Summary: Ladybug tracks down Tangerine to apologize for shooting him, only to find him happily married to a warm, sunny wife. While Tangerine frets Ladybug will bring bad luck, Lemon just enjoys the chaos.
The knock at the door was loud. Too loud.
You were in the kitchen, humming softly as you wiped down the counter. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, and the house was warm and cheerful.
Tangerine froze halfway through strapping your toddler into her high chair. He glanced at the door with narrowed eyes. “That’s not the postman’s knock.”
You tilted your head. “Maybe a neighbor?”
The knock came again, followed by a tentative, “Uh—hello? It’s… Ladybug?”
Tangerine’s blood ran cold. He shoved the spoon into your hand, muttering, “Don’t answer it. Pretend we’re not home.”
But it was too late—Lemon, cheerful as ever, strolled right through the living room and swung the door open.
“Well, bloody hell, look who it is!” Lemon grinned, pulling Ladybug into an unexpected hug. “The man himself. Nearly killed my brother, didn’t ya?”
Ladybug looked sheepish, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that… thought I should come and, y’know, apologize properly.”
Tangerine appeared behind Lemon, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place. The scar on his neck was still visible, though faded.
“You’ve got some nerve showin’ your face here,” he growled.
But Ladybug’s attention was already pulled past him—into the kitchen, where you stood with your bright smile, holding the spoon as your toddler banged happily on the high chair tray.
“Oh my god,” Ladybug blurted. “You’re… married?!”
You walked over, wiping your hands on a tea towel. “Hello! You must be Ladybug. I’ve heard… mixed things.” You offered your hand warmly.
Ladybug blinked at it, then at Tangerine. “This is your wife?”
“Yes, this is my wife,” Tangerine snapped. “What’s so hard to believe about that?”
Ladybug’s jaw opened and closed like a fish. “It’s just—you’re—he’s so…” He gestured at Tangerine’s brooding glare, then at you, practically glowing in the doorway. “And you’re so… not.”
“Opposites attract,” you said cheerfully, giving Tangerine’s arm a squeeze.
Tangerine muttered something under his breath, shooting Ladybug a look that could curdle milk.
⸻
Once inside (thanks to Lemon insisting), Ladybug perched nervously on the edge of the sofa while you set out tea and biscuits. Tangerine hovered like a watchdog, arms crossed, eyes flicking to every movement Ladybug made.
“Nice place,” Ladybug said cautiously, glancing at the family photos on the wall. “Didn’t think you were the, uh, domestic type.”
“That’s ‘cause you don’t know me,” Tangerine muttered, plucking a crumb off the table before you could notice.
Your toddler babbled happily in the background, waving a stuffed toy in Ladybug’s direction.
Ladybug smiled, leaning down. “Hey there, little guy—”
“Don’t touch her,” Tangerine barked instantly.
Ladybug jerked his hand back like he’d been burned. “Right. Noted.”
You rolled your eyes with a fond smile. “Darling, he’s not going to curse her with bad luck just by saying hello.”
Tangerine’s eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly how it works.”
Lemon nearly choked on his tea laughing. “Oh, this is bloody brilliant. You think Ladybug’s gonna hex your baby just by breathin’ in the same room?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Tangerine grumbled.
Ladybug raised his hands defensively. “I swear, I’m trying to be on my best behavior! No accidents, no bad luck, no… whatever. Just… normal tea time.”
At that exact moment, the teacup slipped from his hand, clattering onto the saucer with a splash.
Tangerine shot to his feet. “Right! That’s it. Out.”
But before he could haul him up, you touched his arm gently. “He’s fine. It’s just tea, not blood.”
Ladybug gave you a grateful look, while Tangerine muttered curses under his breath.
⸻
Later, as Ladybug left (practically shoved out the door by Tangerine), he turned back to you with an awkward wave.
“You’re a saint,” he said. “Seriously. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“I bloody well do!” Tangerine shouted from the hallway.
Lemon leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “You sure you don’t wanna stay for dinner? Watch Tan pop a vein?”
Ladybug shook his head quickly. “Nope, nope, I value my life. Good luck with… all this.”
He gestured vaguely at the house, the family, the grumpy assassin glaring at him through the doorway.
And then he was gone.
You shut the door with a soft laugh, wrapping your arms around Tangerine’s middle. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
He grumbled, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Next time, I’m changin’ the locks.”
Plot:You are a fucking freak, like very freaky when it comes to having sex, and Dave never minded at all, I mean your a beautiful girl who even gave the nerdy superhero guy the chance and Dave felt like the luckiest guy in the world, especially when it came to sex, it was never boring, it was honestly hot for him. Except that you were always being in control and Dave for once wanted to be in control.
Warnings: P in V, Oral(M receiving),Pathetic Dave,Dom F,Sub M, idk what else lmk if I missed something.
Notes: this may be terrible and someone requested this and I forgot to fucking add it or just anything so sorry also not proof read🤦🏻♀️
Dave did literally all his research to try to you know be more dominant when it comes to you and him having Sex. As much as Dave hated to admit he did like when you would slight pull his hair making out, or calling him a good boy, he wanted for once to be in control.
So when he came over to your dorm for a study session he knew he could not let you control him, he had a plan. Studying ended up to you tow throwing your books off the bed and making out. You were laid on your back while he was hovering above. His glasses were fogging up but you always thought that cute and it was time to you know tease him a bit, but Dave wouldn’t let it happen not this time.
Once your hair went to his hair he grabbed it and placed it on his cock area, you smirked. “Aw is my nerdy boy all hard for me?” He got a flustered a bit but no he couldn’t. “Just wanted you to feel what’s gonna fuck you soon.” He said smirking, you looked so confused but shrugged and went back to kissing him and rubbing his jeans.
He trailed his hands down your body to your as and giving it a hard smack. “Ow! Ok Dave what’s going on?” You asked as he wiped his glasses looking at you with swollen lips. “I- I- Fuck I’m sorry did that hurt?” He asked as you nodded. “Ugh fuck, I wanted to try to be in more control you know?” He said as your head kept coming up with ideas. He wanted to be dominant, but you knew Dave wouldn’t last a minute of being in control, but it would be fun to see how he breaks so you played along.
“Aw baby why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve let you.” He looked at you so surprised. “R-really?” he asked as you nodded smiled placing your hand back on his cock. “Tell me what you want me to do, sir?” You asked, he brain malfunctioned a bit you’re in control man tell her to do something “Um, get on your knees and suck this cock” he said as you nodded getting in front of him on the floor on your knees. You unzipped his pants slowly and teasingly looking up at him. One thing about Dave, he had a good size cock, it was perfect, tip already a little red with pre cum leaking from it, his shaft shinning in the light, it was perfect.
You kissed up the shaft making sure he was watching, and he sure was, with his hands up not knowing what to do. “You know you can touch me right?” You asked as he nodded putting his hand in your hair. You licked the tip sucking on it a bit. “Ah fuck baby.” You looked up smiling a bit as you continued sucking him off, you even massaged his balls to add more pleasure. He whimpered, yeah whimpered enjoying the sensation of your mouth. He was supposed to degrade you and tell you to get better, even fuck your face. But Dave just wasn’t like that, he say stuff like “oh my god I’m lucky.” Or “Shit your amazing.” Praising you like no tomorrow. You felt him twitch and he didn’t beg you to stop he just moaned more, “Oh baby please let me cum.” He asked, yeah why he couldn’t be dominant, cause at the end, he’ll be asking for permission.
You went fast as his load released in your mouth and he started breathing heavy, you swallowed all of his cum as you wipe your mouth looking at him smirking. “Baby, that’s not fair.” He said as you smiled taking off your shorts along with your panties. He gulped fixing his glasses.
You cradled his lap teasing his cock to your entrance. “Is it fair if I gave you a chance to take control?” He looked down a bit, “aw Dave just face it, your always gonna be my sweet needy boy.” He sighed when you said that. “Are you mad about that?” You asked as he looked at you, “no not really.” He said as you smiled kissing him as he kissed back while sliding his cock inside you as he moaned in your mouth. You broke the kiss playing with the hem of his shirt. “Take it off.” He nodded and took it off. One thing, Dave was fit, muscles,abs,the v line that drove you crazy, and it was all yours.
“God you’re amazing.” You whispered in his ear moving as he moaned holding your hips, “aw is this too much?” You asked as he shook his head “N-no baby, your do so good fuck.” He moaned as your continued moving your hips having his cock hitting your g-spot.
“Ugh fuck Dave you always know how to satisfy me.” You said praising him. He always moaned in response holding you closer, he liked when you rode him, especially when he was sitting up so he could squeeze your boobs, god he loved touching boobs, definitely more a tits over ass guy, even tho you ass was a plus too.
“May I?” He asked having his hand hover your tits, you took off your top and pull your bra down to let you tit free. “Please me Davey.” You said as he squeezed one tit and putting the other in his mouth having you moan. “God such a good boy.” You said as his cock twitched inside you.
“Am I doing good?” He asked as you shouted yes going faster riding him. “B-baby I think gonna c-come.” He said as you smiled a bit kissing him messily then going to his neck leaving some hickeys on him (you liked leaving your mask and he did too.) “Come for me sweet boy.” You said going faster moaning louder as held you close as you came first then he came inside you, then he realized he came inside you.
“Oh fuck baby shit I’m so sorry I came in you fuck.” He said running his hand thought his hard stressed out, you laughed a bit and kissed him. “It’s ok.” “N-no it’s not you can’t have kids-“ you signed and shut him up moving a bit again while his cock still inside of you. “I’m on birth control Davey, you’re fine.” You kissed his cheek with a sigh of relief.
Dave laid you in your bed and went to the bathroom to get a towel to clean you and himself up, because you took care of him least he could do is clean you up. “Thank you baby, that’s was really great.” He climbed in bed cuddling you. “I should thank you, that was really good, especially cause it was cute that you tried to be dominant.” He groaned hiding in your chest.
“I just wanted to make you feel good like you do.” He said kissing your chest. You ran your hand through his curls and smiled, “you make me feel good already, as a pathetic sweet boy.” He laughed a bit and kissed your lips snuggling you again, slowly falling asleep “I love you baby.” You blushed a bit, “love you too my cute nerdy boy.”
