Maybe it was the same person from the boutique — the shadow, the voice. Maybe they’d followed her since.
But if her dad knew about the attack… why hadn’t he sent someone with her? Why hadn’t he warned her? Why the note, the cryptic message, the bombs?
Why the goddamn theatrics?
Why almost kill her just to save her?
Her thoughts were abruptly, violently cut short — English.
Not the clipped formality of French, not the rushed swirl of Arabic — but English, loud and unmissable, punching through the chaos like it didn’t belong here. She couldn’t catch the words, but the accent was unmistakable: British. Over-enunciated. Fast.
Boots, too. Heavy ones. Three pairs, moving in lockstep, coming from the left. The sound of trained steps — not tourists, not locals, but something worse. Something precise.
She was standing exposed, right in the street.
Nina didn’t think. She dropped — ducked behind a burnt-out scooter, heart crashing against her ribs. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they weren’t looking for her. But maybe wasn’t good enough anymore.
The realization hit her like a fist to the throat.
This is how it starts.
The hyperawareness. The constant second-guessing. The way her body moved before her mind could catch up—shoulder-checking reflections in windows, footsteps measured to avoid patterns, hands always loose and ready.
Old habits.
Old instincts.
That girl’s instincts.
Nina’s breath shuddered out of her. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want the cold calculation seeping back into her veins, the way her pulse steadied not from calm, but from the grim acceptance of danger. She had worked so hard to bury that version of herself—to become someone who didn’t scan every room for exits, who didn’t flinch at sudden noises, who could trust the world enough to walk through it unarmed.
The footsteps are getting louder — fast, clipped, military. Rubber soles over concrete. Sharp, decisive. Three sets.
She ducks lower behind the scooter, heart battering against her ribs like it’s trying to break out. The alley’s reek of gasoline and rot closes in around her, but she forces herself still. Invisible. Unmoving.
Then — voices. Male. British. Northern. Working-class rough, the kind that carried across construction sites and pub arguments.
"Fuckin' waste of time, this," grumbled the first, his boots scuffing against loose asphalt. "Boss wants her found, but the bitch could be anywhere."
"Could be dead already," chimed in the second, lighter, younger. A smoker's laugh rattled behind his words. "Saw the blood back there. Looked like a fuckin' crime scene."
A third voice, deeper, weary: "Don't get your hopes up. Women like her? Cockroaches. Always crawl away."
Their footsteps slowed near the alley's mouth. Nina's fingers curled into the gravel, tiny stones biting into her palms and grazed skin.
"Check the alley?" the younger one asked.
"Nah," the first scoffed. "Too obvious. She’s running, not playing hide and seek."
The third grunted. "She took a hit — won’t have gotten far."
"Bet she’s curled up in a drainpipe somewhere, bleeding out," the younger one snorted.
Their voices faded as they moved past, boots crunching toward the main road. Nina didn't relax—didn't so much as twitch until their conversation dissolved into the distant hum of the city.
But the damage was done.
Her breath came in shallow, silent hitches. Her muscles burned from holding position. And beneath the fear, something colder settled in her chest—the realization that they weren't just following her.
They were tracking her.
Methodically. Professionally.
And they'd just missed her by inches.
Nina waited a full five minutes after the voices faded before moving. When she finally uncurled from behind the scooter, her legs screamed—muscles locked rigid from too long in a crouch. She stood slowly, every joint protesting, and peered down the alley.
Empty. For now.
The city beyond was unraveling. Sirens wailed in jagged bursts, never quite close enough to be helpful. A car burned unattended at the intersection, black smoke coiling into the bruised evening sky. People hurried past with their collars turned up, eyes fixed straight ahead, as if looking at the chaos might make it theirs.
Nina moved with them, just another shadow in the crowd.
At a bus stop, a discarded black jacket hung over the back of a bench—some commuter’s forgotten armor against the chill. She palmed it without breaking stride, shrugging into the oversized fabric as she walked. The shoulders drowned her, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Good. Less of her was visible now. Less recognizable.
She kept her head down but her eyes up, scanning reflections in shop windows, tracking the too-slow stride of a man two blocks back, the way a van idled too long at the curb. Every face was a threat. Every glance lasted a second too long.
A block from the yellow building, a newsstand’s shattered TV played the same loop of smoke and screaming reporters.
Nina didn’t stop to watch.
She couldn’t afford to.
Not when the jacket’s previous owner might come looking.
Not when the mercs could be doubling back.
Not when the yellow building’s door—chipped paint, flickering bulb—was finally in sight.
She makes it halfway across the next street before her knees give out.
It’s not dramatic — not a fall, not a scream — just a sudden, breathless crumple, like a puppet whose strings were clipped. Her vision tunnels, white blooming at the edges, and she barely catches herself on the curb.
A metallic taste floods her mouth.
