baby blue

Constantly changing because my mind is a revolving door

[bbyblumarine]

⋆˚꩜ BABY BLUE’S Masterlist⋆˚꩜

Hi! My name’s Blue :’) I’m currently on a Tangerine / Kraven binge so those are the characters I’ll mainly be writing for. Feel free to send requests, but no promises on whether I’ll write them or not - always depends on my mood hehe. Enjoy, beautiful people.

KRAVEN THE HUNTER

TANGERINE

CLARK KENT/SUPERMAN

[woke2]

Richard gadd pioneering a genre of gay tv previously unseen outside of my dead dove ao3 bookmarks just wasn't something i ever considered could happen

[im-just-peachy]

my personal (niche) tangerine headcanons <3

(except they get more and more weirdly specific)

Gets WAY too invested in football matches

Like to the point of screaming at the telly and complaining to you when West Ham is low in the standings

“No, babe, you don’t understand. They're fuckin' in EIGHTEENTH?! How the HELL did they... If they get relegated, I’m going to rip out my fuckin’ hair. They literally HAD THE GODDAMN BALL–”

Big fan of classic lit (canon to the book anyway)

Loves female authors and has read basically every Virgina Woolf piece imaginable

Has a particular soft spot of Pride and Prejudice

(it’s actually his favorite book, but will very obviously distract from that fact by droning on about the prose of To the Lighthouse or Wuthering Heights instead)

Secretly, he thinks of you and him as Elizabeth and Mr.Darcy

Guilty pleasure favorite artist is Lady Gaga

And he keeps that shit UNDERWRAPS

...until one day you hear him singing bad romance in the shower a little too loudly

He’s a Scorpio, and his birthday is October 23rd 

Lemon’s birthday is also October 23rd, by some coincidence, and that’s why they decided at an early age they were twins

Additionally, Tangerine’s middle name is ‘Thomas’ and Lemon as a kid thought that was the coolest thing EVER.

[bbyblumarine]

“I WILL KILL FOR YOU; I WILL LIVE FOR YOU.”

SUMMARY: After the Bullet Train, Tangerine lost his mind. When he finds you, could there be something worth staying sane for?

WARNINGS: Dark!Tangerine - poor baby’s gone to cuckoo land. Violence, suicidal references, stalking, murder, blood, simply deranged behaviour. Incredibly angsty. This is also the longest thing I’ve ever written so any reblogs and likes would mean the absolute world to me <3 <3 <3

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

After the train crashed, Lemon had dragged Tangerine’s withering body to the hospital. The gunshots he’d sustained were brutal, and severe — but what was even worse were the near-fatal injuries to his head.

Within weeks, his body had been patched up the best it could be, but one thing that the doctors weren’t able to heal was the irreparable brain damage. Tangerine, already a notoriously hot-headed man, had now been burdened with an infallible rage that could never be doused. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was pain, and hate — and such a hateful world it was. Where he once killed for a high monetary salary, he was now killing to dampen the violence that waged war in his mind. ‘Ridding the world of vermin, Lem—that’s all it is,’ is all he had to say in response to Lemon’s horrified face when he caught wind of the string of homicides being plastered all over the news.

Lemon didn’t know what to do; long gone was the well-mannered, cheeky lad from East London. In his wake, was this maniacal monster, leaving behind a trail of severed body parts as breadcrumbs wherever he went.

It reminded Lemon of when they were younger: out at a park up to no good, they’d witnessed a hooded thug knife an old man several times, presumably to rob him. In the days that followed, Lemon and Tangerine eavesdropped on the conversations between adults. It was then that they learned that there was no motive behind the man’s actions; he just wanted to cause pain.

Lemon wondered, now, if Tangerine could remember that incident — if he realised that he had now become that man.

This continued for months, reaching a point where Lemon knew he couldn’t even try to restrain him anymore. Instead, he took a step back, refusing to watch the only family he had left destroy his own life.

Then, came the day where Tangerine was ready to kill himself. Cigarette hanging out his mouth, he’d climbed along the canal where he knew it would be silent. He watched the ducks float past, and he wondered what it must be like to live a life so simple, yet so fulfilling. He knew Lemon thought he was bonkers, that he’d lost his nut. Yeah, maybe he had.

He also knew nobody would believe him if he was to recount the recent incident of an injured baby duck he’d come across, its foot trapped in barbed wire. He watched it squeal in pain, so far from its mother, and he distinctly remembered feeling confused at the sharp wounded sensation in his chest. If it was a heart attack… fairplay - karma had found him. However, he recognised the sensation as a feeling he’d experienced before, a very long time ago: empathy.

“Come here, mate,” he whispered, crouching down to cut loose the wire from the duck’s foot with his Stanley. Maybe he was making it up, but when the baby duck turned to him and quacked softly, it felt as if it was saying ‘thank you.’

Tangerine found that strange. He couldn’t imagine doing anything worth thanking for anymore.

Truth is, he didn’t know why he did the things he does. There was an emptiness festering inside of him, and with every kill he’d like to imagine that it filled that hole just a little — but now he wasn’t sure if that was even true.

So, as he sat by the canal with his smouldering cigarette, he cradled the gun in the hand that he was planning on killing himself with. There was a letter back at his crack-den of a house, addressed to Lemon in the event that he might ever return. An apology, if you can even call it that. Tangerine was ready to go.

One bullet in the barrel, Tangerine had it ready, the muzzle tucked into the bottom of his chin. He looked to the sky, watching the clouds skim across the burnt orange sun. Eyes closed. He would find peace.

And then — a rustle of leaves, a small voice calling out boldly: ‘You alright there, mate?’

When he turned his head to see you holding a tree branch to the side, a look of heroic determination on your face because clearly he was not alright, he was overwhelmed by the wave of emotion that surrounded him. If he was to be asked now about what that emotion was, he’d happily give you the answer of ‘gratitude’. In that moment, however, he didn’t have a clue of what it was, and that frightened the shit out of him.

“I think you’d better leave, love,” he commanded through gritted teeth, the threat in his voice largely contrasting the delicacy of his choice of words. Still, you were unfazed. You held your ground, your eyes piercing his own, and eyebrows furrowed in a silent question of whether he dared to challenge you. Thinking back to it, it was strange because who Tangerine was as a person back then was someone who would’ve bashed your head in no questions asked. And yet, he held pause for you in that moment. Crazy to think that you had no idea how lucky you were.

You succeeded in talking Tangerine down. He had no idea why that’s all it took to stop him, but it seemed there was magic that followed you everywhere you went because, when you offered him to come back with you, he actually said yes.

It didn’t take much for Tangerine to get hooked on you. You’d taken to daily check ups on the man — he even allowed you into the squalor of his home. You were polite, and made no fuss, but he noticed that his surroundings miraculously became cleaner after each of your visits. Something about that softened Tangerine’s heart; the idea that a human as fragile as yourself could hold space for the monster that he had become.

There came a conversation between the two of you, where he deliberated over his wording of how to explain himself to you.

“I didn’t use to be like this. There was a time… I was a much better man than I am now. I had respect, you know?” His eyes, sunken with the years of violence, tightened. “I didn’t use to be like this.” He repeated himself, sounding more like he was trying to assure himself more than you.

A hand — your hand — ghosted over his. Your fingertips glossed over his knuckles until your hand clasped his firmly, although to him it was nothing but a light squeeze. His body froze, his teeth clenched together; this was the first time he had been touched in a very, very long time.

“I believe you,” you whispered back to him, softness brimming in your eyes.

He became almost infatuated with you, absorbed in every story that you’d tell him, to the extent that — though it shamed him to admit it — he began watching over you. It started when you mentioned your habit of going to the shop late at night to avoid dealing with people. That alarmed him; he imagined these harmful figments of his own broken imagination stealing you away in the dead of the night, torturing and destroying you. You didn’t realise how vulnerable you were.