A/N: step brother!pietro x step sister!reader, step sibling AU, taboo AU, 18+f!reader, oral f!receiving, just the tip, pervy!pietro, good girl!reader, smut, unprotected sex, stepcest(?) MDNI
When Erik Lehnsherr and your mom got hitched and she moved you and herself into his estate, you didn’t put up much of a fuss. You weren’t attached to your old town, you were going to college soon anyway so it wouldn’t really be a full move. Just a few months. The biggest challenge was his son, Pietro.
When you had first met him, it was during a brunch your mom and his dad had planned. Pietro shared his fries with you and you took some selfies with him just to document the day you met your future step brother. It was normal, you had enough common that it wasn’t awkward, and you exchanged numbers.
“You’re not what I was expecting.” Pietro had told you during a brief hug while you were saying your goodbyes after brunch. Erik and your mom were kissing a few feet away by her car.
“What were you expecting?” You asked with a little laugh as you leaned back, still in his embrace, to look up at him.
Pietro stared down at you with a small smirk and he tilted his head as he contemplated you. “My old man made it sound like you’d be younger, like some girl into princesses and fairytales. Not this,” He pauses and lets out a chuckle. “Not this beautiful girl all grown up.”
“You disappointed?” You asked playfully and Pietro didn’t exactly laugh, just smiled before saying, “Not at all, princess.”
That night, Pietro had sent you a selfie while you were curled in your bed just doomscrolling. It was a shirtless selfie, even if you couldn’t see his full chest, and he was winking and sticking his tongue out. Your face broke into a giddy smile as you read the message that came along with it.
Pietro M: for my contact pic, loved meeting you today, little sis;)
Even then, it still felt normal.
Then, of course, you spent a lot of time together in the months leading up to the wedding. Pietro was very helpful given his mutant speed and it was a gift your mother made sure to use whenever she needed something done quickly.
“One pair of far more comfortable heels,” Pietro had announced as he arrived to the hotel room with a gust of wind. Your face broke into a smile as you jumped up and wrapped your arms around his neck in glee. “Can’t have you tripping down the aisle and making me look bad.” He teases, one hand lately splaying over the small of your back.
“Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver.” You laughed, pulling back and taking the shoes which had a chunkier heel for the sake of your balance. “Look, mom!”
“Those are perfect, sweetheart.” Your mom sighs in relief before cupping Pietro’s face in her hands. “Thank you so much, son.”
“Of course, happy to help.” Pietro says as he gives her a hug while watching you slip into your new heels, his eyes trail over your bridesmaid dress which clings to the curves of your hips and waist. You catch his gaze and blush, looking away while he leaves to rejoin the groom’s party.
The wedding itself had gone perfectly. Everything went according to plan from the toasts to the dance to dinner. Except for when you were drunk and let Pietro kiss you in one of the venue’s back rooms. You had been trying to find a bathroom when your new brother found you stumbling around and you ended up in a cluttered room, whispering compliments and sneaking touches not quite appropriate for siblings.
“You look so damn good in this dress.” He told you, his hands messing up your hair while you giggled about how wrong this was even as you kissed him back.
“Mm, Pietro,” You murmured, gasping as his lips trailed down your neck. “We can’t. My mom literally just married your dad.”
“That’s what makes it so much hotter.” He says, grinning down at you before capturing your lips in another kiss. Your lips part too easily and he licks into your mouth, tasting the sweet wine and frosting from the wedding cake as you moan. “Fuck, I should’ve objected.” He says, making you laugh as you playfully shove him.
The two of you had agreed it wouldn’t happen again. It was a one time thing, a mistake, even if it left you curious for more. You knew the energy would remain, however, and you tried everything to push back the move-in date until it was no longer reasonable for you and your mom to continue staying at your small apartment when she was newly married.
There were no issues, not really. You didn’t feel like Pietro had forced anything, but you knew it would only blur the lines more once you were living together. His dad was nice and friendly, he made your mother happy, and when you arrived at your new home you found that Erik had set up your bedroom before your arrival, and that made you feel more welcomed than anything.
“Go explore your new home, sweetheart.” Your mom encouraged after lunch, clearly wanting some alone time with her new husband.
Happily, you thanked your step dad for the meal and excused yourself before wandering the large house and its grounds. The halls were lined with large portraits and you noticed that some of them were a little askew. As you started to straighten one out, a sudden, but familiar gust of wind blew it off center again and you gasped as your hair flew around your face.
“Well, well, well,” Came a voice behind you and you turned to see that trademark silver hair paired with a cocky smirk. “Finally decided to move in, huh?”
“Hi, Pietro.” You say with a light blush because damn it, he is so hot.
“I’ve missed you.” Pietro says as he pulls you into his chest, his long arms wrapping around you as he squeezes and you grin, absentmindedly nuzzling into him. That cologne, you think, just like at the wedding.
When you pull away, Pietro tilts his chin to the portrait behind you. “We’ll have to get another one done now that includes you and your mom. My old man’s got a thing for family ties.”
“Oh, my mom would love that. She’s very into the Victorian era now thanks to your dad. Not quite the midlife criss I expected, but it’s better than her dating guys my age.” You joke and Pietro chuckles.
“You get the tour yet?” He asks, circling you once and you don’t fail to notice the way his gaze lingers on your body. You shake your head, biting back a smile as he extends his hand to you.
“I’d love one, but I do want to unpack.” You say, hesitating because you know what will happen if you’re alone with him again.
“No worries, I can help. Speed things along, you know.” Pietro isn’t pushy and instead of insisting, he simply picks you up bridal style and zips you to your new bedroom, dropping you onto your feet in the middle of the room before you’ve fully blinked.
“Okay, you’re just showing off.” You laugh and he just grins as he helps you unpack and get you settled in your bedroom.
In the following weeks, Pietro had less and less shame, he would walk around shirtless, pick you up and speed you away just to show you how quickly he could have you alone, tease you about your outfits in the morning. Your mom caught him sneaking out of your room once even though you hadn’t done anything except watch him go through your closet and answer his personal questions about your dating history. His dad caught him pinning you down on the couch in the living room after a playful fight over the remote nearly became more. Subtlety clearly wasn’t your brother’s strong suit.
It was a whirlwind having to be the rational one because while Pietro clearly didn’t see you as a sister, you still knew it wasn’t right. You were a rule follower through and through, a goody two-shoes even.
“Pietro, stop.” You scold quietly as you feel his hand on your thigh during dinner one night, brushing it off only for him to chuckle under his breath.
“It’s your fault, how is your skin so soft?” He whispers demandingly into your ear and you can’t help a soft laugh as it escapes you.
From the other side of the table, your mother smiles at the two of you and Erik squeezes her shoulder, noticing the same sibling bond forming in front of them. “It’s so nice to see the two of you have become friends.”
“Oh, it’s been great,” Pietro agrees, casually wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “I think this is my second chance at being a better older brother. Didn’t quite get it right the first time.”
Your mom and Erik laugh at that and dinner resumes as if Pietro isn’t whispering inappropriate things to you. Your thighs squeeze together and you squirm slightly from his attention, and not because you don’t like it. A part of you knows this isn’t right, your parents are married, but a smaller part doesn’t fail to remind you that you’re not really related to begin with, not by blood.
It happens again one late night, the first time since the wedding when you cross the lines. You were munching on a granola bar and sipping some juice, wearing some sleep shorts and a crop top. You weren’t completely used to the nighttime noises around this new house, but you felt comfortable and safe. As you got lost in thought, the wind picked up and you turned to see Pietro strolling in, shirtless with that signature cocky smirk.
“Perfect, I was just looking for a midnight snack.” He grins like a predator, moving around the island and slowly caging you in a corner.
“Pietro,” You say with a warmth in your face that isn’t so much embarrassment anymore, but rather flattery. “You know you shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” He asks, taking your hand and lifting it to take the last bite from your bar. Fuck, stop staring at him, you think to yourself as he chews slowly, smiling at you in amusement. “You don’t like hearing how pretty you are, princess?”
Your words are caught in your throat, but you swallow them and try again. “It’s inappropriate. We’re siblings. My mom and your dad are married, remember?”
“Hard to forget when you keep reminding me,” Pietro says with an easy grin, one hand sliding around your waist and he leans down, his nose brushing your hairline as you shiver from the warmth of his body, his bare chest, so close. “But what if I told you I just don’t care?”
“You should.” You counter, looking up at him almost submissively and he gives you a noncommittal shrug.
With nothing left to say, you finally kiss him again. Pietro’s hands are cupping your face as he growls softly against your lips and you moan into the gesture. Without warning, he lifts you onto the counter and you moan as his tongue slips into your mouth all too easily. His hands are firm on your hips while you hold onto his shoulders, letting him step between your thighs as the kiss deepens. Your tongues are licking at each other’s mouths, hands groping and exploring as the kiss becomes a heated make out.
“Pi-Pietro, we gotta-mm-we gotta stop.” You say between kisses. Pietro moves his mouth down to kiss along your neck and you sigh as you let your head tilt back to give him more access. “Oh, please.”
“Fuck, I want you.” He groans, biting your bottom lip as his fingers curl into the hem of your sleep shirt, tugging desperately at the thin material and you almost let him pull it off until you hear footsteps coming towards the kitchen.
“Get off!” You whisper in urgency, pushing him away and hopping off the counter just as his dad walks into the kitchen.
Erik’s eyes catch his son’s cocky grin and his new stepdaughter’s flushed appearance as you fix your blouse. “Everything okay in here?” He asks, eyeing Pietro who gives him a small shrug and you quickly interject.
“Pietro was just helping me reach a glass.” You say as you set your empty glass in the sink and give Pietro a small nod. “Thanks.” You move past your step dad and give him a smile before chirping a too enthusiastic, “Goodnight!”
Erik and Pietro don’t move a muscle until your bedroom door is heard closing behind you upstairs, their eyes locked on one another as if waiting for the other to blink first. Erik takes a deep breath and sighs almost in annoyance.
“You better think about what you’re doing, son.”
“I’m not doing anything, old man.” Pietro says as he moves past his father with too much confidence only to be stopped with a firm hand on the shoulder and Erik squeezes warningly.
“Her mother means a lot to me, don’t go screwing around.”
That only made Pietro want to screw around more.
One afternoon, a few weeks later, you are reading in your bedroom which feels more and more yours, when Pietro comes in to bother you, fluster you, and you let him. “It must be exhausting to look this good all the time, huh?” He flirts, leaning against your doorframe and looking you over where you’re curled up in your bed.