She crouches there for a beat too long, head bowed, lungs rasping like old bellows. The adrenaline’s gone, or maybe it’s turning on her now — her body seizing control, slamming the brakes. Pain roars up through her thigh, her ribs, her shoulder — everywhere. It’s not just soreness. It’s a symphony of warnings.
She squeezes her eyes shut and counts. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Then, with fingers that no longer feel like hers, she pushes upright again.
One block to go.
That’s it. Just one.
1:40pm | 9 Hours, 53 Minutes Earlier
The hotel’s facade was jaundiced and cracked, the kind of yellow that made Nina’s stomach turn — feverish, chemical. Paint peeled like sunburned skin. Above the entrance, a neon sign stuttered and gasped: HÔT—L DE LA S—RÈ—E JA—NE. Only half the name survived, flickering with sickly persistence.
Near the base of the doorframe, she saw it. The red iris — small, sharp, deliberate. Just like the one before, same style. Just like the one that saved her. Her eyes dropped lower. The pavement was disturbed — not trampled like the rest of the street, but scraped, sifted through.
She sank to her knees. Her muscles screamed. Her ribs compressed like faulty scaffolding. Her fingers, coated in grime and clumsy with exhaustion, scrabbled at the tile seams. Her thumb throbbed with every nudge. Her shoulder — the bad one — nearly locked when she reached forward, the pain making her eyes blur. She hissed through her teeth, bracing her elbow against the ground. It wasn’t strength that failed her — it was everything else. The shakes. The heat. The crawl of dehydration in her skull.
Finally, she felt the edge of something.
Canvas. Gritty. A strap.
She pulled — not hard. She couldn’t. Her body protested every inch. The bag came free anyway, loosed from its hiding place with a whisper of dry mortar and dust.
She unzipped it on instinct.
Inside, the smell hit first — clean cloth, soap, something faintly citrus. A change of clothes. Basic toiletries. A rubber-banded stack of euros. A passport she didn’t recognize with a name she didn’t answer to — Elena Vasseur, Canadian. A small brass key with a faded yellow tag: Chambre 12.
And nestled beside it all, ridiculous in its brightness — a tangerine. Perfect. Untouched.
Nina stared. Her throat tightened. Her body wanted to cry, scream, collapse. She did none of those things.
She just sat there, the bag in her lap, and whispered:
“Okay.”
She rose slowly, the duffel bag dragging down her shoulder like an anchor. Her grip slipped more than once—her fingers too raw, too numb—and by the time she crossed the threshold, she wasn’t sure if she was carrying the bag or if it was carrying her.
The air inside was worse than outside: thick with the lingering stench of overcooked lentils, mildew, and stale cigarette smoke. It stuck to her throat like grease. The lobby was dim and yellowed, a forgotten waiting room for ghosts. Cracked tile floors spidered in every direction. A ceiling fan hung useless and dust-choked, swaying slightly as if moved by memory alone. The reception desk looked warped by water or time—or both.
Behind it, a girl.
Fourteen, maybe. She had mascara smudges under her eyes like bruises and the wary stillness of a stray animal. In her hands, she gripped a bent gossip magazine like a weapon, pages trembling as she stared.
Nina didn’t waste time with small talk. She lifted the brass key with effort, holding it eye-level. Her voice was hoarse.
“Où?” Where.
The girl blinked, startled. "D-deuxième étage."
Nina didn’t understand. Her mind was too frayed to translate. So she dropped the bag to the floor with a heavy thud, let out a breath through her nose, and held up two fingers. Then pointed at the key. Then at the stairs. A simple question: Which?
The girl’s nod was jerky, almost fearful, but she raised her own fingers—two—and then pointed again. Upstairs.
Nina gave no thanks. No nod. Just bent to hoist the bag again with a grunt and turned toward the stairs, one trembling step at a time.
Chambre 12 was at the end of a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of bleach and something older — the kind of scent that settled into wallpaper and never left. The number on the door was crooked, the brass digits barely clinging to the wood with rusted screws. The key scraped against metal before finally giving way with a reluctant groan, the lock catching like it hadn’t been turned in months.
The room was small — claustrophobic, really — but it held the shape of safety.
A narrow bed jutted out from the wall, its iron frame chipped and rust-streaked. The mattress sagged in the middle, and the sheets were the color of old teeth — once white, now yellowed with time and countless occupants. A desk sat to the left, barely upright, its legs uneven, one replaced by a stack of faded paperbacks. The lamp on top leaned left like it had given up fighting gravity, its pleated shade bruised and dented.
A chipped enamel sink was bolted to the far wall, its mirror cracked at the edge. The reflection it offered was warped, like water disturbed — Nina’s face staring back at her in smudged fragments, her jaw lined with soot, her eyes ringed in exhaustion.
But the window—
It was small, high up, barely more than a slit in the wall — but it was cracked open. Just enough to feel the draft. Just enough to climb through if she had to.
An escape route.
And no one else.
No shadow by the window. No bag in the corner. No sign anyone had ever been here.