So, as a reasonable remedy in his head, he decided to lurk around your local shop in the shadows, waiting anxiously on your appearance until he could settle back once you were there—safe. He rationalised it in his head as just simply being a good citizen of the world for once, making sure you weren’t being harassed. He knew there was definitely truth behind that, but deep down it was also driven by his fear of abandonment. You’d come to mean so much to him, an angel that had been birthed from the dirt of this cesspool of a world. Not just that, but your soul seemed to breathe in sync with his. Even back before when he still held onto his sanity, he’d never even come close to a connection as real as this. Hence, he justified this as saving you when you had already saved him.

And so it progressed from guarding you on your nightly shops, to spending every moment that he wasn’t with you camped outside wherever you chose to go. Through his observation, he started to see you behave in ways that he’d never beared witness to before. There was something fragile about you; vulnerable. Whether it be in small, shy interactions with people at the park, or how you’d look more times than necessary before crossing the road. It really made him realise that the persona you’d employ when with him was a very defensive one, where it seemed you had to prove you were bigger than you were to keep up with Tangerine’s own hostility.

He felt jealous at first, that these other people got to experience you in a way that he was deprived. Then he felt resentful towards himself, because he was the reason you weren’t comfortable to show him this side.

The next time you came to see him, you were startled to find the house spotless, and Tangerine’s own appearance was… kempt, for once. The straggly beard that he never maintained was trimmed down to a fashionable goatee and a thick mustache. The curls of his hair had also been cut and pushed back, so that you could actually see the contours of his face. Underneath all that, you were surprised to see that he truly was handsome.

“This is… this is new,” you exclaimed, a surprised laugh jumping out towards the end. Tangerine smiled in response — maybe the first time you’d ever seen him do that. Your heart raced, finally seeing what the world had been missing. What had changed? Was he neurotic or was there really a reason?

Tangerine laid his hand to a tall mug of steaming tea, sliding it across the newly cleaned table towards you.

“Sugar?” You asked as you palmed the mug, feeling the staunch heat radiating from the ceramic.

“Yes, honey?” He piped back with a devilish grin on his face, the likes of which you had never seen before. Your eyes bulged; what the fuck?

You genuinely didn’t know how to respond as you sat staring at him with your mouth slightly ajar. After ample time, Tangerine pointed to the jar of sugar tucked into the corner of the countertop.

“Two spoonfuls, just how you like it,” he answered nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just made a coded pass at you — as if he hadn’t just shown for the first time who he really could be. You sipped your tea slowly as you observed how he cleaned the dishes in the sink, scarred hands gracefully rinsing plates and cutlery like a normal, well-adjusted person would do. What could have happened since the last time I saw him to provoke this change, you wondered.

“What’s brought all this on, then?” You questioned, desperate to see what his answer would be.

He turned the tap off, and looked out the window for a brief moment, pensive, before turning around with a gruff smile. He walked over until he found himself situated right next to you, his clothed knee innocently grazing your own in a way that you wouldn’t question if it was another person — but not with him. No, with him there had to be something more to it.

“I’d been doing some thinking. You see, I’ve been sitting here wallowing in my own shit, thinking only about myself. Then I realised what a cunt that made me, because never did I say thank you for everything that you did for me,” he explained simply, before locking eyes with you in an intense manner. “And you did a fuckin’ lot for me. And you deserve better than that what you have. So this is me… saying thank you, I guess.”

His face was largely impassive as ever, emotion kept under lock and key, but the longer that you held his gaze, the more unease you could see in his eyes; he was pleading with you in the quietest of ways. You thought, maybe, that he was nervous, though nervous of what you couldn’t be sure.

Since then, Tangerine had been offering to take you out to places you wouldn’t have ever expected him to be seen dead in a few months back. Harmless invitations to dinner in places that you couldn’t comprehend him affording — where could he possibly be getting the money from? Then came the gifts that started off small; random bits and bobs for your house that you had been running low on but bizarrely had never mentioned to him, so you weren’t quite sure how he was predicting the timing of you moving onto your last loo roll. With time, the gifts had expanded into something akin to surprise bookings at a spa because, in his words: “You’ve been having a right face on you whenever you see me, which is hurting my feelings. Reckon you’d need a massage or somethin’, bit of relaxation?” with an insinuating cock of his eyebrow.

That was the moment that you had started to catch on; that this might all be meaning more to him than you would have ever expected. Your meetings with him had become so much more… intimate, where he would look at you with quiet contentment, his eyes relaxed as he’d keep his focus on you despite the hurrying nature of the world around you both. You didn’t object however, because you couldn’t help enjoying the attention, no matter how discreet it was. You had been sneaking small looks at him whenever he wasn’t looking, and you really honed in on how his eyebrows would loosen a bit when he’d look up to observe a soaring flock of birds in the sky; or how his mouth had stretched larger than ever into a smile when you had both walked past a radio narrating how West Ham had finally won their first match in months.

These were all things that he wouldn’t explicitly tell you he enjoyed for whatever asinine reason he had, and that’s why you appreciated all the more that you had the privilege of getting to put all the pieces together; to uncover the man behind Tangerine.

It was a shame what would happen a mere month later, because everything had been going so well for you both.

Your ex had dropped back into your life in the form of a brief text, one of his wasted attempts of trying to reconnect with you. It rubbed you the wrong way, but you chose to delete the message and not let him distract you when you were leading a suddenly fulfilling life. In the past, that would have been enough for you both to move on, so you were truthfully quite shocked to find a handwritten letter addressed to you posted through your letterbox. Your heart dropped when you noticed the familiar handwriting; the contents of the letter were just as pitiful as anything that loser ever had to say, including more desperate re-iterations of much he can’t live without you.

You had been mulling over what to do when Tangerine had shown up at your door. He had a distinct tendency to pick your lock on certain days instead of announcing his presence through the doorbell like a normal person, so you weren’t too surprised when he strolled in like he lived there himself.

“What you readin’?” He asked, setting aside a bouquet of concealed tulips.

“Nothing,” you replied hastily, closing the letter up and sliding it into a nearby drawer, away from Tangerine’s prying eyes. You eyed the flowers. “A new set already?”

Tangerine traced the stems with his fingers as he looked around nonchalantly.

“Yeah, well, I figured the old ones would need replacing now so I got some fresh ones,” he shrugged, scratching his chin innocently with his thumb. You looked to the windowsill, where the roses he bought you last week were only starting to bloom, then back to him. Hmm.

“Anyway, sod off with that bullshit you’re giving me. That clearly isn’t nothing,” he insisted, pointing his finger at the drawer that held the letter as he walked up to it, before yanking it open and ripping the letter out. You jumped up to grab it back, but Tangerine held it far above your head as his eyes scanned the words, his jaw clenching the more he progressed down the page. Watching in apprehension, you stood back. You weren’t sure what to expect of this; his emotions had been so stable recently, but the fury in his eyes was threatening to demolish that.

After a moment of staring defiantly into space, Tangerine set the letter down and looked to your nervous figure, registering your anxiety. A small sigh slipped out his mouth, before his lips lifted to give you a small smile.

“Sounds like a cunt,” was all he had to say, reserved in his manner as he picked up the flowers to move them into the vase. Again, pretending like nothing had even happened. A part of you was tired of the nonchalance — maybe you wanted something to happen, as much as you felt sick to admit it.

A brief period of time passed with no sign of your ex, so you decided to settle back into your life without worry.

Until, one day, your doorbell rang, to which you opened the front door to the disheveled form of your ex.

“I–I’ve missed you,” he could barely slur out, his body practically slumping to the ground. You scoffed in disgust before slamming the door in his face, locking it tight behind you. Even from the back of the house you could hear the muffled thumps of him making a fool himself, banging the door and yelling incoherently. Time passed, in which you had numbed yourself to the noise, but you soon became aware of the staunch silence that replaced the battering. Anguished, you raked your hands through your hair, contemplating what on earth to do next.