“Stop it.” You laugh, blushing when he sprawls out at the end of your bed, an arm tucked behind his head, making his t-shirt ride up a little and expose the V cut in his hips and the happy trail disappearing underneath his waistband. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here. Your dad said.” You say in an attempt to deter him, and yourself.
“Yeah, he also said I’d be getting a little sister and he made it sound like you’d be a five year old, not this.” He says as he looks over you in that way that should make you uneasy, but lately just makes you hot.
“You need to behave.” You say with a of shake your head as you return to the book in your lap, chewing anxiously on your lip and hoping he doesn’t pull because you’ll follow.
Pietro sits up, his eyes on yours as he gently places a hand on your thigh. Your chest tightens and you give him a pleading look. “I’m serious, princess. You’re not what I was expecting, how am I supposed to behave around you?” He then crawls towards you, kissing you softly as you sigh and return the kiss, one hand coming up to rest on his jaw while he moves to lay on top of you.
“Just for a little bit.” You whisper, glancing at your bedroom door while Pietro takes your book out of your hands and pulls you fully underneath him by your thighs.
Your legs part as he settles between them and your hands tangle in his messy, silver hair as he kisses you hungrily and intentionally. You have to keep your focus not only on his mouth, but his hands because you know for sure they could make quick work of your clothes before you blink. His hands explore the shape of your body, kneading your breasts and ass while you let yourself trace the muscles on his back and the test the strength in his arms with a squeeze.
“Let me taste it?” He asks with a cheeky grin as you pull apart to take a breath and you bite your lip, nervously shaking your head.
“We’ll get caught.” You whisper, glancing back over at your bedroom door.
“They’re not even here.” Pietro counters, already kissing down your neck and sternum. “C’mon, it’ll feel so good.”
Your mind is spiraling from the sensation of his hands pulling your shorts and panties down, his mouth latches to your neck as his fingers prod at your folds. “Oh, my god.” You gasp softly as his digits slide between your legs, exploring and coaxing reactions from you that seem to fuel his bad idea.
“Told you, feels good, huh?” Pietro murmurs with a cocky grin that makes you roll your eyes playfully as he moves down to settle his head between your thighs. “Fuck, you smell so good.” He groans, inhaling your scent which makes your face burn. His tongue parts your folds, flicking your clit and making your back arch against the bed. Your hand finds his hair and the other fists the sheets as his tongue burrows into you, his thumb rubbing on your clit until you’re trembling with an impending release.
“You shouldn’t be good at this.” You moan, watching him eat you out with greed, fingers playing with your clit and spreading your folds so he can get a good look at you which just makes you all the more shy.
“No,” He groans, lapping like a parched man at your leaking core. “I shouldn’t be good at this with you.”Pietro suddenly stops to remove your t-shirt and you whine quietly, your hips lifting towards him which makes him chuckle as he shoves his sweats down.
“Wait, no, we can’t do that.” You say, placing your hand against his bare chest to stop him.
“Just the tip, I promise,” Pietro counters, taking your hand and kissing your palm before leaning down and kissing your lips. “I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”
You bite your lip and then nod slowly, watching him closely as he lines his tip to your wet core. “Go slow.” You whisper, watching with wide eyes as his tip parts you, making you stretch around him and you moan quietly, clutching absentmindedly to his forearms as he fucks you with his tip.
“You know,” Pietro says, panting softly as he fists his length to keep himself accountable, dipping into your opening again and again with an increasingly wet squelch that makes your shiver. “This doesn’t really count, we’re not going all the way.”
“That’s good,” You say, not really listening as you are too consumed by the pleasure and the adrenaline from having your step brother between your thighs in your bedroom. You are squirming and moaning as his tip brushes against your clit before slipping back inside you. “It’s so good, oh, fuck.” Pietro taps his heavy cock against your bud and you whine, looking up at him and biting your lip with want and hesitation.
“You want more, sis?” He asks so casually, so cheekily, it makes your belly flip because you shouldn’t be turned on by the way he asks, but you are.
“Yes, please, just fuck me.”
With that permission, Pietro sinks into you and you inhale sharply from the stretch and the way he fills you completely. “Fuck, baby,” Pietro groans, burying his face in your neck as his hips pick up speed and his cock slides all too easily, coated in a creamy sheen of your arousal while your scratch at his back. “Take it, just keep taking it, you feel so fucking good.” He growls, his fingers digging into your hips.
“Oh, Pietro! I’m gonna cum. Please, please, please!” You cry out, clinging to him as his arms wrap around you and he holds you flush to his body while he fucks himself into you. Your breasts bounce with each thrust and Pietro’s mouthing and sucking on them while getting lost in the way you clench and gush around his girth. Your release then crashes over you like a wave and you tremble in his arms as Pietro chases his own pleasure. “N-Not inside.” You manage while dazed and blissed out from the way his length keeps pounding into you.
“Shit,” Pietro suddenly pulls out and his cum spurts onto your stomach, groaning and doubling over as he jerks off on you. You’re panting beneath him, watching as he strokes his length and drips onto you before he suddenly lines himself back up. Still hard, still aching for more.
“Our parents will be home soon.” You try breathlessly, pushing weakly on his chest as he slides back in and you mewl softly, already arching for him again as he fills you completely.
“Fuck, that was so good. We gotta do it again.” He says, the strokes of his cock stretch and gradually increase in speed, making your eyes roll back as the pleasure and overstimulation consume you. “You like this, princess?” He asks with a nip at your lip while you nod along to his filthy words. “Like how big brother fucks you while mom and dad are gone?”
“Yes, yes, Pietro, it feels so good.” You cry softly, clinging to him as he keeps a steady pace that makes your toes curl and your head loll around from being so dazed. “Don’t stop, please.”
At this point, you don’t care that it’s wrong, you don’t care that you might get caught. Pietro’s not your real brother anyway, just a really good looking roommate if you think about it, and you try not to while he’s still in you.
Families are all different, and this one is yours now.
I hope everyone has a happy thanksgiving!🍁 🦃
I will be traveling for the holiday, but I just wanted to drop this off for the freaky girls, like myself, who love Pietro💙🩶
could you please do a tangerine x reader fic where reader falls asleep on him mid-mission and he just short circuits and lemon is having a field DAY because he knows what’s up 🥹🥰
Nap Time on a Bullet Train ♡ | Tangerine 𖦹°
"She fell asleep on me mid-mission, and somehow... that was more dangerous than the bloody target."
pairing : Tangerine x fem!reader
summary : A mission, a nap, and one very flustered assassin. Things get complicated—in the cutest way possible.
warnings : Mild swearing (mostly from Tangerine, never directed at reader), Light violence mentioned (off-screen, mission-related), Excessive teasing from Lemon, Tangerine being emotionally constipated and down bad, Extreme fluff and mutual pining, One (1) dangerously adorable nap on an assassin. Please let me know if I missed any.
author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.
della's note : THIS REQUEST WAS SO CUTE!!! I LOVE MAKING STRONG AND COLD MEN FLUSTER, ESPECIALLY WHEN HE IS FRUITY MAN!!! THANKS FOR REQUESTING LOVIE!!! Oh and btw, I tried giving him a British accent!!! Let me know if it's alright.
word count : 1.1k
navigation <3
banners : @/anitalenia and @/cafekitsune
The train rattled beneath your feet as you leaned your head back against the wall of the quiet carriage, your eyes fluttering with sleep. The mission was... dragging. No high-speed chases, no bullets (yet), just an annoyingly long wait-and-watch with Tangerine tapping his foot like it personally offended him to be this bored.
"Keep your eyes open, love," Tangerine muttered beside you, glancing over with that sharp, cockney bite that usually came with his impatience. "We're meant to be watchin’ for the bastard, not takin’ a bleedin’ siesta."
You hummed, eyes still closed. “I am watching. With my ears.”
"That’s not how that works."
But his voice wasn’t annoyed—not really. It was the voice of a man trying very, very hard not to sound like he was smiling. Which, he was. Smiling, that is. Just a little. Just when he looked at you.
You shifted your weight, and before he could process what was happening—you leaned fully against his shoulder. Soft. Warm. Peaceful.
And completely unconscious.
Tangerine froze.
Not like, cool secret agent “freeze and assess the threat” frozen. No. This was full-on system reboot. His hands hovered in mid-air like he wasn’t sure what to do with them anymore. His body went stiff as a damn lamppost. His breath stopped in his throat.
You were... asleep. On him.
On. Him.
His eyes darted around the carriage like someone might arrest him for being blessed too suddenly. And then—
“OH my god,” came Lemon’s voice from the next row, loud and gleeful as the devil himself. “No. Nooo. Don’t tell me.”
Tangerine looked up like he’d been caught downloading illegal files.
“Lemon—"
“You absolute bloody muppet, she’s sleeping on you like you’re a goddamn Disney prince. Look at you. You’re—you’re blushing!”
“I’m not f—blushin’, shut your mouth.”
Lemon leaned over the seat like a nosy aunt at a family reunion, watching with the widest grin known to man.
“You’re not even moving, mate. You’re terrified if you breathe too loud, she’ll wake up and realize she accidentally snuggled up to a human popsicle.”
Tangerine hissed, eyes darting to you, still soft and sweet and peaceful on his shoulder. A single strand of your hair tickled his neck. He tried not to combust.
Tangerine’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “I—we’re on a bloody mission!”
“Yeah, and she’s straight-up napping on you like you’re a Tempur-Pedic. Face it, mate. You’re the safe spot.”
The safe spot.
That... that shut him up.
Lemon watched the war on Tangerine’s face play out like a drama. Soft disbelief. Panic. Awe. Immediate emotional constipation. He even saw the moment Tangerine very gently lowered his head so it rested against yours—like a shy little tilt, just barely enough to touch.
It was so stupidly tender Lemon had to physically walk away to avoid yelling.
The train rattled on. You snored. Softly. Like a sleepy kitten.
And Tangerine—lethal, short-tempered, Gucci-clad Tangerine—sat there like someone had lit a candle in his chest and he was afraid even blinking too loud might blow it out.
He didn’t move. Not even when the target showed up three cars down. Not even when Lemon returned ten minutes later with a smug smirk and two coffees.
“I took care of him,” Lemon whispered. “Figured you had your hands full.”
“Piss off.”
“You’re welcome, lover boy.”
Tangerine just stared down at you, the edges of his heart folding inward like warm pastry.