She let the duffel fall to the bed with a dull, exhausted thump and sank onto the mattress beside it, wincing as the springs groaned beneath her. The ache in her thigh flared, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. Just sat there, surrounded by yellowed walls and stale air, heart thudding in her ears like a countdown she couldn’t read.
For the first time in hours, she exhaled.
Not peace. Not relief.
But a pause.
Safe. Yet alone.
For now.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH
Fanfic description:
Nina Virelli was raised to follow rules — especially her father's. When danger whispered, she was meant to lie low, wait, obey. But she ran. Always, and eventually for good.
Now, far from safe, blood on her hands and fire at her back, Nina is being hunted for reasons no one will explain. But the shadows chasing her aren’t the only ones with secrets.
He finds her in the wreckage: sharp-suited, sharp-tongued, and entirely unwelcome. Tangerine. A British bodyguard-slash-assassin with a violent reputation and eyes that see straight through her bravado. He doesn’t answer questions. He doesn’t ask permission. And he's not letting her out of his sight.
Thrown together by a threat neither of them fully understands, Nina and Tangerine navigate a world of coded warnings, burning lies, and dangerous chemistry. She wants answers. He wants her alive. But as the lines blur between protection and possession, staying ahead of the kill order might not be the hardest part.
She was supposed to stay put. She ran. Now he’s the only thing standing between her and the next bullet — and maybe, the only one who sees the girl beneath the name Rabbit.
Notes: Tangerine doesn't appear until Chapter 3. You can skip ahead if you're only interested in his part, but the first two chapters are important for understanding the story and the original character’s personality.
TW: blood, profanity
Chapter 1
Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Masterlist
11:33pm | Now
Nina’s hand betrays her — fingers spasming around the cheap fucking paper cup as she tries and fails to lift it like a normal person. Her grip slips. Water sloshes over her wrist, stings the open cuts, drips down to her elbow in slow, shivering trails. Chlorine, metal, blood — all of it coats her tongue like rust. She swallows anyway. It’s disgusting.
Pathetic.
She’d carve her own veins open for one swallow of something strong. Just one. Just enough to numb the white-hot wire screaming under her skin.
But she won’t. She knows better.
It would be reckless.
Ludicrous.
Especially now. Especially after that note that warned her specifically not to do anything stupid. Crumpled in her back pocket, already burned into her palm like it branded her: jagged strokes of red ink she hadn’t seen since she was fifteen. She didn’t need to read it again. She knew every word. Every curve. That handwriting lived in her bones — grocery lists, birthday cards, the warning he left her before the fire. The one she ignored.
A sound claws its way up her throat — not laughter, not a scream, something in between. Raw. Ugly. She bites it down with her teeth. Thank God no one’s here to see this. No one to see her flinch when her ribs protest. No one to see her limp, or the blood dried along her thigh.
No one to ask what the hell happened.
No one to lie to.
The blast might’ve been hours ago, but the ringing’s still there — under her skin, behind her eyes. It left her with nothing but a scorched bag, a dead phone, and a name she doesn’t use anymore.
Rabbit.
She hates that name. Hates that it still fits.
She exhales. Slow. Hollow. The tremor in her fingers hasn’t stopped since the boutique. Since the ink. Since her world didn’t just crater — it fucking exploded. Left her standing in the rubble with nothing but time, a dingy duffle bag, and a promise that someone would make sense of all this.
All she’s got now is regret, resentment, and the fading hope that anyone’s still out there — or ever was.
10:32am | 13 Hours Earlier
Nina moves through the mall with a restless kind of energy, eyes flicking from one shop window to the next. Everything’s too new — the shine of it all, the foreign language threading through the air, the hum of a city she’s only just stepped into. It should feel overwhelming. Instead, it feels like a high.
She’s not here to sightsee, not really. This trip’s about family — about showing up for her cousin’s birthday like she promised. And somehow, being here, with the people she grew up missing more than she ever let herself admit, makes the world feel a little less heavy. Lighter. Louder. Realer.
They’d laughed for hours last night, over cheap wine and stories that only make sense when you’ve got history. It’s been too long.
And for the first time in months, maybe years — she’s almost okay with being seen.
The girl opens the Notes app on her phone, determined not to waste a single minute. There’s no time to dawdle. Nadia — her cousin — had made it crystal clear that Nina needed to be there by 3pm sharp. And her cousin hadn’t exactly been subtle about it. She’d emphasized the time five different ways: over text, on a voice call, during FaceTime, in person when the girl landed in Monaco yesterday, and again this morning in the group chat. Honestly, if Nadia could have stitched the time into the sky, she probably would have.
Nina’d debated heels, then remembered yesterday’s cobblestones and chaos. Sneakers. Jeans. The coat. Fashion that could turn on its heel and vanish. Besides, she’s on a mission here today.
She shakes her head, a small chuckle escaping as she imagines the dramatic outburst that would follow if she were even five minutes late. Nadia would probably start a countdown. Still smiling, Nina shifts her focus back to her notes, scrolling to the list she made three days ago — a mental map of gifts she needs to pick up. Most are for Nadia, of course, but she’s promised herself something indulgent, too.