Sometimes you have to confront your demons, you thought.

Chasing the idea, you gathered your things together and rushed out the house before any hesitation stopped you.

The address of your ex was still lodged in your memory, so when you arrived at his house, it was like looking through an echo of a memory. Certainly more run down than when he was with you, yet not a patch on what Tangerine’s abode once looked. You took a step forwards, sussing out your surroundings. Exhaling all the fear out of you, you rapped your knuckles on the front door, waiting patiently for a response. Seconds passed, and not a noise could be heard from inside. You knew he was inside — his car was still parked in front.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you knew there was one thing left that gave you entry to inside. Slinking round the corner, you moved a plant pot to the side which, as you exhaled in relief, revealed a spare door key. You slotted the key into the lock and turned it.

Inside, everything looked the same; ordinary, even. It was still deathly silent, though, which bugged you.

You called his name out gently; nothing.

It was when you reached the back kitchen that you paled, feet faltering as they made contact with the puddle of blood that pooled across the floor, away from the slumped body that was your ex.

Your mouth opened wide, and yet all that came out was a small creak of a cry. The room started to spin, and you stumbled until you found yourself askew on the ground with hands slipping through blood. Without thinking, you tried to wipe it off onto your shirt, and almost gagged at the smeared sight.

Despite the shock, there was still a level of awareness in your body as you quickly realised how fresh the blood was, leading onto the most prominent question: was the murderer still here?

You weren’t thinking straight, you knew that you weren’t, but as you stood tall and stormed out the room, all you could feel was hot fire burning fuel for your rage.

As you stepped back out into the hallway, your head snapped up when you heard the gentle sound of a tap running upstairs. What kind of person would kill someone only to use their toilet straight after? You felt like you were in a dream.

You creeped up the stairs, though sense was telling you to run and escape. A shadow of feet slipped through the crack under the bathroom door. You wrapped your fingers to the doorknob and eased the door open slowly, remembering how the hinges would creak loudly if the door opened too fast.

There stood Tangerine, in front of the sink, scrubbing his hands haphazardly with soap. He hadn’t even realised you were there – he hadn’t heard a thing because his head was deafened with the sound of ringing, the very same ringing that he worked so hard to escape. He had forgotten how consuming the sound of his mistakes were, but what was new was this overdrawn feeling of regret. His body wasn’t numb anymore; the goading voices of guilt screeched loudly over the fast pulsation of his heartbeat, trying to outrace his decisions. The blood dripped out into the basin, but there was still remnants sucked deep into the crevices of his fingernails, no matter how hard he scrubbed.

What have I done, what have I done?

All of a sudden he felt he was being watched. His eyes snapped up to the shattered mirror that he had just punched, where he could make out your distorted vision through the cracks. Your eyes met one another’s; there was a mutual emotion being shared, although neither of you had enough sense to notice it.

Vulnerability. You had seen for yourself now what the bruised man you rescued was truly capable of, and for who he was willing to commit murder for.

He had now seen that — while your body said otherwise, it was your eyes that never lied — you loved him. You loved this foul, decrepit monster. And it sickened you.

The floorboards creaked as you gently eased backwards, small movements prey would make to appease the predator.

Tangerine cleared his throat, dry with despair.

“You and I both know you ain’t stupid,” he muttered, eyes piercing yours, with his words holding the weight of the room amongst the silence. “You know I’ll find you. If you leave. I will find you.”

It wasn’t a threat, that much was obvious. It was fact, like declaring the sky was blue. Scholars would confirm it, conspiracy theorists would struggle to deny it; some things are common sense in a world full of ambiguity. Tangerine would cross oceans for you. There wasn’t a place on Earth you could hide from him.

He moved slowly towards you, like he was making effort to be gentle — could the Devil be gentle?

You were frozen stiff, though you questioned if you would even move if you were able to.

Within a second, he was so close that you could feel his breath on your forehead, more controlled than what it was a minute ago. It did frighten you how he seemed to command himself so suddenly like he wasn’t a crazed murderer.

Your eyes lifted until they held his own soft gaze, quite the contrast to the blood smeared clothes that you were both adorning. It struck you that you weren’t in any position to judge him, because you were now complicit in everything that he did; an instigator and a defender. You never knew life would get this hard.

“I’d kill for you,” he breathed lowly, the words sharp as they passed through his chapped and bitten lips.

Loose with nerves, you rolled your eyes at the self serving statement, as if to say ‘Well, obviously!’

He gripped your hands, before allowing his fingers to glide up your clothed arm, until it reached your head to tangle around your hair. Your head ached with the intensity of his hold, though you could tell he was holding back.

“But… I know that’s not what you want. I know that. So… maybe I’ll,” the words were choking in his throat — it was obvious he was battling with what he was soon to say. He finally leaned his forehead against yours, skin slick with sweat; his eyes clamped shut.

“I will live for you, instead. I will live for you,” he enunciated every word as an oath to his honesty. Your own eyes fluttered to a close as you felt the energy of the room shift.

Maybe you were numb; maybe you were confused; maybe you were whole.

So you said “Okay.”

[bbyblumarine]

holy shit. kraven stalks his prey was so good!! I love how you write him ml <33

Awww honey, this honestly means the most to me because I was feeling a lil bit insecure about it 🥹 thank you sweetness 🧡🧡🧡

[bbyblumarine]

KRAVEN STALKS HIS PREY

SUMMARY: Any efficient predator hunts its prey by stalking its every movement - laying wait in the shadows - before claiming it with its teeth. Go on, Kraven; show us your teeth.

WARNING: Dark!Kraven. Stalking and possessive behaviour. Slight dubcon.

WORD COUNT: 2k

Kraven had been watching you for a long, long, long time. His darling flower, is what he thought of you, unbeknownst to yourself.

He felt – or he knew, rather – that you were graced by the gods to this planet, solely to be claimed as his.

This wasn’t a random decision he made, because Kraven does not make random decisions. This was calculated, and pre-destined. He knew, by smell alone, that you didn’t hold a candle to any other human that laid foot to this earth. You were so significantly special, not just to him but in general. This was a particular curiosity that you bestowed upon him, and he was desperate to uncover you – to devour you.

It was when you were outside watering the flowers that adorned your front garden, that you saw him first. A man — a colossal pillar of a man — crossing the road. He stood impressively tall, with taut knuckles peeking out of the leather jacket that strained on him, barely concealing the crude outline of his muscular frame. You eyed his hands, from which thick fingers were clenched firmly into a fist. His hair was a messy array of loose curls that kissed his skin from the wind, although he made no movement to push them out of his face. He was just so… big. You felt your thighs clench without realising, as your body sang a symphony to the fantasy that passed you by. Immediately, as if in response, his head swung round to you as he continued walking. Both of your eyes synced up, and you trembled; his eyes were predatory, and they drank you up without asking for permission. You felt small, and weak, compared to the large entity that he was.

You felt he knew that.

He looked away, face impassive, and carried on walking out of sight. This seemed a menial encounter, but you really couldn’t shake the intuition that this might be more.

Not long after, you met him again – this time face to face.

Stepping outside the supermarket on a cold, windy night, you were trying to sort out your bags of shopping when the wind accidentally knocked one bag off your shoulder. You watched as apples started rolling down the pavement; the eggs didn’t stand a chance. You had bent down to collect everything together, when a large hand pooled all your belongings together in one swift movement, before filling them back into your bag and picking it up. Your mouth was agape as you looked up to see that same man stooping over you, still looking as handsome as before.

“Here, let me take these,” he finally spoke, words gruff and drenched in gravel, although possessing an authoritative lilt that you wouldn’t dare oppose. Watching him above you felt mortifying, and yet you could tell his intention wasn’t to demean you. His face was still blank, no emotions spared.