“…She’s gonna make fun of me when she wakes up, ain’t she?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
And god help him—he couldn’t wait for it.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, the rhythmic hum of the train lulling your senses. You shifted, head still warm against—
...Wait.
What was...soft, solid...and wearing cologne that probably cost more than your entire paycheck?
You lifted your head just enough to see Tangerine, completely still, staring out the window like if he acknowledged your consciousness he might combust.
“...Did I fall asleep?” you asked, voice hoarse with sleep.
Tangerine tensed like you’d just pulled a gun on him.
“No.”
You blinked.
“I’m...pretty sure I did.”
“Well. I didn’t notice,” he said, too fast, too high-pitched. “I was watchin’ the mission. The bloody train. The—window. The clouds.”
“Inside a tunnel?”
“Right. Shadows. Very tactical shadows.”
From a few seats away, Lemon let out an audible wheeze.
You turned to him suspiciously. “...Why do you look like you’ve been holding in a laugh for an hour?”
“Oh I have.” Lemon was nearly bouncing. “You should’ve seen this prick when you nodded off. I thought he’d short out like a faulty toaster.”
Tangerine shot him a look that could've curdled milk.
“Don’t. Start.”
“Wouldn’t move, wouldn’t breathe, wouldn’t blink. Like you were a baby deer or some shit.”
You turned to Tangerine, biting back a grin. “Aw. Did I break you?”
He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not with the heat burning up the back of his neck. “You didn’t break me. I’m not some soft, squishy—”
“You literally didn’t move for 20 minutes.”
“That’s strategy.”
“That’s cuddling.”
Tangerine’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again.
He looked at you like you’d just hacked into his central nervous system and changed the language settings to “Emotional Clown.”
“I’m deadly, alright? I’m not some—some—romantic bloody pillow.”
You raised a brow, pretending to consider. “You were very comfy, though. Surprisingly warm.”
“Oh my god,” Lemon gasped, clutching his chest. “She’s teasing you. You’re done.”
“I am not done!”
You smiled sweetly at him. “You’re kinda cute when you’re flustered, y’know.”
Silence.
Absolute, devastating silence.
Tangerine blinked. Once. Twice. Then stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.
“I need to get off this train.”
“It’s a moving train, mate,” Lemon snorted. “Nice try.”
You reached out and gently bumped Tangerine’s shoulder with your own. His eyes flicked to yours—guarded, confused, soft.
“I trust you, you know,” you said, voice low, warm. “Even if you are grumpy and dramatic and a walking cologne bottle.”
He didn’t answer at first. His jaw flexed. Then:
“…I’m not that dramatic.”
You gave him a look.
“…Alright. A bit.”
You smiled. “You’re cute when you’re pretending not to care.”
He looked at you then—really looked. And god help him, there it was: the softness, the warmth, the genuine, maddening affection in your gaze.
He sighed, finally, the tension falling off his shoulders like rain off an umbrella.
“…Don’t fall asleep on anyone else, yeah?”
“Oh?” You tilted your head. “Jealous?”
He met your eyes with a tired little smile.
“Bloody absolutely.”
Lemon groaned in the background. “I hate you both. Genuinely. From the bottom of my heart.”
You laughed—and that was the worst part. Because the moment you laughed, Tangerine knew he was completely screwed.
Would it be possible for a Kraven x reader where she’s his mate and someone maybe an ally tries to make a move on her without knowing the relationship between Kraven and reader. Kraven becomes almost feral.
Thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy!
You Belong To Me
Sergei Kravinoff x f!reader
Theme: dark romance
Warnings: none
Word count: 592
You hadn't planned on being alone with him; the ally Kraven had brought in to help trace a scent trail for his hunt. It was unusual for him to let others help him track a target. Kraven doesn’t trust many people, let alone allow someone to help him during something this important. But this particular scent was complicated. It was fading, too quick. Whoever he was hunting definitely learned to cover up their tracks by masking it with other scents. It made the path almost impossible to follow. Even Kraven had to admit a second nose might help this time around.
He is already ahead, scouting through the forest. He sent you out to the outpost where the tracker waited. Kraven had given you some supplies to bring the tracker - a few of his notes and some scent samples. You arrive just before dusk, spotting the man sitting by a small fire pit. He looks up, his expression shifting into something curious when he sees you. "You're Kravens contact?" You nod, handing him the small bag Kraven gave you. "He told me to bring you this," you say, giving him a polite smile. The man takes the bag from you and gestures for you to sit. “I thought Kraven preferred to handle things himself.” "He does," you say, settling on a log near the fire. "He's scouting ahead. He'll meet us once he circles back." The man studies you a bit more openly now, eyes lingering on your form. "I didn’t expect his contact to be this... easy on the eyes," his lips tug up into a small smirk, the fire cracking softly between you. You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I'm not sure what you expected." He shrugs one shoulder, still smiling. "A runner... some messenger. Someone less interesting than who's sitting in front of me now." You sigh through your nose. "Flattering. But I’m not here to flirt." He raises a challenging eyebrow at that. "Doesn't mean I won't try. I mean, you and I. We could…" A sudden snap of a branch behind him cuts the words off, he freezes. Before he can react, a shadow bursts from the treeline. Kraven moves with inhuman speed, slamming the tracker against a tree with effortless force. His eyes gold and glowing with a predatory glint as he snarls at the man. "Go ahead. Finish that sentence." The mans eyes widen, panic setting in. "Kraven? I- I don't understand-" he stammers. "That she's my mate?" The hunters voice drops low and lethal. You can practically see the man puzzling the pieces together, his eyes darting from Kraven to you and back to Kraven. "I won't warn you twice," Kraven growls, every muscle in his body coiled, trying to keep himself from doing something much worse. "Don't touch what's mine." With a final shove, he drops the man back to his feet, leaving him trembling beside the firepit.
"Sergei," you breathe, heart hammering in your chest as he walks toward you. "You," he rasps, closing the distance. "You belong to me." He cups your jaw with one hand, pulling you into him until your chest presses against his. A low, feral growl vibrates through his chest as he leans closer, his nose almost brushing your temple. “The second anyone tries to touch you…" his voice drops to a gravelly threat, "They’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.” Then he presses a rough kiss to your temple, sealing the promise you made to him a long time ago: you're his, and his alone.
I have no idea if I’m doing this right so if not feel free to ignore this but can I request a kraven fic about him getting super jealous about something small and he starts growling…. Maybe because it’s mating season….
F!Reader x Sergei Kravinoff
Warnings: Suggestive themes, angst, Sergei being an asshole, some fluff at the end
Word Count: 1.9k
A/N: Here you go, I hope this is what you wanted <3
❧ You can find my masterlist here!
You were promised that the night would be one to remember.
One marked by an amazing dinner, lovely music, and dancing—all with your ever-devoted boyfriend in the heart of London.
A Valentine's Day for the books, Sergei had murmured in your ear as he did the clasp of your diamond necklace. When you met his gaze in the mirror, you caught the rare, sheepish smile tugging at his lips.
The very one he only ever reserved for you.
Even Sergei, stubborn as he was, couldn't ignore the quiet thrill stirring his heart.
And there you were, enjoying your complimentary dinner at Dima's bar. The waiters had been poised for your arrival—no doubt by the request of Sergei's brother—and quickly jumped into action the moment you stepped inside. They guided you to a secluded booth in the seating area.
Crystal chandeliers hung low, illuminating the room in a melancholic golden glow. Waiters and waitresses darted between tables, trays balanced precariously on their arms. All around you, couples gazed longingly into each other's eyes, their food untouched and wine bottles emptying.
To top it all off was the mesmerising sound of Dima's piano playing, his practiced voice blending sweetly into the background.
It was designed to be the perfect evening.
So why, then, did everything feel so wrong?
From the second you were seated, something changed.
With every passing minute, Sergei seemed to be more and more on edge. He would shift uncomfortably in his seat and grip his fork a little too tightly.
The sudden change in his behavior was jarring.
You tried your best to pull him back; gentle touches to his arm, light jokes about Dima's exaggerated mannerisms when he played the piano, questions about his food and his well-being. Yet with each attempt, he would give you less and less—a grunt, a silent nod, a shrug, then eventually nothing.
The booth felt colder with each attempt. Without you noticing, he had scooted away from you—so far that the space between you could have held a full wine glass. There was no endearing bumping of your knees, no teasing hands on thighs. Sergei wouldn't even look at you, his darkened eyes focused on the bar behind you.
A flush of embarrassment snaked up your neck like a vine. You felt painfully out of place as you drowned in a sea of happy couples, their giggles mocking the silence hanging over you two. You feared that people were staring and judging, wondering how much dignity you had left to sit there while your boyfriend treated you like an afterthought.
Fed up, you set your fork down with a clank so forceful that it made even Sergei jump. "Okay, what the hell is going on?"
"Nothing," Sergei said, his eyes glued to the steak in front of him.
"Bullshit," you hissed. "You've been acting like I'm invisible for the last thirty minutes. Like you don't even want to be here. If you didn't want to come here you should've just said so and save us both the hassle."
His jaw flexed. "I said nothing is wrong."
"Sergei, I'm going to give you one more chance to—"
"Madam, an espresso martini for you."
You had been interrupted by a waiter, who suddenly appeared bearing a singular drink on his tray. He stood a careful step back from your table, no doubt sensing the heaviness in the air.
Your brows furrowed in confusion, but your heart gave a small, stupid leap. "I didn't order that."
Had Sergei ordered it?
"The gentleman at the bar," said the waiter, and nodded towards a lone man sitting on a stool. The man was well-put together, his tailored pin-stripe suit screaming money. He caught your eye with a smile and raised his glass towards you. "He sends his regards."
The hope died as quickly as it was sparked, disappointment crashing over you once more.
He placed the drink down in front of you and scurried away.
You stared at the espresso martini like it was poison. You watched the way the bubbles in the swirling foam caught the light, and how the lone coffee bean in the center bobbed up and down. When your eyes flickered up, Sergei was still eating his steak as if nothing happened.
There was no anger in his face, no sense of possession. It seemed as though he couldn't care any less.
Your throat tightened. How was it fair that this complete stranger was treating you better than your own boyfriend? The same boyfriend who you stood through thick and thin with, and now treated you like you were worthless?
With two fingers, you pushed the martini glass away. The sound of crystal scraping against polished wood was deafening.
That's when Sergei finally looked at you. "Don't drink it."
It was a command, cold and strict in its nature, like you were a child about to touch something hot.