Nadia’s list is surprisingly simple — almost austere, given the cousin’s flair for the extravagant: a floral perfume (any brand, as long as it’s expensive), new lace lingerie (pink with glitter, because “Josh will lose his mind”), and a teal-colored watch. Most of the items on the list have been spoon-fed to her — practically dictated — but she doesn’t mind. That’s one of the things she likes about Nadia. Nothing irritates her more than guessing games and cryptic hints; she has no patience for playing cat and mouse.
The mall is large—spacious enough to get lost in—but the girl’s planned ahead. There’s still time. No need to rush. And she certainly isn’t eager to repeat yesterday’s disaster: butchering sign language, mangling English, and dredging up the broken French she’d picked up on the flight here while some poor shopkeeper stared at her like she was speaking in tongues.
“Perfumes first,” Nina mutters, nodding like the motion might force commitment. God, this is going to be hell. She’s picky enough about scent on a good day — add Nadia’s standards into the mix, and she’s doomed. Two hours, minimum. Test strips, cloying top notes, assistants tossing around words like “sillage” and “drydown,” and the ever-present threat of picking something that earns a dramatic sigh and a perfectly arched eyebrow.
Still, it’s Nadia.
And for Nadia — she’ll grin, bear it, and pretend her nose isn’t already preparing to riot.
She scans the floor directory, eyes skipping past the usual clutter of brands until she lands on one she recognizes — a French boutique Nadia swears by. Minimalist branding, maximalist price tags. Perfect.
She’s about to head for the escalator when she feels it — that electric tug at the base of her neck. The air shifts, just slightly. That sixth sense: someone watching.
Her gaze flicks upward, instinctively.
On the level above, across the open atrium, a man is leaning against a vending machine like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Heavy boots planted wide. Jeans stiff with wear, stained at the knees. A bomber jacket zipped halfway, the collar dark with grime and wear. His face is lean, angular — too angular — the kind of face that looks prematurely aged, like it’s lived through too many winters and too few smiles. Greasy, slicked-back hair. A five o’clock shadow that’s crawling past acceptable.
And he’s looking straight at her.
And he’s watching her. Not curious. Not impressed. Just locked in.
His mouth curves into a smile — small, deliberate, and dead behind the eyes. A twitch more than a gesture.
She holds the stare for a second, expression unreadable. Then looks away.
Men look. Men stare. Some smile. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s used to it — she knows how to hold her own space without letting it get under her skin. Especially not here, not now.
She keeps walking.
Perfume first. Then lingerie. Then the watch. No improvising. No delays. Nadia’s countdown has probably already started.
But behind her, the man hasn’t moved.
And his eyes haven’t left her. She doesn’t notice. Her attention is already somewhere else — fixed on the task, on the list, on getting everything just right for Nadia.
The store is minimalist — clean lines, muted tones, and a soundtrack so curated it feels like it was designed in a lab. Every detail screams restraint and wealth. And the assistants? Sycophantic to the point of choreography. Two spot her instantly and make a beeline her way, smiles locked in place before her second foot crosses the threshold.
“Welcome, mademoiselle,” one of them says, her voice warm velvet. “May we assist you in selecting something exquisite today?”
In English. Flawless.
She blinks. It throws her, just for a second — she hadn’t expected that. She thought she’d be fumbling through a mix of French, hand gestures, and hope. But they clocked her the second she walked in.
Tourist. Money-adjacent. Service in English, of course.
She straightens slightly. Offers a small, polite smile.
"Yes. I'm looking for a perfume. A gift."
The assistant closest to her — tall, elegant, with her dark hair pinned into a sleek twist — lights up instantly. There’s no question about her training; she moves with the composure of someone raised in a principality that runs on luxury.
A second assistant approaches — slightly younger, with warm brown eyes and a light Monégasque accent that smooths the edges of her English. Her tone is soft, confident.
“Of course. This way, please.”
They begin with a classic rose. Then a tuberose. Then orange blossom laced with fig leaf and bergamot. She listens to each description, nods, tests them one by one on the provided paper strips — and when that’s not enough, she lets them spray along her wrist, her elbow, the curve of her hand. Within fifteen minutes, her skin is a gallery of fragrant layers, each battling the last for attention.
“No,” Nina says, pausing to fan one strip back toward her face. “Too sugary. She hates anything that smells like dessert.”
“And this one?” the first assistant offers another.
She takes it. Inhales. Shakes her head. “Too light. She wants something that stays with her all night. Something that lingers.”
Time slips by — fifteen minutes, then thirty, then more. The assistants don’t falter. One refreshes the testing strips with clinical precision. The other offers her water and a small bowl of coffee beans to reset her nose.
By minute forty-seven, she’s starting to doubt. Nothing feels right. Either too juvenile, too subtle, too basic.