You watched in awe as you let him take all three bags into one hand with simple ease, before extending out his empty hand to which his palm faced you invitingly. As your hand cautiously found itself tucked into his, you blushed at the ensuing warmth that bolted from your hand straight through the rest of your body. Ripples of heat took control of you, heightening as he pulled you to your feet where you now stood mere inches away from him, looking up at the monument of a man. His broad chest, clothed in a pale grey t-shirt that enhanced his toned physique, grew closer to you with each deep breath he inhaled, as if he was savouring the sweet musk of intimacy.

“You were outside my house,” slipped out of your mouth, before you clamped your lips shut in embarrassment, averting your gaze. You heard – practically felt – the rumble that resounded through his chest in acknowledgment.

“Yes. I recognise you,” he spoke in short, direct sentences. “A solid coincidence that I was here now.”

Your eyes returned to his as you scanned for any lingering emotion, but again there was nothing but a dark valley of indifference behind his irises.

“Where is your car? Allow me to carry these there,” he offered, signalling to your shopping.

“I don’t have a car. I was actually going to walk home,” you admitted, wincing at your obvious mishap. He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head down in disbelief.

“It’s very dark. You shouldn’t walk alone,” he stated plainly, before looking away and walking off, still carrying your shopping. You blanched at first – this giant mammoth of a man was now successfully stealing your shopping after deceiving you into thinking he would help, and there’s nothing you could do to stop him. But then he paused, and turned back to you.

“Come,” he instructed lowly – and thus you followed, as if he had trapped you in a spell. You kept pace with him as you both walked, and you noticed that he intentionally kept his gait shorter to match your own. He continued in the direction of your house, which did render you surprised that he even remembered where you lived, let alone how easy it was for him to guess the route there.

The both of you reached your front step, where he came to a stop. There was a brief moment, a lull in the atmosphere that had you seized in apprehension.

“Would you like me to carry them in?” He asked; his tone held more of an offering than a threat.

Sense – everything that a woman had been socialised for – told you to say no, that you could take care of it yourself. This man intrigued you, though; you enjoyed his desire to assert himself upon you in what seemed a rather harmless way.

You bit your lip, pensive. His eyes darted down at the movement, honing in. You immediately released your lip and looked away, shy to be caught in an intimate manner. Moving towards your front door, you slipped the key in to open the door wide, and glanced back at the man.

“Come on in.”

That became the start of you and Sergei Kravinoff. It didn’t take long at all for you both to start dating, although it did begin very innocently. You weren’t eager for things to progress fast, and even though it was something you never voiced, it did feel like Sergei was aware of it and thus never pressured you to do anything that your body language wouldn’t approve of.

He wouldn’t speak much of himself. The most you could wean out of him was that he had spent most of his life living in Russia, and you figured amongst yourself that he must have lived a very solitary life based off of how he carried himself. Sometimes that made you sad to envision him living so much of his life alone; it made you wonder what that could do to a person.

Sergei was intense, and secretive. Although you were becoming used to him as a presence in your life, it did still feel like he would skulk alone in the shadows when you weren’t paying attention. Too many times had he found himself in your house when you were sure the front door had been locked.

“You must learn to keep the door locked, princess. There’s scarier things than me out there,” is what he’d tell you before enveloping you in his large arms, and it would often send a surge of fear through you, though you were never sure why.

Then came the day where you found your underwear in the pockets of his jeans.

It was early in the morning, and he had stayed over the night previously. You loved waking up before him, because when he slept it was like another version of him had come alive; gone were the frown lines that would stretch across his forehead and pinch between his eyebrows. He would enter a pure state of relaxation, which drew a confusing contrast between his everyday stance of apprehension, like a wild animal in survival mode. But nonetheless, he purred like a kitten when he lied next to you, particularly when he felt the heat of your body pressed against his. It did make you wonder whether he slept this well all the time, or only when with you.

You’d stay and watch him for a while, basking in the one inch of his true self that his mask could never reach. But this day, you had an urge to do some cleaning, so you pulled together the clothes that had been tossed to the ground in the night.

It felt domestic cleaning for him; it felt like nothing you had ever experienced, which is why it thrilled you all the more.

You hummed to yourself as you turned the clothes inside out to throw them in the washing machine. You noticed a small bulge in the side pocket of his jeans, expecting maybe tissues or a receipt – maybe even a small pocket knife, knowing him.

Nothing could have prepared you for the familiar sight of last night’s underwear that had been carefully folded into the pocket. Blood rushed to your head as you started to piece together parts of a puzzle you weren’t aware that was focused all around you.

For the past few weeks, you had been noticing your underwear randomly disappearing. You jokingly blamed it on the dryer sucking it up and ejecting it out into space when you mentioned it to Sergei. The next day, he had gifted you numerous pairs of very expensive underwear to compensate, which you thought had been so considerate of him.

“Don’t go losing these ones now, flower, otherwise I might have to go pick a fight with your dryer,” he had joked with you in one of his rare playful moods. He had tugged a strand of your hair in jest, and you remembered that it really felt like you were starting to fall in love with him.

So here you stood, horrified at the prospect that you didn’t know him, not at all.

“Everything okay, princess?” A familiar gruff voice crooned from behind you, soaked in concern.

You spun around, quick to hide the pair of underwear behind you, though it was no use. Looking into Sergei’s eyes, he already knew.

You gulped, feeling your body starting to numb as you entered fight or flight. Sergei could hear your heart, actually, not that you were to know. He heard your heart drop from all the way in his dreams – a testament to how devoted he was to you. Your fear was bleeding from you, and as he tasted it on his tongue, he hated to admit how delicious it was; he yearned to feast on it.

He’s been there when you’ve felt fear before, and he was always there to protect you, to shield you from whatever was looking to harm you. But now that very same fear was directed at him, he found it exhilarating. It had activated a primal desire inside of him that had long laid dormant, rusting away inside of him. Your pupils were enormous, and your little body was trembling like a leaf. He felt himself harden below, as he really tried to restrain himself from acting on what he wanted so badly right now: to claim you.

His eyes, once so strikingly blue, had finally started to shine golden yellow, announcing his transition into his primal form.

“Run,” he exhaled, both as a warning for you to prepare yourself, yet also in anticipation to what was to come. You didn’t need to be told twice, as he watched your shrinking form cower away until he heard the front door slam, leaving behind the sweetness of your scent for him to track.

He loved you, that he did.

He was to spend his entire life with you, and he would have much rather you found out another way who he really was, but there was no changing things now.

He’ll try and go easy on you when he finds you. He will try.

[bbyblumarine]

THE HUNTER GETS HEAD SCRATCHES

Sergei had been scrawling away in his book for some time now.

It was thundering outside, where the rain was dusting the sides of the windows to form an insulating cloud. This was cosy for you, as you laid beside Sergei with your body pressed against his side, head flopped to his shoulder so you could watch the words scurry across the page in his shapeless handwriting.

He wasn’t ignoring you; his head was always in the zone when he entered Hunter mode, like a predator hones in while tracking its prey. Every now and then, he’d let out a small grunt without realising, intent on focusing on what’s in front of him. You thought it was adorable. Subconsciously, it was times like this where you were thankful that his hands only ever served to kiss your skin as opposed to the bruises and scars he’d leave on others.

His soft curls tickled your nose, causing you to sneeze quietly.

“Bless you,” he grumbled, albeit lovingly. You eyed the mass of unkempt hair you’d often refer to as his ‘lion’s mane’. Your fingers found themselves gliding through, brushing out the stubborn tangles, and allowing your fingertips to graze his scalp. A tiny whimper escaped his lips—a beautiful contrast to the imposing vessel that was his body. Scratching his head was always his soft spot, akin to scratching a dog on its tummy. After a few seconds, it was always enough for him to droop like goo, caught under your spell.