You chuckled wryly. "Oh, now you care? You've been acting like a dick all night, and the second some guy buys me a drink you're back to being the loving boyfriend?"
He set his knife down a little too aggressively. "I said don't drink it."
"And I told you," you said, the volume of your voice raising and drawing a few glances, "to explain yourself. You won't sit next to me, you won't touch me, you won't even look at me. You're treating me like I'm a burden!"
The embarrassment from earlier had blossomed into something angrier. You no longer cared if people were watching you.
"Then leave."
It was a simple statement, but it's cruelty cut deep. Your mouth dropped open in shock as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
"What?" you breathed.
"If it's so bad," he said, "then take the drink and go sit with your new admirer. I'm not stopping you."
You sat back against the seat, biting on your lip to keep from crying. Humiliation and betrayal burned underneath your skin.
"You're serious?"
He shrugged, the motion small and cruel. "You seem interested."
That did it.
You stood up so fast that the glasses on the table shook. Much of the attention was on the both of you now. Conversations stopped, silverware froze mid-air. Only Dima's songs continued on in ignorant bliss.
Gripping the sides of the table, you leaned in, your face inches away from Sergei's. Now he was really looking at you. For a brief second, something flashed in his eyes.
Regret? Panic? You couldn't tell.
"I think I will," you hissed, your words dripping with hostility.
You didn't give him time to recover.
You snatched your purse from the seat and made your way out of the booth, heels clicking against the marble floor. You didn't spare him nor the stranger at the bar another glance.
The coffee bean in the long abandoned espresso martini finally sank into the ocean of foam.
You only made it three steps before Sergei rose.
A low, guttural growl rolled past his lips. It was quiet enough that those nearby might excuse it for him clearing his throat, but you knew that sound all too well, and the way it vibrated your bones.
His hand suddenly closed around your upper arm. His grip wasn't bruising, but rather unyielding. He only stopped you from leaving, didn't yank you back.
"Don't," was all he said through clenched teeth.
You spun to face him, trying to free your arm from his iron grasp.
"Let me go," you spat.
People were openly staring. Somewhere off in the distance a woman gasped. Even Dima's melody faltered for half a second before it smoothed back into proper form.
Sergei's grip loosened a fraction. A frown was etched deep into the lines of his face, his shoulders rigid with restraint. You almost walked away again, but something else made you pause.
It was the uncharacteristic slight tremor in his hand.
You looked up at him only to find his pupils blown wide and eyes darting wildly. No longer was there the emptiness and cruelty that had been mocking you all evening—only desperation.
"Hallway," Sergei rasped. "Please."
You wrenched your arm free and stomped towards the dimly-lit hallway where the bathrooms were. Sergei followed closely behind you, his footsteps heavier than usual.
The hallway was narrow and shadowed, the piano and conversations muffled behind its thick walls. You spun around to face him once you were concealed from everyone's prying eyes.
"Talk," you demanded. "And if you don't, I'm walking out that door and we're through."
Sergei exhaled, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms so tightly that the muscles in his forearms stood out. He stared at the floor, his chest heaving. The silence stretched between the two of you, thick and suffocating.
Finally: "It's the season."
You frowned. "It's—what?"
"Mating season," Sergei said, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing his stubble. "I thought I had a few more days, but it just hit me out of nowhere. Hit hard. Every scent in this place is screaming at me. That fucking guy at the bar—" his lips curled, exposing his teeth, "—he just reeked of lust. Even that goofy-looking waiter. Every one of my senses feels like it's on fire and it's just killing me."
You were stunned, to say the least.
Even though the two of you had been dating for quite some time, this had never been an issue before. In the midst of your fury, sadness begin to swirl deep in your stomach.
It probably wasn't the first time he felt like this, and he had done an outstanding job at concealing his troubles from you.
You breathed shakily. "So mating season is..."
"Exactly what you think it is. It comes and goes every few months and I can usually hide it, but fuck—seeing you in that dress, in that necklace, just drove me insane. And I got scared because I'm worried I might hurt you somehow—"
"So you pushed me away," you interrupted, understanding creeping in.
"I pushed you away," he echoed defeatedly.
Shame started to weigh heavy on Sergei now. There was notable pain in his eyes as his shoulders sagged. With a sigh, you stepped towards him and put a hand on his arm. Anger still simmered beneath the surface, but you were slowly starting to soften.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you have to act like such an asshole?"
"I don't know," he uncrossed his arms, and hesitantly reached one hand out to hold your waist. "I'm sorry, I completely ruined the night. I hurt you and I hate myself for it. I just didn't know what to do."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, finally closing the distance that had been plaguing the both of you all night. "What you do is come talk to me when you're feeling this way. You come to me for help. I don't want you to hide something like this from me."
You searched his face. He couldn't even meet your gaze, eyes glued to the floor out of guilt. Even with the storm passing, you could still feel the frustration and need deep within him.
"Do you want to leave?" you asked.
His grip tightened. "With you, more than anything."
"Then let's go," you stood to kiss him on the tip of the nose. "And once we're home," your voice dropped an octave, "I'll help you out however you need."
Sergei's forehead dropped to yours, a purr dancing past his lips.
You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
You've had to make loads of hard decisions in your life, ranging from which shade of green to shade the bushes in your kindergarten colouring book, to which friend group to roll with in high school, to which Uni to join. But nothing was harder than the decision before you.
"I think that..."
"Choose wisely, your sobriety's dependent on this, darling.", teases the man you know only as Tangerine — which he's swearing is his real name — before gesturing at the shot glass.
"I think that... you having to have your thumb sewn back on and having been to France are the truths, and meeting the Queen is the lie?"
He raises a brow, as though daring you to reconsider. "Sure?"
"Yeah."
He waggles both his thumbs. "All natural."
"Fuck!", you exclaim, accepting the shot glass he so reverently holds up before downing the liquor in it. "You've met the Queen?!"
"Yeah, sort of. Had to go on a mission for her once. Almost got knighted, then they heard my accent was Cockney, and, well, y'know. The monarchy."
"Mm, right. Because you're a deadly assassin."
"Yes, we established that in Round 1. You seemed alarmingly neutral to that information.", he states, cracking his knuckles. "Your turn."
You laugh, half because of the tipsiness from all the shots you've taken because you've been comically unable to accurately guess which of his statements were true and which were lies over the past half an hour, and half because of the sheer absurdity of the fact that you were still here.
You don't think men are actually capable of leaving a woman who's alone at the bar... alone at the bar. They have to come and ruin her night, her peace of mind, or both, simultaneously. You'd thought Tangerine was no different, and initially, he hadn't been. He'd still come to sit by you, still ordered his drink and added "and one for the pretty lady next to me". But his first words to you were not his name, his proclamation of interest, a "so where are you from?", or even a "what's someone like you doing alone tonight?", no it was something else. Something that hooked you and kept you there.
"Ever played Two Truths and a Lie?"
And hence, here you are, pondering on what statements you haven't already used, while observing him pouring out the shot he's supposed to take if he fails to guess it accurately. "Okay. One : I've seen the Northern and Southern lights, Two : I sleep with a knife under my pillow, and Three : I once dated a B-List celebrity."
His smirk grows, though you're not sure what the look in his eyes means. "I knew you looked familiar. That one actor that was only famous because he used to date that singer, yeah? You dated him right after that, yeah?"
"You saw the pictures?", you groan, covering your face in your hair.
He chuckles, reaching over to part the hair that's covering your face and tucking it behind your ear before tilting his head. "There she is. And yes, the tabloids are social media for assassins. So that's one debunked."
You shake your head.
"And didn't you say, a few drinks ago, that you've never seen Aurora Australis? So, that's two. So, the knife-thing's the lie. See? I decode people for a living, darling, so—"
Suddenly, your face brightens. "I've actually seen both. I knew I'd use the Lights in an upcoming Round and have your guard down."
He laughs, like a good sport, before downing his shot, closing his eyes so hard you could see the veins of his eyelid before opening them again. "Fuck. Shot through me like a vendetta."
You grin, shrugging.
"So you sleep with a knife under your pillow."
You nod.
"Any reason, or did you just come out of the womb armed?"
You shrug. "I dunno, I guess someone taught it to me growing up and I just continued it."
He cocks his head at that. "Right. Who?"
Another shrug. "Can't remember."
"Ever, or because of the alc?"
"Probably both. Haven't thought about it, though."
The dim glow of the single, wonky bulb above you is severely overshadowed by the alternating blue and purple strobe fluorescents lined around the walls of the bar, flickering weakly. But they both do a perfectly fine job of highlighting whatever that look is in his eyes that you can't tell. Oh, no. Is this the part where you get abducted?
"What's your real name?", you find yourself asking, instead of getting the fuck out.
He pops a piece of bubblegum into his mouth — lord knows where he got that — before grinning. "Guess."
"I'm not doing that."
"What if I told you you know it? It's just deep inside that pretty little head, ya know?", he taunts, sliding over to sit right by you instead of across from you.
"So you lied to me."
"I did, yeah. Does that upset you? Have you led a life of morality and virtue since —", he cuts himself off, huffing before he wraps an arm around your shoulder. "Since birth?"
"No. Just thought you'd give up the whole Tangerine-schtick much sooner."
He narrows his eyes at you before shaking his head for what must be the thousandth time tonight. "That's my name. Don't wear it out.", he whispers, nosing at your hair. "You alright to get home?"
"I don't want to."
"I know you don't, but you're gonna have to. Remember? I said I'm here for a mission?", he asks, squeezing your shoulder in some sort of familiar pattern you'd expect from someone you've known for half your life, not half an hour.
"What sort of mission is here in these ends of London? No one of worth to murder."
"Who said anything about murder?"
And then, he pinches your chin to bring you closer to him. And then he kisses you. And then he grins. And then, he tells the bartender to get you home — you don't know this, but it's so that he doesn't get the urge to show up at your address and kiss you again. And then, you're back in your own bed, somehow. With a wicked migraine and half your lipstick on.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
FIVE HOURS LATER
The slam is what you hear first.
That startling, heart-stopping, adrenaline-inducing slam.
Any hangover you may have had evaporates in the face of it.
You live alone. Have for quite a while. No pets. Your rational mind attempts to explain it. Not explain it away, because you're already groping in the dark for the knife you keep under your pillow — something an old friend had taught you that stuck with you — and gripping onto the handle because it did mean the difference between life and death.