And then — finally — the younger assistant returns from the back, holding a bottle with pale pink liquid and a heavy gold cap, silk ribbon tied at the neck.
“This,” she says, laying it on a velvet tray with reverence, “is Éclat de Rose Sauvage. A centifolia rose with a heart of neroli and saffron. Warm base — sandalwood and musk. Long-lasting. Elegant.”
The first assistant nods. “It’s bold, but not brash. Feminine. Memorable. We sell out of it often.”
She lifts the strip, inhales — and there it is. Rich, luminous, floral with a flicker of spice and warmth underneath. Romantic, but not naïve. Expensive, without being gaudy.
Nadia would love it. Would probably Instagram the packaging before even opening the box.
Nina doesn’t think twice.
“This is the one,” she laughs, nodding with almost frantic relief — the kind that only comes after nearly an hour of smelling wrong answers. Finally, she’s nailed it.
The assistants beam in return, though their smiles don’t quite reach their eyes. All part of the performance.
“Shall I wrap this up for you, mademoiselle?” one of them asks, already reaching for the velvet-lined tray.
She nods, content, and follows them toward the register — the hunt over, the prize secured.
Then she stops. Mid-step. Spine straightening. Every nerve pulling taut.
There’s a man standing at the boutique entrance, half-shadowed by the glossy light spilling from the store. And he’s looking straight at her.
Is it the same man as before?
No, no, doesn’t seem like it. This one’s different. His gaze is steady, almost... kind. Sympathetic. Not piercing or assessing, not the kind of look that makes your skin crawl.
Just — still.
One of the assistants follows the girl’s gaze and brightens immediately, practically glowing at the prospect of another customer. The brunette one wastes no time. She floats toward the man, all polished charm, her sales pitch ready to fire.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Shopping for your wife? Perhaps a wedding anniversary? Or a romantic surprise?” she asks, voice dipped in honey, gestures fluid and welcoming.
Nina watches, unmoving.
Because something isn’t right.
He isn’t smiling.
And he hasn’t broken eye contact. Not once.
The girl tears her gaze away, scanning the room to see if anyone else has noticed — and she’s not alone.
The assistant who was meant to be ringing her up now stands frozen beside the register, her hands hovering uncertainly over the wrapping paper. Her eyes flick rapidly — from the girl, to the man, to her colleague who’s already mid-pitch. Back to the girl again.
Something unspoken ripples through the space.
She’s clocked it too.
Not just a new customer. Not just another wealthy man in tailored shoes.
This is off.
And no one’s quite sure what to do about it.
The man ignores the assistant beside him completely. Doesn’t spare her a glance. Instead, with a slow exhale — something heavy in it, almost mournful — he walks toward the girl. His eyes don’t stray. Not for a second. Locked on her like they’ve been waiting.
Her body tenses.
His right hand slips into his jacket pocket.
She takes a cautious step back.
Weapon?
It’s been a while. She’s worked hard to leave that part of her family behind — the calls, the favors, the coded messages no one else understood. But with a father like hers, you never really get to stop checking shadows.
He notices.
His expression shifts, just slightly. A quiet shake of the head, lips barely moving — Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.
Then, just like that, he brushes past her. Shoulder to shoulder. Too close. Deliberate.
The perfume testers slip from Nina’s hand and clatter to the floor.
He pivots. Quickly.
“Apologies,” he says — calm, collected.
He walks to one of the nearby displays and begins browsing the glass shelves like nothing happened. Like he’s just another man searching for a gift to smooth over some domestic oversight.
The girl curses under her breath, low and sharp, shaking her head in discontent. Her pulse hasn’t settled. Every instinct tells her something's off — but there’s no alarm, no scene. Just quiet, polished luxury and the hum of distant music. She crouches to gather the scattered perfume testers, brushing aside the pale strips of scented paper one by one.
And then she sees it.
Tucked between two crumpled testers — something that wasn’t there before.
A square of paper. Folded. Slightly yellowed. Corners soft and torn like it’s been handled too many times.
She picks it up, heart hammering now. The paper is warm from the lights, maybe from her skin — or maybe just from fear.
She doesn’t turn it over.
She unfolds it. One careful corner, then another, hands trembling. The creases fight her — like they’ve been locked in place too long.
And then — the writing.
Her body locks.
That handwriting. His handwriting.
Slanted strokes like knife cuts. That violent red ink bleeding through the fibers.
Nina’s stomach plummets. Her knees nearly buckle — no air, no air — as her fingers freeze around the note.
It’s him.
That same jagged scrawl from childhood. The one that curled across lunchbox notes (“Eat your carrots, rabbit”) before it morphed into warnings on Polaroids (“Don’t be late” with a timer drawn beneath). That exact shade of red he only ever used when something had gone irreversibly wrong — “Black’s too easy to fake, blue’s for cowards” — now searing her palm like it has something to say.
He used it only once before.
On the envelope they handed her the day her mother died.
Red wasn’t just ink. In their family, red was a signal. A code.
It meant move. It meant run.