His book was tossed to the ground, as he immediately submitted to your hands. His body sank to the side until his head hit your lap, where he nuzzled his nose towards where he could find your skin, and drink up your scent. You relished in these moments, where he allowed you to take care of him instead of his constant role of being the provider. It took so long for him to get comfortable with lowering his guard, because he claimed to feel so wrong not being the one who was in control of doling out any physical affection. With enough reassurance that it was okay to be in need of taking care of sometimes, he’d obey your commands and be subservient for a small amount of time—although it never felt enough.

He hummed in pleasure, the vibration flush against your leg and sending warm electrical impulses through you as you took pride in making him feel good. It’s always a privilege to make the strongest man on earth feel safe enough to feel small in your arms.

[bbyblumarine]

THE SIDE ONLY YOU SEE OF HIM

Many would say Tangerine was a complete raging lunatic; infamous for his preference of shooting before thinking, he’d claim in the aftermath that it was just so he could get the ball rolling as fast as possible — albeit in the most reckless manner. In fact, his unpredictable nature was arguably the sole reason him and Lemon would end up with a revolving array of handlers that would give up, frustrated, after they had to brunt the consequences of Tangerine’s mess.

He’d had so many fuck ups that it was a wonder he was still being given jobs. The only thing holding him down was that he never shied away from getting down and gritty, picking up the jobs that others in the industry felt they were too above for. He would walk away, humiliated, with a face smeared in blood—but at least he’d go the mile compared to others.

He always struggled making friends. Lemon was the conversationalist—better known as the ‘normal’ one. That’s not to say Tangerine didn’t know how to sweet talk, but it would often reach a point where people would see his brash, neurotic side, and they’d soon make themselves scarce. It didn’t bother Tangerine much, as he favoured quality over quantity, and often thought people were too up their own arse for him to want to be around them.

Overall, Tangerine was known to be a reckless knob, a man everyone was warned to stay away from.

And yet, when he came home to you, there wasn’t a moment you could ever imagine straying far from him.

Where others would view him as churlish and vulgar, he would only ever present himself as gentle and accommodating to you. Without realising, he’d often find himself rubbing soothing circles on your hands, or brushing fingers through your hair just to connect with you. That was part of his nature — caring for you.

Chivalry was never dead; ever since he met you, you never needed to open doors or carry bags for yourself anymore, because there he was, your dutiful servant.

Despite the aggressive disposition of his job, he would never talk down to you, never make you feel less than you were. Neither would he falter to answer any benign requests you made, even if that meant lounging on the sofa wearing matching face masks and watching crappy reality shows on the TV. He’d never say it to anyone but you, but he couldn’t believe the Kardashians actually were a bit of a laugh to watch.

Then, when it would reach night, you’d both curl up beside each other under the soft glow of a distant light, and ask each other how your day was. The masculine facade of ‘Tangerine’ would drop, and in the dark he would become the vulnerable and self conscious man who felt safe enough to reveal that aspect of him to you.

He had to admit, there were times when he would feel a bit insecure about being so detached from the same life that you were so engaged in. You’d canter about socialising freely with everyone, meanwhile Tan would tag along as — in his own head — the surly looking boyfriend who was too intimidating to be approached.

“You know that there’s a really simple answer to that, right?” You poked at him one time, catching him in one of his silent and pensive moods. He cocked his head to the side, signalling you to continue.

“People only ever see you from where they’re standing. Meaning, if they’re afraid to say hi to you, then they lack the bravery to get to know a person who could turn out to be nowhere near as scary as they expected. When you first met me, I remember you saying that you didn’t want to speak to me because you were scared you weren’t good enough,” you grabbed onto Tangerine’s hand to centre his attention as he balked; he hated being reminded of his shortcomings.

“What I’m saying is, you still bit the bullet and spoke to me despite your fears - because you did it from a place in your heart that was genuine. If people don’t have the balls to get to know you, then they’re not worth getting to know. Simple,” you finished triumphantly, cheeks lifted into an affirming grin. He loved that about you — how exulted you became when you would talk him down from his mountain of self-imposed ineptitude.

Truthfully, no one knew the man behind the name of ‘Tangerine’ more than you and his own brother. While others would view it as an obsolete life, Tangerine had never felt more whole.

[latenightdraftsx]

Mating Season

Sergei Kravinoff x reader | Explicit, NSFM! About: It's mating season, and Sergei can't deny the intense pull he feels to claim you. Warnings: unprotected, animalistic sex and badly translated Russian. Word count: 882 Authors note: This was supposed to be a short blurb, but I got carried away lol. So here's a longer version for y'all.

Something is off. You can see it in him - feel it, even. His breath comes slow and heavy, pacing around the dome like some caged circus animal. "Talk to me." Your voice cuts through the silence. Palms braced against the kitchen counter as you watch him with growing concern. He stops mid-stride, his darkened gaze snaps up to yours. "You should go," he rumbles low in his throat. You blink at him. "What's going on with you today?" He's fighting it, fighting every ounce of pure, raging need surging through his veins. You notice the tremor in his balled up fists, the way he tries to control his breathing. A low, frustrated groan escapes him as he drags a hand over his face. When he looks at you again, you see the shift in his pupils; blown wide, a pool of gold bleeding into blue. "It's mating season, dorogaya (sweetheart)," he warns. Your eyes widen slightly, lips pressing into a straight line.

The air between you thickens. Instinct guides you back a step, but he doesn’t let you get far. His stride toward you is deliberately slow, his predatory gaze keeping you hostage. "You know damn well you'll only make it worse if you run," he growls. Your back hits the wall with a dull thud, pulling a soft gasp from your lips. The corner of his mouth quirks into a small smirk. A huff of air slips past his lips in both amusement and hunger. He closes the distance between you with three easy strides before you can get away. He corners you against the wall, hands slamming down on either side of your face. His head dips down, parted lips skimming over your jaw. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs against your skin. One of his hands slides down the wall beside you, tracing a deliberate line before settling on your hip. His fingers dig into your flesh, his hips pressing you firmer against the cold surface. A low, throaty sound escapes him the moment he feels your breath hitch. “Don’t…” you breathe, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare stop.” Sergei's pupils dialate to almost black at those words. His other hand grips your jaw, pointer finger and thumb bruising your cheeks before surging forward, capturing your lips in a fierce, hunger-driven kiss. A moan spills from your lips, a sound he swallows instantly. He deepens the kiss, tongue delving into your mouth, tasting, devouring you.

In one rough motion, he spins you around, chest pressing hard against your back. You can feel every tight, coiled muscle as his weight keeps you in place. His mouth finds your neck, biting until he knows for sure you'll walk away with his mark on your skin. Heat pools low in your stomach, almost going dizzy with need when he rasps in your ear. "Ne shevelis, krassotka (don't move, pretty thing)." His hands roam over the curve of your hips, testing your reaction before sliding your dress up over your hips, pulling your underwear to one side and leaving you exposed to him. He lets out a rough breath at the sight. One hand stays pressed on your lower back, anchoring you, while the other opens his pants with a smooth flick of his fingers. The sound of the zipper makes you look back over your shoulder. He meets your gaze with a feral glint in his eyes. "Can't promise I'll be gentle," he growls, lining himself up with you. His rigid chest now flush against your back, lips attacking your shoulder with firm kisses. He stills for a heartbeat, letting you feel the weight of him, the anticipation.