But it does try to explain it. Burglars. Demons. A stalker — this neighbourhood has no shortage of creeps. Maybe your druggie ex owed some dealer money and had given your address as his own. Or you as collateral. Your best case scenario? A stalker. Who was in love with you. Who you could talk down. Your mind's last-ditch attempt at explanation, the most timid, most tame, most calming, but least plausible? A stray, rabid dog had got into the rickety elevator of your four story apartment complex and had made it up here somehow.
God, none of this mattered, did it?
Who cares what the sound was — the point is that there was one, and you're currently in some sort of danger. Be it robbery or rabies. It's doing your head in, actually, your mind's incapacity to come up with something other than useless theories for the sort of danger you're in, instead of activating your fucking fight-or-flight so that you could combat it! Though, you suppose that's just part-and-parcel of living in such a shite neighbourhood. You're conditioned. Desensitized. Used to it.
You're also wise about such matters.
Because the moment the slam doesn't repeat itself, and isn't followed by some sort of aggressive clatter or clash, you immediately rule out the stray dog, as well as the drug dealer who might want to destroy everything out of rage.
This leaves someone with purpose. Intent.
And you're powerless against that, truly. So you suck it up. You do the smart thing and hide in your closet, stuffing a cloth into your mouth to muffle any loud breathing you might have, and tightening your grasp of the knife's handle — though the nerves are making your palms sweaty.
Whoever this is, they know their way around your house, or at least how to not disrupt anything during an abduction. You wouldn't be surprised if they're walking with sponged-up shoes to cover tracks as well as minimize sound.
You can't hear much anymore. There's a faint creak of opening drawers, but an immediate, subsequent closing of them, even in the living room, where you've kept jewellery — stupidly, in retrospect — meaning it's not a robber. So you're left with stalker.
And you'd expect a lovesick psycho to call out for his Juliet's name, so you conclude that it's just a psycho. Brilliant. Just your luck. It's morbidly hilarious, actually. You battle a chortle of sheer doom.
But no. Now, your best shot is to keep biting on that cloth — no, actually, it's suffocating you and making your breaths louder. You gently spit it out. You cover your mouth with both hands, and you've done a pretty decent job at stifling your breathing, actually. So now, you wait.
Wait for this person's perusal of your personal belongings out in the living room, after which, you hear them pick up one of your wine glasses — well, your best mate's, which you suppose you won't get the chance to return — in your kitchen, before you hear no object-related sounds. Meaning that this person's stopped exploring. The footsteps get closer and you realize you actually never meant it anytime you'd said "I'm gonna kill myself" during a minor inconvenience. You actually love life. Sunshine, birds, dogs, ice-cream, you love it, really. You'd give anything to live another— fuck.
The door to your bedroom groans, almost, as the person opens it. Fuck. Okay. You fight the urge to go all guerilla, and catch this person by surprise, stabbing them repeatedly while screaming something cathartic, like : "Not today, arsehole!"
But then you realize you're an idiot for that, because the person sits down on your bed, facing the closet you've concealed yourself in, and you realize they're ten steps ahead of you, and your breathing is actually probably Darth-Vader-esque right now.
Plus, you've only chosen the most cliché hiding spot in the history of humanity.
"You comin' out, or would you like the whole you-see-my-perfectly-polished-shoes-through-the-slits-in-the-door bit with a touch of sense-of-impending-doom on the side?"
It's the casualness of that sentence that gets you. It's also the voice. The person — a man, you've gathered, and a familiar one at that — seems a bit bored with all this, like this is his average Tuesday, it's two minutes to clocking-out, and you're a new pile of paperwork that's just been dropped on his desk.
"Oh, my bad, apologies, miss, would you like a countdown, as well? To reflect said impendin' doom?"
Okay, for someone who was about to commit a crime and most likely not get away with it, seeing as you did have people who'd notice your absence, he was getting a bit too cheeky for your liking.
"Alright. I'll bite. Three."
You don't know what'll be worse — you slowly creaking the door open, knees tucked to your chest, with a disappointing knife clutched in your hand, or him coming in, towering over you in your pitiful state.
"Two."
No, seriously, you're not sure what you're going to do.
You nearly jump, because a phone rings. Not yours.
"One... one second. What, mate? I'm— yeah, I'm sort of in the middle of it. No, I don't need backup. Just a bird, and she's terrified, mate. Trust me, I'll handle it."
That pissed you off. Alright, so you were scared, but you had a knife in your hand, and you'd been alert enough to not chalk it up to an accidental sound, so what in the world did he mean by 'no I don't need backup'?! He might very well! "Just a bird" was also very patronizing, you reckon.
You're not stupid enough to yell that out, though.
"Alright, where were we? Two? No. One."
Okay, fuck. You stand up — shoot up, rather — and place your fingers on the door, pushing gently at it to open it.
"Ah. Well. Hello, there."
"What do you want?"
"Are you Arlene Harkin?"
"What?"
"Says here this flat's owned by someone called Arlene Harkin. That you?", he questions, pointing a finger down at his phone as though you could read it from all the way over there.
You shake your head. "That's my landlady."
"That a knife?", he asks, squinting at the reflection of moonlight off the blade. "You armed yourself with a knife? What, had a late night snack or summat, did ya?"
No, you always sleep with a knife under your pillow in case arseholes like him come 'round trying to kill your sweet old landlady. 'Course, you're not about to tell him that. Assassin. That's all he can be. He has a list, with her personal details in it. Someone had once told you they had a mission here, as well, but it's very foggy in the wake of all the adrenaline pumping furiously through your system.
He tilts his head, and though it's dark and you can only trace out features with the sparse amount of moonlight shed on his face, you can already tell he's simultaneously a serious man and the opposite of it, all because of his eyes. "Not the chatty type, are you, love?", he asks. "Yeah, just as well. Mind if I turn on the lights? Wanna see what a not-Arlene-Harkin looks like."
He takes your lack of response as agreement.
The lights buzz on, painting the room a yellowish white, and you're forced to flinch. Through your squint, you can sort of make out this guy. Familiar. But you chalk it up to your body trying to downplay the threat by making him look nice enough that you can ignore the palpable threat you're in. He's tall, quite tall, though that's the entry-requirement for being an assassin, you suppose. He's also... really well dressed. Overconfident. Overcompensating, you feel like. You get it, truly. If you were a super successful assassin, you'd be dressed like that all the time, too.
But what you don't get is why he's looking at you like that. Like you've just told him he's got his mother's eyes, or been beamed up by a passing U.F.O, or summat as surprising, because that's exactly what his expression looks like. His lips are parted, and he also gulps quite a bit, like some sort of Tom and Jerry character.
He shakes out of it pretty quick, though, to his credit.
"Where's your landlady?"
"She's in the States. Visiting her grandkids."
He nods, eyes dancing around the room like some things just made sense. "She tell you that?"
You nod. The fuck was his issue, accussing a sweet old lady of lying like that? "I helped her book the tickets."
He snorts, his fingers disappearing and reappearing as they comb through his hair. "Figures. Look, love, I'll give it to ya plain and simple because that's just who I am, yeah? I'm honest, like. So... the bint's been offed."
"English, please." You remember once speaking to someone with this thick Cockney accent. You used to be better at decoding it, but the adrenaline's still shrouding your comprehension skills.
He rolls his eyes as if you'd inconvenienced him. "She's been killed. Offed. Bumped off. Taken off the census. Oh, don't—", he huffs, crossing his arms across his chest as he sees you cover one hand over your mouth, and your eyes widen. Were you actually grieving for the cunt?
"It's— love, it's actually very good, the world's better off for it."
"Shut up!" You almost start at him with the knife, but then you realize he's still an assassin. He could be straight up lying to get you vulnerable, to catch you by surprise.
"Okay, sorry, grieving tenant, my mistake. But she—"
"Why are you here, then?! If you know she's dead?"
"Ah, smart girl.", he states, beaming with pride as he nods to you. "I came for her. But the whole spiel about 'the States' she fed you is bullshite. She went to Copenhagen. That's in Denmark, by the way!", he adds, dimpled grin emerging before he realizes you're not really in the mood for a geography lesson right now. "And she got offed."
"How do you know that?"
He decides it's not really in his own best interest to tell you he offed her. Well, his brother, but he watched.
"I tried her apartment first, y'know? The one above you? Please, miss, I'm a gentleman. I tried it, but she wasn't there. I didn't know she was dead until you told me the whole 'States' thing. You spent your own money on those tickets, did ya?"
"Well—"
"Oh, I almost feel sorry for you, sweetheart.", he muses, his hand on his chest, rings glistening in the gold of your bedroom light. "No bother. You're the next target, though."
Oh, fuck, you'd nearly forgotten who this character was! An assassin.
Your hand shoots out, holding the knife in front of you as you back away, into the closet.
"Wh— not mine! Jesus, are you dumb? I'm not about to have a nice chat with someone I'm meant to off!"
"So you're here to protect me?"
He chortles, looking down at his phone as it rings before silencing it. "No."
"But you're not here to kill me."
"I'm not paid to, no."
"So who is?"
"Same people that sent granny to the big guy."
"Why?"
"You know, you're a little mouthy. Loads of questions. I mean, I get it, I'd have questions, too, but... just... shh! For a tiny bit, alright?"
"No! No, I will not 'shh'! I want to know who's after me!"
"It's not personal, y'know? They're just tyin' up loose ends, like."
"What?"
"Her real name was not Arlene Harkin, she was an assassin in hiding because she fucked up a mission in Copenhagen decades ago, and her superiors have been trying to get her killed for it. She— excuse me.", he stopped abruptly, holding a ringed finger up before answering his phone. "Lemon, I swear on my life, I will fuckin' end you. What? No, no, it's the tenant. Yeah. Nah. Young, imagine my surprise. Just tellin' her about Portia. Mhm. No, she's grieving the cunt, can you imag—"
"Hey!"
"Listen, she was a bitch, love, puttin' it plain and clear! She probably hated your guts, or wanted them strewn on her wall!", he chuckles, shaking his head before turning his attention back to his phone. "Yeah, not chatty, but mouthy. What you studyin', love? Uni?"
You nod, unsurely. Why was this traumatizing interaction, that's got your bones like jelly and your heart racing like it's about to explode, a simple gossip session for this bloke?
"Yeah, Uni. No. No. No fuckin' way, are you mental? She won't wanna— fuck. Love, would you want to come with us to Paris, to a safehouse or summat? No, right? You'd rather stay here and wallow in your pathetic dingy Uni life, like that bunny from Zootopia with the one carrot."