It meant too late.
Her chest tightens. Not like breathlessness — like drowning. She forces herself to read.
Rue des Iris.
One bag. One body.
Stay put. He’ll find you.
Don’t do anything stupid.
Her fingers curl tight around it. Instinct. Panic. The note crumples in her fist like a fuse.
And still — she tucks it away. In her jeans back pocket.
Because it’s already too late. She’s back in the game. And someone’s already bleeding.
“Mademoiselle?” the assistant calls again, softer now, but with concern threading her voice.
The girl snaps back into her body like she’s just been yanked underwater. She forces a nod — stiff, mechanical — and steps up to the counter.
“Yes, sorry.” She murmurs, barely audible, handing over her card.
Her hands still tremble. Her voice doesn’t sound like hers.
But Nina needs to finish this. Needs to keep up appearances. Needs time to think. Needs to win some time — if there’s any left to win.
The assistant smiles, polite, unfazed, and inserts the card into the reader.
Beep.
A pause.
Too long.
Declined.
A tiny frown creases the assistant’s brow. She glances up, apologetic but professional.
“Let’s try again,” she says softly, as if it might be her fault.
Beep.
Longer pause.
Declined.
And again.
Declined.
The screen flashes red. Her name. Her bank. A string of numbers that don’t mean anything — but the implication is clear: card locked.
Nina’s stomach flips — not because of the money. She knows what this means. She knows the sequence.
Lock the card. Isolate the phone. Cut the signals.
Contain.
A beat of silence — too thick, too loaded. Her throat tightens.
She looks at the reader like it might explain something. It doesn’t. It never does.
A thud — deep, muted, unnatural — from somewhere down the hall.
The floor trembles.
A few people glance up. Some freeze. Others laugh nervously, like they’re waiting for someone to say it was just construction.
Then the second explosion hits. Louder. Closer.
Glass fractures. Lights flicker. The polished air of luxury vanishes in a breath.
The boutique shakes, and screams rise like a wave. Alarms stutter to life.
But Nina’s not screaming.
She’s staring at the front of the store — through the fractured glass — at a plume of smoke rising from a shop across the atrium. Another perfumery.
And that’s when it hits her.
Not a random attack.
They knew.
They knew she was coming here.
They knew she’d be shopping for perfume.
They weren’t after the store.
They were after her.
12:05pm | 11 Hours and 25 Minutes Earlier
She wants to obey. Stay put. But instinct screams louder than memory. And instinct says: run.
She bolts.
No thought. No perfume. No bag—just the phone jammed in her jeans, digging into her hip with every stride.
Just run.
Then — boom.
A store nearby goes up in a fireball — close. Too close. The pressure wave slams into her like a truck, and the boutique’s glass detonates inward.
The blast knocks her sideways, her ears ringing with a dull, underwater whine. Tiny shards slice across her forearm and thigh — not deep, but enough to make her stumble. Her jeans tore at the thigh, denim darkening with blood. The coat flared as she hit the ground, catching glass like a net. Blood dots her skin in a spray of red against her clothes.
She doesn’t cry out.
Can’t. There is no time.
The fire alarm’s wail is swallowed by a new, roaring chaos — screaming, smoke, sprinting feet. The air’s thick with perfume vapor and scorched upholstery. Heat pulses off the floor. Lights flicker like dying stars.
She crashes through the ruined entryway, shoulder grazing a jagged edge of broken glass — another sting, another cut. The boutique behind her is already choking on smoke, its elegant displays now twisted metal and ash. Her ears ring with a high-pitched whine, like a tea kettle screaming in her skull.
People surge around her, some frozen in place, others filming with trembling hands, mouths agape. Idiots. No one understands — this isn’t random.
She barrels through a side corridor, away from the crowd. Emergency lights blink dimly. Her blood leaves streaks on the wall as she catches herself mid-slip. Every inch of her is humming with terror, adrenaline screaming through her veins.
The note said wait.
If she had — she’d be in pieces.
She doesn’t stop.
Can’t.
The next explosion is even closer — deafening, like the air itself is being torn in half. Heat chases her down the corridor like a wave. She ducks instinctively, arm shielding her head as the shockwave punches through the hallway, shattering a row of glass storefronts behind her.
A screech. A flash of movement. Then—
A man — a security guard maybe, she can’t tell — is hurled across the corridor like a ragdoll, body slamming into a marble column with a sickening crunch. His limbs twist at impossible angles before he drops, motionless, a trail of crimson already spreading beneath him.
Nina stifles a scream.
She can’t stop, she reminds herself.
The walls groan, ceiling tiles crashing down in wet, smoking chunks. The hallway is filling with smoke — not just gray, but black, chemical, choking. Sprinklers hiss, but they’re too slow, too weak. A scent hits her nose beneath the burning: melted plastic, flesh, charred silk.
Her foot slips on something — not blood, not yet, just perfume oil slicking the floor like ice. She regains her balance on instinct, surging forward.