He holds your gaze, then finally presses his full length into you with a sound that's more animal than man. Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting on a loud moan. Fingers dig into the wall, nails scraping, as he bites down on your shoulder. The sound of skin on skin only amplifying the moment between you. Nothing else exists. Only him, only this. He straightens his back, palm pressing harder on your lower back, making you arch into him. “Fuck,” he spits, hips slamming harder, his own control slipping fast. "Sergei," you cry out. Before you can properly voice your request, he already snakes a hand around your body. Two rough fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling just right. Your legs tremble, clenching around him. Sergei grits out some sentences in Russian you're not familiar with, but the way he says it gives away he's about to come with you. "Take it," he growls, giving two more firm thrusts forward before he stills, marking you from the inside out with a harsh grunt. You follow him over the edge, coming apart at the seams as you whimper his name.

Slowly, you both come back to earth. The sound of overlapping heavy panting fills the dome. Sergei gently pulls your hair aside, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed skin of your neck. It's almost shockingly tender, a stark contrast to the way he handled you a few seconds ago. "You'll ache tomorrow," he murmurs, a hint of pride in his voice. You hum in response, adjusting yourself and turning to face him. He presses his forehead against yours. "No more running, little one."

[bbyblumarine]

HALLOWEEN WITH TANGERINE

Today was Halloween, the day of the year that you had been excitedly counting down to. You had long been planning out your outfit—unfortunately for Tangerine, he had also been roped in, too.

“There’s no fucking way I’m wearing that,” he broke out in a bellow, scandalised. His eyebrows were knitted together above his eyes as he laid sight on the Joker costume you had placed wistfully on the bed.

You pouted, eyes glassy in your attempt to manipulate his co-operation.

“Babe - it’s the one day of the year where it’s actually normal to dress up like a twat. You know how bad I’ve wanted to do this!” You grabbed his hand, pressing your lips to his knuckles as you looked up with angelic poise.

He laughed sarcastically as he pinched your chin lightly between his fingers.

“I know your game, darlin. You ain’t sweet talking me into nothing. And that’s final,” his eyes were set in stone, which caused you to scrunch your nose up in frustration.

It didn’t matter, because you knew how fickle he was; there was always one way to get him to do your bidding.

A few hours later, you stepped out the bedroom clad in your Harley Quinn outfit: tattered fishnets tights draped sexily over your legs, barely legal booty shorts that were just about concealing your indecency, and the iconic red and white crop top to finish. You had artfully applied your makeup, balancing psychotic with beauty.

As you expected, Tangerine was gobsmacked. The lower his eyes scanned your body, the more set his jaw became.

With a sigh, you flipped your hair.

“I guess it’s time for me to go out. Shame you didn’t want to join, but I’m sure there will be another Joker out there who will be willing to be my partner for the night,” you teased innocently. Before you could even finish, Tangerine had dragged you back into the bedroom.

After quite some time, you both exited in your respective outfits; you had even managed to convince Tan into doing the makeup too. You had to admit, as handsome as he already was, how he looked with the black smudged eyes and devilish red lips made you absolutely feral.

“Thank you, babe, for doing this with me,” you smiled, reaching up on your tiptoes to peck a kiss to his lips. He likes to play the hard arse, but you always know he really will do anything to earn that smile. “Who knows, you might even get your reward for it tonight.”

You winked at him, causing him to subconsciously bite his lower lip while eyeing you.

After smacking you playfully on the arse, he held your hand as he guided you out the door, making sure his eyes caught sight of your backside as he let you pass him.

Suffice to say - best Halloween ever.

[bbyblumarine]

SERGEI’S SOURCE OF LIGHT

Smoke wafted up towards the sky like it was performing a theatrical dance, mysterious swirls leaving a ghostly imprint in its wake. It was late in the evening, where the sun was readying to pass on its reign to the moon. The fire in front of you was still in full force; Sergei didn’t need to tend to it for the most part.

His back was leaning against a log on the ground while his legs were splayed out casually in front of him. Your body was horizontal on the floor next to him with your head tucked in gently to his lap. His fingers traced romantic shapes through your hair with the delicacy of a skilled painter, as if he was scared to damage his most prized piece of art.

You were dozing off anyway; you had hustled the whole day after Sergei had been teaching you how to hunt. He was incredibly proud of how fast you had picked everything up, but he always knew before you did when it was time for you to take a break to avoid breaking your rhythm. All he could see when he looks at you is fragility; a tender human who needed to be sustained and kept safe.

And so here you were, cradled by this deadly force of nature who only felt love in your presence.

He pulled your hair back so he could get a clear look of your sleepy disposition. It was strange how naturally a smile would grace his lips whenever he saw you, working the muscles in his face that he had held no use for, for a very long time.

“My baby, my baby,” he crooned so gently, the gruff words barely escaping his mouth and yet carried through the air with such grace. You were already asleep; you could never know how much you meant to the feared monster who watched over you, always. His rough hands were planted to your body, seizing you. There was no space for no one and nothing, not when you were what his life was made up of. This had turned him into a ruthless romantic, a crazed man who made impulsive decisions if he felt that’s what you deserved.

As he watched the rise and fall of your chest, he knew that this was his utopia that he was getting to live out.

How lucky was he, he thought with a small but determined smile.

[bbyblumarine]

LIFE WITHOUT KRAVEN—OR SO YOU THINK

SUMMARY: Sergei has abandoned you and your relationship, and you’re too heartbroken to realise that you’re not as alone as you think…

ANGST

You’re out of milk. Again.

At first, it was small things like that which had you slack on your knees, sobbing and heaving. Now, after 3 weeks, you feel apathetic. You’re out of milk—it never mattered anyway.

You were halfway through making your coffee, and the thought of drinking it black innocently popped up until you remembered: that’s how Sergei would have his coffee.

You were out the door—shoes barely laced and a ragtag jacket hanging off you—before you had time to fully process the end of that thought. Life at the moment was like a minefield of memories, where you had to tiptoe round every inanimate object for fear of what it could represent. You’d learned your lesson early on after hurling the remote at your TV, interrupting what was soon to be a David Attenborough documentary focused on the prowling lions of Africa.

What a cunt.

Down the moonlit street you trudged, an ample amount of barely working streetlights dotted far apart to scarcely lead you through the shadows. It had reached deep into winter now, where the night began before the day had even settled.

Recently, you’d been prone to waking up long after the rest of the city went to sleep. Half the time, you weren’t even sure if you were actually awake. Every day was just a day to you now.

The streets were deadly silent; clearly nobody else was stupid enough to need milk at midnight. Your footsteps echoed off the concrete as you hugged your arms tighter, subconsciously wishing you had the sense to have picked a warmer jacket. Never mind.

You spot the familiar curve of the corner, signalling the approaching 24/7 shop that you’d been mooching from ever since Sergei left. You pick up pace, eager to get back to your cave of misery, until you found yourself abruptly halting in your tracks with no warning. The hairs on the back of your neck rose sharply, poised to alert. You didn’t know why you stopped; it was more an act of instinct. It’s almost like you could sense a disturbance in the air—a touch of fear.

It felt like there was something watching you.

Surely not, though…

Yeah, surely not.

With a brief glance to the other side of the street - fences leading to an industrial estate - you hurried back onto the path, continuing your route albeit a bit faster this time.

The bell sounded as you pushed open the door to the shop, a sharp clang reverberating around the empty store. You made a bee line straight for the milk aisle, not wasting time on things that didn’t matter.

As you reached it, your jaw set in your mouth, teeth clenching together in a fury as you scanned the empty aisle. No milk. No fucking milk.

You rushed to the front of the store to face Alex, the bored assistant on the till who was lazily etching down words on his crossword.

“Hey, hi… I noticed there’s no milk. Do you need to restock?” You asked, your voice heightening in distress at the end.

Alex eyed you.

“We’re out. Delivery never came.”

Your eye twitched. Biting down on your lip, you internally screamed at yourself to keep it together. Your hands were shaking, not even from anger but from frustration; this was the only shop close to you that would be open right now. There were no buses running at this time, and it wasn’t like you had a phone anymore to call an uber (another victim to your frenzied rage). You didn’t even care about the coffee at this point - it was just a placeholder for your pain.