But your mind clung onto that word. Safe-house. Safe. Which is what you needed to be right fucking now. Plus, he's been really oddly polite with you, so far. Not so much the badmouthing the probably still-warm corpse of who used to be your old landlady, but to you, he's been quite nice, actually. Explained shite like he would to a five year old. He didn't care, of course, but at the very least... he minded? That, at this point's enough for you.
"Yeah, I'll come."
The bloke's mouth gapes open. "You mental?", he mouths.
"I have nowhere to go after this!"
He ends the call, crossing his arms across his chest one more. "You're the same. The exact same. Fuckin'... ruinin' everything!", he groans, running his hands across his face. You assume he means the same as Arlene Harkin — Portia, apparently — but you're not sure.
"Well, you've really gone and done it now, haven't ya?"
"What?"
He shakes his head, flexing his knuckles in front of him. "Go get packed. Essentials only."
"So... toothbrush?"
"You think they don't have toothbrushes in France? I'm talking about the big three. Phone or laptop, wallet, keys. Unless you've got half a mil' lyin' about that might be useful."
You nod, grabbing the "big three", plus your charger and passport.
"This is insane, this is insane, this is insane.", you mutter under your breath.
"That was clever, by the way. The knife under your pillow — I assume that's where it was — thing. Who taught you that?"
You shrug. "Dunno."
He bites his lip for a moment, some indiscernible emotion passing through his eyes, a shooting star, really, before he claps his hands together. "Chop-chop."
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Oak's Orphanage.
It's all bludgeoning you in the face now, striking you in the gut, and searing through your heart. That's where you know this bloke from! Tangerine — not his real name, and you remember that now — had been one of many kids to get 'adopted' by the Hench Man. A sort of urban legend, at least in the orphanage, he'd come by every other Tuesday and pick up one child — one at a time, only — and leave. At first, neither you nor Tangerine had wanted to go with him. He wasn't called 'Hench' for no reason, he was scary! But soon, he'd started bringing presents, as well, for some of the kids he was looking to adopt — you later learned that the proper term for what he was doing was recruiting — which included Tangerine. Actually, only him, which you supposed was because he was the smartest boy there.
The two of you had spent ages trying to figure it out.
"What d'you suppose it is?", he'd asked you once, in the dead of night, out in the main hall with a crackling static TV providing the only source of illumination. "What am I going to do with a bloody Beyblade with no one else to play it with?"
"It doesn't look like a Beyblade. They've only got the same shape, but it seems different."
He'd scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Girls. Fine. What do you suppose it is, then, smarty-pants?"
"I think it's a weapon. Just need to figure out how to unlock it."
You'd been right. It had been a weapon, and after a few minutes of groping around for some sort of button or switch, he'd managed to get it to open, blades in a perfectly hexagonal shape and all. "Am I a superhero now?", he'd gushed, unable to take his eyes off of it.
"No, I think this means the Hench Man is a superhero and you're his new sidekick!"
He'd gasped at that, turning to you. "You think?"
You'd nodded eagerly. "That means all the kids he's adopted so far are living in his cool superhero mansion!"
"A penthouse, maybe?!"
God, you'd been so naive, the both of you. This explained a lot, actually. The Hench Man was not a bloody superhero, but was in fact recruiting him for some sort of real-life version of the Red Room or something. He was the new Black Widow. Of course, you hadn't known that, and neither had he before he'd gone and promptly pointed you out to the Hench Man. "Can she come too? I might need a sidekick, as well."
He'd laughed. "You don't need a sidekick, and I don't need her. C'mon."
And Tangerine had been dragged out before he could even process it.
He'd met Lemon, and nearly forgotten all about you until this new friend had told him about his past, triggering Tangerine to word vomit all about you, his best friend back at the orphanage. He got taken the mick out of for calling a girl his best friend, but whatever.
Flash forward to now, he wishes Lemon could ask him about his past again, just to see how much he actually remembers, and how much he's repressed.
"Bloody bulging bollocks.", he grits out, glaring at the prick staring back at him in the mirror before wrangling himself out of his tie. He loves pretty much everything about himself. He's sophisticated, knows how to dress, and is pretty good at reading through people like they're glass, he reckons. So why the fuck did he feel like he was about to bloody spew?
It's you.
It is you. He'd thought it was a trick of the light, or some uncanny coincidence that the world thought would be hilarious to present before him, but no, it is you.
Knock-knock-thud.
"Hello?"
Ugh. Fuck, great, phenomenal. It's you. Honestly speaking, you should be back in England, sitting in your dingy little flat, wondering whether the peelers would believe you if you said an almost illegally dashing man in a deeply sexy waistcoat had come in, not killed you, and told you your landlady was an assassin who was also assassinated. Not here in Provence with him and his brother, crashing their well-earned month off. Well-fucking earned. He likes plans. He likes schedules. Itineraries are his turn-on. And it had been simple. Track Portia down in Copenhagen, kill her, come to London to tie up loose ends. Erase any traces of her bar the paper-lad (he was only twelve, seemed a bit extra). But no, here you were. Also fucking up his scream-into-his-reflection-time.
"Occupied."
"Sorry, it's urgent."
"Menses?"
"No."
He rolls his eyes. "Then sorry. Can't help you there."
"Please?"
He clenches his jaw, getting the door open. "You don't look like your bladder's about to explode.", he comments, letting you shoulder past him into the bathroom. He leans against the wall, arms crossed across his chest as he waits for you. You'd better be doing a pregnancy test or summat in there, the way you said 'urgent' like it was a matter of life or death.
It's been 10 hours. 600 minutes, that is, since you've left London, flown to Paris, and then driven from Paris to Provence. And you haven't asked him one thing about Oak's Orphanage. He thought you might've, but no. You'd just sat there, both on the plane and in the car, clicking away on the stupid laptop you've deemed 'essential', figuring out borderline useless things like, where to go from here, or how you'll complete your degree or who's hunting you. Like, come on. Have some priorities, mate, seriously.
But honestly, it's also a bit of his fault. He'd been a right prick to you on the plane, and now he was assuming you would just ask him 'hey, mate, been a long time since we saw each other, how come you got recruited and I didn't, and is your favourite colour still blue?'
He sighs. He'll have to do this the hard way, then.
You finish up in the bathroom, wiping your hands on the napkin before unlocking the door, slowing palpably in your movement out of the bathroom when you see him near the door. He can also tell you've done fuck-all in there, by the weird timing between hearing the tap go and the pretend-flush you pull is very infuriating, because he's the master of pretense-flushes for the purpose of dramatic mirror-moments. How dare you. You're still as audacious as he remembers from Oak's. "Did you not need to go anymore?"
Then you notice where his fingers are. Not the doorknob, but the door lock. Fuck.
"Who taught you the knife thing?" His voice is a meadow on a summer's day a second before a storm hits. Seemingly calm.
"What?"
"The knife thing. Who taught you the kni— come back here."
Your plan to slowly back into the bathroom again was a bust, then. You close the door, lingering on the threshold of the door.
He rolls his eyes, fixing you with his glare. "Who taught you the knife thing?"
"I don't know."
A small smile, almost pitiful, but too sinister to imply care. "Who?"
"I told you, I don't know."
He throws up his hands suddenly, startling you. "Now, why would you lie to me?"
"I'm not. I don't know."
He's a gentleman, the gentlest of men, but this quality is finite, like his patience. The two are very inextricably correlated, actually, so he grabs your wrist, twisting only slightly so that you didn't attempt to run, his other hand pulling his gun out. "Who?"
He won't lie and say it wasn't satisfying watching your eyes widen and all the determination to preserve the truth drain right out of them.
"You!"
A wider smile than before, but sardonic this time.
"Right. So you remember. So what the fuck are you playin' at, love?", he growls, jaw clenched. "Why'd you pretend you didn't?"
"I was scared!"
"What d'you mean you were 'scared'?"
You don't respond in favour of trying to catch your terrified breath, so he presses the gun to your throat. "Oi."
"I— it's all happened so quick, I don't know what's going on!"
"You said you wanted to come. Was it just because we said 'safe'- house?"
You nod, eyes furrowing upwards in sheer fright. "Right. Now we're gettin' somewhere. Elaborate on that, please. How are those two things related?"
"You're an assassin now, I didn't want to look like I knew you, or your real identity, in case you'd... y'know?! Tie up your own loose ends."
Ugh. Fuck. Now, he just feels like a prick. "Fine. But we're dropping you off at the Aix-en-Provence tomorrow, giving you a specific train ticket that you're to follow to the T, with the name of a contact where you'll be placed, then we don't know each other."
Uh, what? No, no! This wasn't what was promised, you need to be in a safe house! "What? I don't underst—"
"Off you pop."
"Does he know? Your... your brother?"
What.
The door slowly squeaks open, and his head sticks out. "Come again?"
"The one who offered? Is he okay with this dumping and abandoning of me?"
"Sorry, so you're saying — and correct me if I'm wrong here, love — that you'll snitch on me to my brother? God, you haven't changed, have you?"
You back away, but not down, which he still finds wonderful about you.
"You don't really think he cares? He was bored when he offered, darling, that's about it." Lie. Lemon had this habit of taking pity on a certain demographic of civilians : Uni students. Summat about that being such a ripe, hopeful age. He just reckons it has to do with Lemon not being able to complete his education — or get one, for that matter ; always wanted to go to Uni. Can't relate. He's never thought Uni made any sense. He learns well enough by living in the real world, away from textbooks and the like.
"He seemed to care."
"Don't fall for it, sweetheart. Deadly assassins, me and him. He's worse, I'd say. I just give it to ya straight. He'll smile before he shoots ya point-blank in the eyes."
He almost feels bad for how terrified you look but hey. Had to be done.
"Look.", he sighs, rubbing at his temple. "My brother's... better at the whole nice-cop thing. I just sort of say what's on my mind."
Is this an apology, or just a declaration?
"I can tell."
"Can you? Wonder how, seein' as you've barely spoken to him, and I've treated you with nothing but Prince Charming type kindness, minus that little gun thing I pulled.", he scoffs, raising a brow as though expecting an answer.
"Uh—"
"Rhetorical. Off you fuckin' pop, snitch."