People are screaming now — real screaming, panicked, not shocked. Alarms blare like dying animals, lights flicker and fail. Somewhere behind her, someone is begging for help.
She doesn’t look back.
She knows the second she does, she’s dead.
Another boom rocks the ground beneath her. Tiles crack. A wall caves in behind her, rubble crashing where she stood seconds ago.
Keep going.
She slams through an emergency door, shoulder-first, lungs heaving. No time to process, no time to feel. The sound is with her now — in her bones, in her blood — and it’s not stopping.
They’re sweeping the whole floor.
Room by room.
Store by store.
She doesn’t know how many corridors she’s taken — left, right, a metal stairwell, another left — it’s all a blur of smoke and flickering light. The air thickens with every step, full of glass dust and scorched perfume, coating her tongue like ash. Her throat is raw. Her legs are screaming.
Then she sees it.
A flicker of stark white light ahead, buzzing fluorescent tubes barely holding on. Cold, sterile, humming like a morgue. She stumbles into a different kind of hallway now — one that smells of bleach and old plastic. Utility corridor. No music. No mirrored displays. Just linoleum tiles and concrete breath.
Her footfalls echo.
Her sneakers slipped on the slick tile, soles smeared with something she didn’t want to name. One shoelace gone. Her coat swung open, heavy with smoke and blood.
To the right: an overhead sign, plastic and bolted to the wall, cracked but legible.
SORTIE DE SECOURS
EMERGENCY EXIT →
And underneath it — thank god — a smaller English sticker half peeled from the wall:
NO CUSTOMER ACCESS
Close enough.
She bolts in that direction, lungs dragging air like knives. The scent back here is worse — gas, burnt plastic, old bleach — but there’s no fire. Not yet. Just the noise of it, growing more distant behind her.
Another blast rocks the floor.
Tiles crack. Fluorescent tubes burst above her in a rain of glass. She shields her face and doesn’t stop.
The hallway veers left. Then forks.
She hesitates — wild-eyed — then sees it: a door at the end of the left corridor, painted red with a faded white stencil barely legible under grime:
SORTIE – EMERGENCY EXIT – USCITA
Finally.
She barrels toward it, boots slipping on slick tile. Something wet underfoot. Water or fire retardant — she doesn’t care. She throws herself at the door—
It gives.
She stumbles into the alley like she’s been spat out — smoke curling after her, hot breath from the mall’s lungs. Her boots slip on the grease-stained concrete. The door slams shut behind her with a final clang. It could’ve been a guillotine.
But she’s out.
Air. Harsh and sour — laced with diesel, rot, and something chemical. Maybe plastic. Maybe skin.
Her jeans are slashed, one leg soaked. The coat hangs half off one shoulder, torn and scorched. She looks nothing like the girl who walked into the boutique. Nina looks like someone who’d clawed her way out of fire.
For a split second, she just breathes. Then the world rushes in.
Screams echo from the main street beyond. Tires screech. A horn blares — too long, too loud. Someone shouts in rapid-fire French. Another voice answers in clipped Italian. None of it makes sense. None of it matters. Her brain can’t translate what it’s never been taught. And the voices are panicked anyway — everyone’s language sounds the same when they’re terrified.
Something explodes again — farther off, but high. Maybe a floor above. Maybe a rooftop. A plume of black smoke twists into the sky behind the mall, carried by the sea wind, casting the sunlight in sickly bronze.
She can hear glass shatter around the block. The distant clatter of steel against stone. Helicopter blades chop the air overhead, slicing slower than her pulse.
Then — across the alley — a sedan slams into a row of parked scooters, sending them skidding into the street like dominos. The driver jumps out mid-roll, yelling into a phone. He nearly clips a woman sprinting across the sidewalk with a crying child in her arms. A storefront alarm wails across the road. Shopkeepers shove metal grilles down over their windows, locking up mid-day. No one stops to help anyone. Everyone’s running.
The city is unraveling at the seams.
She presses herself against the alley wall, trying to disappear into the concrete. Her fingers dig into the crumbling stone. Trying to breathe, to calm her nerves down, at least a little bit.
Her hand reaches back, slow and uncertain — fingers trembling, dust-caked, the knuckles raw and streaked with blood. A sliver of glass is still lodged near the base of her thumb, pulsing with every heartbeat. Her palm, tacky with sweat and grit, brushes the denim of her jeans — stiff now with ash, smoke, and a smear of blood from her thigh.
It takes two tries to hook the edge of the note.
Her shoulder aches from the force of the door she rammed through minutes ago, and the motion sends a ripple of pain down her ribs — bruised, maybe cracked, from the last blast. But she gets it. Pulls it free.
The paper’s damp now — her sweat, maybe, or the burst of fire-retardant mist still clinging to her clothes. The red ink has bled a little at the edges, but it’s still legible to her. Still unmistakable.
Her father’s handwriting.
Still that fucking ink.
Rue des Iris.
One bag. One body.