It was the principle, however, that had the veins in your forehead popping. Nothing was going your way—nothing.

“Hey, uh… listen, are you okay?” Alex’s voice drifted into your hearing, drawing your attention back to him. “I didn’t want to say anything - partly because I don’t care - but you’ve been coming really late these past few weeks. And you’ve been asking for… weird things. Like you’re an alcoholic but there’s no booze, it’s just stuff like… oven cleaner. At midnight. It’s not normal.”

It made you feel uncomfortable. There had been minimal social interaction to burden you during this time, which meant no one there to judge you on your tardy appearance and disastrous state of being. Having someone notice your decline felt too intimate, felt… it felt like being held by Sergei again.

With your head lowered, eyes to the floor, you bluntly waved in Alex’s direction and fled to the door.

As you passed through the door, you heard Alex’s voice call out: “You’ve got two different shoes on, by the way.”

The walk back home was pathetic. Without the sound of cars bustling inside your head, it kept the internal monologue running louder than ever.

When Sergei left you, it was after an argument—if you can even call it that. Really, it was you screaming at him, and him silent as he processed every curse word you hurled at him. He claimed that he was becoming a threat to your life, that you were a walking target with every second he stayed with you.

‘Well if that was the case, then why did you bother being with me in the first place!’ was the last thing you remembered saying to him, before he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and left without a word. You were so angry at him, especially because it was so unlike him to do something like that—he respected you too much.

It was only after you tried ringing his phone the next day, and the call cut out because the phone number no longer existed, that you fell to the ground because you knew the time had finally come where you were by yourself again. It’s not like Sergei had ever sat you down and said ‘I’m staying with you forever’ because it felt too manipulative to ask someone for that, but he really made you feel like he would. Every decision he made was so deliberate and carefully thought through—you couldn’t imagine someone doing that for a person they weren’t serious about.

Guess not.

Your footsteps tapped away on the pavement, and had been for so long until you realised it wasn’t just one set of footsteps—it was two.

You snapped around instantly, keys at the ready to maim this evil predator. Your heartbeat calmed slightly, when you saw nothing in front of you but the same road that you’d been sulking down. You could’ve sworn…

Eyes wide open, you moved faster towards your home until you had broken out into a full run, lungs fighting for a break after such a long period of inactivity. You made it to your door, jamming the key inside with shaky hands. With one last look to the outside, bracing yourself for a masked murderer to be standing behind you, you slam the door shut behind you.

The radio is still playing in your bedroom; you forgot to turn it off before you left. You tiptoed towards your bedroom, body burning up under your clothes after all that running. You were about to rip your jacket off when you saw it.

Lying on your dresser, sitting beside your blaring radio, was a large carton of milk.

Without thinking, you rushed back to the front door to yank it open. The night was quiet, only sounds of distant barking carrying through the air—but you knew that didn’t matter because of how quiet he could move through the night. You stepped out your house, thrashing your head back and forth to see what you were missing.

It had to be him, it had to be him. But why would he do this? What could this mean?

Your hand reached backwards to shut the door behind you, and you crouched down to sit yourself on your front door steps overlooking the rest of the road. With eyes peeled open and darting around at the smallest movement, you waited and waited for some kind of sign. Hours, or minutes, or days passed. Nothing.

Maybe you were losing it; Alex basically said you were a nutter. What if you did have milk all along, and in your dissociative fugue you had simply misplaced it? It broke your heart to admit that it did make sense.

A small sob slipped out of your mouth, your hands gripping the sides of your head in disorientation. A single tortured huff escaped your lips, before you picked yourself up and turned back inside, this time with no final glance outside.

Tomorrow I’m making an appointment with the doctor, you told yourself. Tomorrow I’m going to get help.

The door snapped shut behind you, and it was such a shame you never looked back because two golden orbs of light pierced through the shrubbery to keep guard on your front door. A man in the reeds, watching you—always.

[bbyblumarine]

A VICTIM OF TANGERINE’S EXPENSIVE HABITS

Small nsfw reference - it can’t be helped xx

Tangerine is no stranger to splashing the cash in the most obnoxious manner possible. Lemon’s favourite joke is that when Tan came out the womb after him, he arrived in a Gucci handbag, with a silver spoon lodged nice and firmly up his arse.

Spending the hard earned money that he had hustled so dangerously for was always satisfying, but nothing quite hit the spot until he met you. Suddenly, he became a never ending fountain of money, cash flowing from his sleeves.

Need new shoes? Don’t worry honey, I can call off this job. Let’s get you to Harrods.

Stomach pain? Sod’s law if you even think of going through the NHS - I’m booking you a private appointment.

Found a hole in your underwear? Ah Christ, love, looks like it’s a trip to that Victoria’s Secret. (You can picture the grin on his face, right? That man never leaves there without buying you the whole shop)

This one time, he surprised you with this fantastically expensive, vintage mink coat, sourced from a dazzling lady who had her fair share of adventures from the 50s. For months, after rifling through a Vogue magazine, you’d been throwing rather obvious hints to Tan about how much you yearned for a fur coat: ‘Babe, you don’t understand—I’ll die if I can’t get it.’ He’d playfully indulge in your fantasies whenever you brought it up, but he’d always leave it at that. You suppose you shouldn’t complain; that man had paid to give you the world, and the fact that he’d gone to any lengths for that was enough. It’s just a stupid coat compared to his love.

Obviously, once the coat was laid out on the bed in front of you, it become less of a stupid coat, and perhaps the greatest thing he’d ever spent money on for you. So much so, that you’d christened it by letting him take you right there on top of it, body encased in fur as he slid in and out of you at rapid pace, being claimed so mercifully. Whenever you wear it now, you’re reminded of what you mean to him; how he treats you like you’re a precious diamond refined and preserved, kept sustained long enough for him to take over and make you his to worship.

[latenightdraftsx]

Steady Hands (blurb)

Tangerine x reader | Comfort-ish

The apartment fills with the faint buzz of Tangerine's shaver. It only takes a few seconds before you hear a loud clank echoing from behind the bathroom door. "For fuck's sake!" The moment you hear him swear, you get up from the couch and barge into the bathroom. He's leaning over the sink, half-dressed, jaw tight. "Ever heard of knocking?" he snaps, turning his head toward you. "Ever heard of asking for help?" you shoot back, grabbing the shaver out of the sink. You push lightly on his chest until he sits on the edge of the bathtub. His eyes flick between your face and your hands as you step between his legs. A steady hand grips his jaw to hold him still. “You don’t have to-”

“Stop talking.” You click the shaver on and tilt his chin towards the light. Then you start shaving the line of his throat with careful precision up to his cheek. His breath stutters once, just once, but you feel it. "You really thought shaving yourself with an injured hand was a good idea?" you scoff, eyeing the bandages he messily wrapped around his wound. "How was I supposed to know you handle a shaver like you're a fuckin' barber in your downtime?" he practically growls, shifting nervously on the edge of the tub. You don't answer him. "Keep the stache?" you ask softly, shaving around his mustache to clean up the edges. He hums in response. When you're done, you run a towel under warm water, wring it out and press the soft fabric to his jaw. He doesn’t flinch, just freezes under your touch, his gaze boring into yours as if daring you to stop. You reach for a dark, sleek bottle of aftershave, pouring some of the liquid in your palms and smoothing it over his skin. He lets out a rough exhale through his nose, eyes fluttering closed as your hands glide over his stubble. "There…" you whisper, hands lingering on his face, finally meeting his eyes. For a second, neither of you moves. His gaze drop to your mouth, then flick back up to your eyes, like he’s weighing the costs of a mistake he's about to make. The moment breaks when you take a step back and clear your throat. "Next time, just ask." A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah... alright, love."

[bbyblumarine]

KRAVEN GUIDES YOU THROUGH YOUR FEAR OF INTIMACY

SUMMARY: You have always struggled to lower your guard whenever it came to intimacy; today, Sergei gives you a practical on why it’s safe to indulge your animalistic urges.

NSFW!!!!! 18+ you lil nerds. This will be fluffy and smutty and beautiful.

“I’m not fucking doing it.”

You’re kneeling on the bed, legs folded so the soles of your feet are pressed anxiously against your backside. One of Sergei’s mammoth sized t-shirts was hanging off of you for protection, and underneath was a flimsy set of underwear that was growing tighter with heat as each second passed.

Sergei sat upright in front of you, blindfold in hand. He was looking at you incredulously, one eyebrow raised, though never with judgement.

“You know I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, and if you don’t want to do this, then we won’t. But princess - I know that you do,” he eyed you carefully, pressing the palm of his hand onto your thigh to give it an encouraging squeeze. You licked your lips in hesitation, an action that immediately made Sergei’s eyes dart towards like instinct; there was a fire growing in his orbs that you could tell he was struggling to restrain. You recognised the lustful pulsation that started to throb down below in response to him, but it didn’t make it any easier to reconcile with.

You don’t know why you are the way you are; you want to be with Sergei in every single way. He’s right, you do want this—it’s just so hard for you to allow yourself to give in to your primal needs. It feels… unsafe. Embarrassing, almost. He knows that, though. The hand that graced your thigh lifted up to graze your cheek softly, knuckles kissing your skin.

“I have risked my life to protect what’s mine, and will continue to do that. Do you register that as fact?” He asked you, his eyes scanning yours. With no hesitation, you nodded your head. “Okay. You can trust me—do you also register that as fact?”

At that, you lips turned down in a frown.

Even though you already knew your answer, you also knew where this question was going to lead; you were being guided into a surrender.

Stubbornly, you decided to give a barely decipherable nod, hoping it was subtle enough for Sergei not to notice.

It was a wish born in vain; Sergei notices everything.

He raised both of his hands carefully from your face, until your sight began to disappear, and you could feel the gentle tug of the blindfold tightening around your head. He left it loose enough so that if this got too much for you, you know you’d be able to escape.

Your breathing started to pick up pace, growing more shallow. This loss of control was exactly what you were afraid of; there was no way to predict what could happen next, and no way to protect yourself from it.

Sergei’s hands clasped your own, his fingers calm and controlled in contrast to yours that were trembling. The sheer weight of his fingers held your hands down to temper your fear, teaching you what the idea of ‘in control’ could feel like.

Though you saw nothing, you knew the expression on Sergei’s face based on the deep breaths he was exhaling; he had a habit of looking down at you sometimes, like you were a baby lamb. In any other tale, the wolf was there to consume you, but in this reality he was here to protect you, to console you. Your innocence belonged to him, because he knew how to tend to it.

His breathing grew closer to your ear until you could feel the heat from his mouth burning along your neck. Your skin prickled with anticipation, waiting for him to make his move. He stilled, keeping his weight pressed against your side, biding his time—until he began to chuckle.

“Already stopped the shaking. Glad you started to trust me, little bird,” he murmured against your skin, his lips finally pressed against your neck. You hated that he was right, but not being able to observe where he might be and what he might do, genuinely did elicit a sharp jolt of electricity to shoot down your spine. Your hips bucked in response, brushing against Sergei’s torso. Reading your mind, his fingers slowly grazed your sides, furthering south until they rested upon your underwear. The tips of his fingers traced the gap between the lining of your pants and your flesh, testing your patience. His mouth was still attached to your neck, his suckling growing more aggressive and forceful in contrast to the dainty handling of his hands. The sensation of your pants being bunched to the side sent butterflies tip toeing down your spine, so close to victory.

Sergei’s fingers, moving painfully slow, hovered over your throbbing nether region—waiting for your permission.

It was quiet, but surrounded by the silence of the room it caused an echo: “Please.”

That was enough. Your folds, slick with excitment, were pushed open so he could feel you - every part of you. Once he was inside you, he became you.

He pulled his fingers out, and you could hear his feral slurping; he needed to taste you before he continued, perhaps as a sign of what to come—a starter, if you will.

Hands pushed your legs away from each other, your hips extending outwards. Then, you were pulled forwards, right to where his tongue laid waiting for you, salivating like a rabid dog. You whined as he went to town, lapping at you and drinking from your innocence. Your hands went from scrunching the bedsheets, to instinctually grabbing at his head, fingers sinking in his curls. You tugged gently, to which he groaned in response; you knew he liked that.

You climbed and climbed upwards in ecstasy to your impending orgasm, waves of fulfilment cascading through you.

He gave your clit one last final kiss, before you could hear him sitting up. Suddenly, you could see again, the blindfold tossed to the side. Sergei’s eyes—lustfully golden and gleaming in wait of what comes next.

His hands cupped your waist as he pulled you onto his lap with no effort, his clothed bulge taut against your naked vulva.

“Thank you for behaving,” he whispered in your ear, mischief and pride coated in his words. A gentle peck on your shoulder, quickly transforming into a possessive bite.

“Are you ready?” His voice, muffled as he spoke into your flesh.

That was it; you were seeing stars.

[bbyblumarine]

TANGERINE—TERRITORIAL BY NATURE

If Tangerine was a dog, you reckon he’d be a Cane Corso. Body puffed out and towering over you, one burly arm encased around your neck like a scarf, or a hand innocently gripping your thigh when you’re out in public. Thumbs stroking rhythmically, lulling you into safety.

When friends would approach you, he’d smile in your direction because he loved seeing other people love you as much as he did—but it was hard to miss the warning in his eyes that he’d flash to the other person. The insecure would find it unsettling, but those with enough maturity would understand that it wasn’t an act of control that he bestowed over you, it was simply a reminder that he’d be by your side protecting you always. No funny business.

He wasn’t intimidated by other men in the slightest—Tangerine knew you only had eyes for him, and for very good reason. He wasn’t easily jealous; it was only ever a matter of keeping his property safe. Again, it wasn’t out of insecurity that he claimed his ownership, because it goes both ways where you also staked your claim on him. Perhaps it’s the idea that true love is undefeated, where instead of fear you feel pride to be tied to one person for the rest of your life. You know not everyone gets to experience this: coming home to a man who still makes you blush after all these years, who scoops you up in his arms like you weigh nothing but a feather because he has all the might in the world to keep hold of you, no matter what. When he’d kiss you, initiating first like the gentleman he always is, it would hold the mutual translation: this is what we have now, for the rest of our life together.

It’s his life, so obviously he’s living it for himself, but for the largest of degrees he’s living this life for you too. His ray of sunshine.

[bbyblumarine]

MAKING LOVE WITH KRAVEN

NSFW!!!!! 18+ please and thank you xxx

Legs—your legs—wrapped around Sergei’s torso like a python feasting on prey. They squeeze and pulsate, dancing to the rhythm of Sergei’s meticulous thrusts.

In, out, then unbearably slow in its return back in, before a satisfying release back out. Rinse and repeat. He makes love to you like Van Gogh finalised his masterpieces - brazen care, and reckless devotion.

Hands—Sergei’s hands—gripping your skin so ferociously that it leaves marks painted in blue and black in its absence. His left hand, cupped under your thigh to angle himself better. His right hand, secured around your throat to hold you down for him, and only him.

Eyes—both of your eyes—locked together, exchanging telepathic messages of yearning and desperation and foolish, foolish love. Wet, warm and naked love. Saliva and wimpering odes of desire dripping down your lips. Greed had taken hold of you both: sinners of your own temptatious hunger.

Hearts—two together—skipping beats in sync. Two lovers, listening to each other gasp for breath in their own hidden language of love.