Stay put. He’ll find you.
She glances to her left — a faded street plaque nailed halfway up the wall:
Rue des Lilas. Wrong flower. But close. Has to be close.
She wipes the soot and sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm, smearing blood across her temple. The cut must’ve been worse than she thought — glass, maybe. Doesn’t matter.
Her phone. She yanks it from her pocket. The screen is a spiderweb of cracks, glass biting into her thumb lightly as she thumbs it on. Tries again.
No signal.
No GPS.
No map.
Someone’s jamming the network. Or killed it.
She fights the panic crawling up her throat. Can’t stay here. Can’t ask anyone. Doesn’t speak enough French — just the tourist scraps. And even if she did, who would stop to help now?
She crumples the note back into her hand like a lifeline — fingers curling tight, knuckles whitening despite the tremor. The paper sticks to her skin, damp with sweat and grit, its creases digging into her palm like splinters. She doesn’t dare look at it again.
Not now.
With a breath that barely makes it past her cracked lips, she shoves it back into her pocket — deep, like burying something sacred. Tucked away. Out of sight. But not out of mind.
Not ever.
She looks up, scanning the street around her.
Rue des Iris. Somewhere. Has to be.
And if it isn’t close…she’s already out of time.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Masterlist for more chapters and more fun
DO NOT COPY, REPOST, TRANSLATE, TOUCH, PRINT, UPLOAD, DOWNLOAD, AAAHHH
♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: a hot British man, smut, profanity, a bit og degradation, oral (f receiving), edging, orgasm denial, bondage, mocking dirty talk, overstimulation, desperation, and many very hot words.
He gave you three rules when this job started. First one — do exactly what I say.
But you broke that one today, didn’t you?
Now you’re back at the safehouse, hands still stained with someone else’s blood, wrists tied with his silk tie, legs spread with Tangerine kneeling between them — not to punish you, no. To remind you. With his mouth. With his fingers.
And with a promise that hits deeper than any threat ever could.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
• Tangerine x Reader | "𝓢𝓪𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓻𝔂" | Smut
A delicious rough smutty one-shot
♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: a dangerously hot British man in a three-piece suit, rough and mean, brat taming, degradation + praise, fingering (f receiving), orgasm denial, overstimulation, dominance/submission dynamics, filthy mocking dirty talk, power play, slight breathplay (hand on throat), begging, rough handling, clothing destruction, emotional tension, and one very desperate, ruined reader.
You fucked up the mission on purpose.
Not enough to get anyone killed—just enough to get him angry. Because it’s been two months since Tangerine touched you, and you’re done pretending you don’t want it again. You just didn’t expect him to take it so personally. Now it’s late. You’re alone.
And he’s about to remind you exactly what happens to brats who go looking for trouble. With his hands. With his voice. And with no intention of being gentle.
♡ warnings and deviant lil things to look out for: Enemies (kinda) to lovers, emotional power play, silent treatment, psychological teasing, alcohol as a coping mechanism, exhibitionism undertones, accidental overhearing, eventual smut (please read the warning in chapter 3, it's pretty flithy) (because I need to get you going before you get the actual thing, hehehehe)
You and Tangerine — longtime partners with history, bite, and denial to spare — are forced to pose as newlyweds in a luxury Viennese suite. The mission? Infiltrate a Cold War artifact auction. The real challenge? Surviving each other.
Years of repressed tension simmer beneath forced affection and velvet sheets. A single kiss in an elevator cracked the surface — now every touch, every silence, every calculated glance threatens to break the dam.
You’ve faked a marriage. And playing house starts to look dangerously close to foreplay.
Slow-building tension culminating in explicit smut with emotional stakes
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
• Tangerine x OC | "Run, Rabbit"
TROPES: Running for Your Life, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn
Nina Virelli was raised to follow rules — especially her father's.
When danger whispered, she was meant to lie low, wait, obey.
But she ran. Always, and eventually for good.
Now, far from safe, blood on her hands and fire at her back, Nina is being hunted for reasons no one will explain. But the shadows chasing her aren’t the only ones with secrets.
He finds her in the wreckage: sharp-suited, sharp-tongued, and entirely unwelcome.
Tangerine. A British bodyguard-slash-assassin with a violent reputation and eyes that see straight through her bravado. He doesn’t answer questions. He doesn’t ask permission. And he's not letting her out of his sight.
Thrown together by a threat neither of them fully understands, Nina and Tangerine navigate a world of coded warnings, burning lies, and dangerous chemistry. She wants answers. He wants her alive. But as the lines blur between protection and possession, staying ahead of the kill order might not be the hardest part.
She was supposed to stay put.
She ran.
Now he’s the only thing standing between her and the next bullet — and maybe, the only one who sees the girl beneath the name Rabbit.
➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.
➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”
➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”
➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”
➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”
➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.
“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.
“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”
➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”
➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”
However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!
➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.
If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)
➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“
“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.
➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.
➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”
➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.
“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”
➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.
“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”