He watches you scramble back to your seat on the chair of the living room — temporarily christened yours — before shaking his head. Civilians. It's good, he thinks, that you remember him. Saves him a lot of yearning for lost time and clawing at his own insides waiting for the glint of recognition in your eyes. It's even better, he thinks, that you understand not to mention the fact that you know him to Lemon. It's... oddly mature. Very responsible of you. He's glad. You're reasonable. He hadn't expected it. He splashes more water on his face, but this time, it's joyfully. Because the plan's still on. Provence, ah! Lemon will go indulge in the little organic farming hyperfixation he's developed since their Jutland job, and Tangerine can learn how to become a produce-mogul and make even more money. And plus, he can also do nothing. Right up his alley it is, lounging about.
But yeah. From the orphanage to the bar to the flat, you've been a stunning little thorn to his side, a complication that he keeps trying to forget every time he encounters you, but you're always popping back up, making him suddenly believe in higher powers and pray that it isn't you.
But it is you. Because he can't ever forget you. I mean, that's giving him a bit too much credit. He has forgotten you, but not really. You may not come up into his conscious thoughts much, but you're there, he knows that for sure. He's the one who taught you the blasted knife thing. But he was eleven and you were nine and he loved you — in the way only an eleven year old could — and you'd forgotten and he hadn't.
So he was playing around with your feelings a bit, making you believe that you knowing his real identity and name was some unspeakable fact that would bring everything crashing down, that you hold immeasurable amounts of power with that information, when the most it would do would be mildly annoying, seeing as Lemon would just start taking the mick out of him for harping on about you, like he had back when they'd been eleven at the Hench Man's institute. But it's good that you think you've got at least a metaphorical weapon in your arsenal.
But Lemon's just got no reason to pretend it's not you, if he finds out. No guilt.
But there's guilt for Tangerine, because he'd seen you, once, after the orphanage that had intertwined your fates inextricably. Eighteen, he'd been. And the Hench Man had remembered you. And had told him to shoot you dead, for his final task.
He did shoot you. Rather, he shot at you. He was better at punches and direct strikes with weapons than guns, honestly. And from way up there in his sniper-post, you seemed so small. So unattainable, shooting-wise. "I'm not close enough.", he'd muttered. Your head was what he needed to aim at.
"You are. Others have shot more alert targets from farther away. Shoot."
And so he had. Again. He'd shot at you, and done nothing more than incite panic amongst the people in the street where you and some of your friends had been standing.
"Rule Number One. Recite it to me.", yelled the Hench Man, shoving him over and aiming at a moving car, one that he'd heard was housing some diplomat or summat, he didn't know, before gently pulling the trigger.
Tangerine had stuttered, but got it out. "Never be noticed."
"Never be fucking noticed!", said the Hench Man, slapping Tangerine straight across the cheek. "Never falter like that again. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Come down for cleanup."
Ironically, he'd never quite felt clean since then.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
The fork clinks against the ceramic of your plate and you flinch at how loud it is.
"How's the food?", asks Lemon.
You nod, a clipped smile on your face before it fades, looking back down at your food.
He narrows his eyes, before leaning over to his brother. "Thought you said she was mouthy."
"The promise of mortality does that to you.", he replies.
"So, what's the plan? Provence, with us?", tries Lemon.
You shake your head. "I don't know who's hunting me, so."
"You? Who'd be hunting you?"
"The people who killed Mrs. Hark— Portia."
Lemon snorts, a sort of funny look on his face as he takes a sip of his wine. "We're the people who killed Portia."
Your eyes widen, and you look to Tangerine, who simply shrugs. "Thought you'd have pieced that together by now."
"So no one's hunting me?"
"No, the people who hired us to tie up all loose ends probably are. And finding you here with us in the cabin we were provided to check in to after killing you is just bad business, innit?"
"Wait, so—"
"We're not killin' ya, darling.", clarifies Tangerine. He's failed before and he doesn't think he'll succeed this time around, either, even without the Hench Man breathing down his neck. "Just relocating."
"What, to a hotel?", asks Lemon, stabbing at his steak once more. "Wouldn't booking her a hotel in Paris while we sit in our comfy, very safe house in Provence beat the whole purpose of bringing her to France?"
"Yeah!", you say.
"Don't remember asking you. Shut up.", warns Tangerine, pointing his fork at you. "Listen, I was saying—"
"Is it the Hench Man? Is he the one hunting me?"
Oh, you were getting on his fucking tits. Lemon's fork nearly clatters onto the plate. The Hench Man. "You know the bird?!"
"You fuckin' snitch!", he hisses, cracking his knuckles to pretend like he was about to charge at you.
"I'm sorry, but I need to be somewhere safe!"
"I wasn't gonna kick you to the streets, you twat! I was getting you safe!"
"What's safer than the safehouse where two wanted assassins are?!"
"We're not wanted!"
"SHUT UP, both of you! How the fuck do you know each other?"
"Oak's. Yeah, from before I was recruited."
A spark behind Lemon's eyes, one that Tangerine wants to muffle immediately. "Before you met me. The girl-best-mate."
He nods. "Still suspicious of her, though, now."
Lemon raises a brow, tilting his head at him. A sort of 'should I be as well?'. Tangerine offers him a tiny shrug. Lemon turns back to you.
"Tell you what. Britain's too dangerous for you, and it's too late for us to turn back, anyway. We'll drive you back to Paris, then you're free to go, if you don't feel safe with us."
No! Fuck, sometimes, he forgets that his brother's not just an extension of himself, and they don't share the same mind.`
"Fuck you mean she's free to go?! No, she's bloody not! She's seen what we look like, heard Portia's name as well as her alias, mate, c'mon—"
"You are not thinking clearly, because of ulterior motives, alright?"
"What ulterior motives?"
Lemon's an idiot if he thinks you didn't catch that subtle head nod toward you. He scoffs, hushing Tangerine up. "Well, what's your million-dollar plan, then?!"
"The escape plan we installed in case Portia somehow didn't kick the bucket, or there was summat above our pay-grade in the flat that would lead to the psychopath who's employed us killing us?"
Lemon's mouth opens and closes in a little 'ah' motion.
"Remember that plan? Figured she can use it until we get the all-clear from the cash-cow that has so graciously donated this little cabin to us! Jesus, no one fucking let's me talk, huh?!", exclaims Tangerine, emphasizing with a slam of his fist down onto the table. For extra flair.
"Yeah, that plan's good."
"Will the contact be staying with me?"
They both snort in synchronicity, before going back to their respective meals. It's Tangerine who looks up first. "You were serious?"
You nod.
"No. No one's gonna be there with ya. We've just upgraded you from pathetic London flat life to pathetic Paris flat life."
"What if your boss isn't satisfied with the work you've done?", you ask. Honestly, you'd take your afternoon class where you feel like it's taking the power of all the Gods to ever be spoken about to keep you awake rather than this.
"Oh, yeah, then we won't have an escape plan.", states Tangerine, setting his fork down in realization. Lemon snaps his fingers, nodding, muttering a 'right' every two seconds.
"I was talking about me!"
"Well, then, you're fucked, love, but we're thinking about us for a moment, if you don't mind!"
Ugh. Maybe a month without these two — especially Tangerine, the prick — wouldn't be so bad.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
It's been an entire week. That's 168 hours. 10080 minutes, that is, since you'd reached Paris after boarding the TGV and meeting their escape plan contact. And you haven't called back. Haven't asked him one thing about Oak's Orphanage. He thought you might've, but no. And, honestly, fair. The last person you'd want to visit you is him. He'd got you into this mess, and was just adding more and more dirt and mud to make it into an even bigger mess.
He's an idiot.
And yet, he knocks.
He knocks on your door like his life depends on it, even though it's more like your life depends on it.
When he sees your face through the slit in that split second before you unlock the safety chain, he almost yells at you to keep it closed. He almost pulls out his gun and shoots you. He almost scrambles away and hides like a kid doing ding-dong-ditch. But these are all almosts. Because what he actually does is—
"Oak's Orphanage."
Phenomenal. He just spits it out.
"I'm sorry?"
He shakes his head, mumbling under his breath as he shoulders past you into your hotel room, a refreshing refuge from the harsh Parisian summer outside. "Oak's Orphanage. I taught you the knife thing? We were best mates till I got transferred? Ring a bell? It's you. It's me."
You nod, pouring yourself out a glass of juice from the minifridge. This buggering apartment was unfortunately still a step up from your place back at London. Eurgh. "Yeah?"
"Why don't you care?", he groans, nearly a whine, as he runs his hands through his hair exactly one moment before snatching the glass of juice from you. "You Parisians. No hospitality."
"What am I supposed to do, reminisce?", you scoff, pouring one for yourself.
"Fine. Be like that. The Bullet Bar? Two truths and one lie?"
You freeze, your hand pausing mid-air with the juice carton teetering dangerously above the glass. "That was you?"
"Yeah, wanna come find out? My lips are ready for Round 2.", he teases, dodging the carton flying at him at how-many-ever-kilometres-per-hour, the orange liquid spilling out in some sort of cathartic, slow-motion still from a film. "There she is.", he repeats, in almost the same softness he'd used at the bar, but now in an entirely different context.
"You fuck off!"
The glass darts across the room now — bit more dangerous, but still enthralling to him — and he full-on laughs, like the fucking insane person he is. "What now?"
"You left me!"
"I was eleven!"
"I was nine!"
"And a half!"
"You can shove that 'half ' up your—"
"Darling, darling, are you just mad you didn't get your little Rapunzel ending? What with that handsome bloke with the satchel? What was his name?"
You scoff. The fucking nerve. "You think you're Flynn Rider?"
"Yeah, dashing, daring, gets the girl.", he laughs, watching you rifle through drawers for summat to throw at him. "Counts money on an enormous island that he owns."
"Yeah, gets the girl drunk, then snogs her!", you scream, throwing a spoon at him. Last-ditch attempt, but he's had worse. And A for effort, honestly.
"Gets the girl to snog him back and follow his instruction about weapons under pillows!", he retorts, arms crossed as he leans against the kitchen counter, right opposite you, still pent up and rage-brimming. Oh, he'll snog this anger off if you'd let him.
"You know what?"
"Ooh, please, tell me.", he says, crossing one leg over the other while he stands.
"You are like Flynn Rider."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm. You're still a pathetic little orphan child under all of that gaudy jewellery and clothing, who got such an insane blow from reality that you created an entirely new one that you're living in, where you're not a depraved arsehole who kills for money and snogs drunk birds in bars and are instead a hard-working man like the rest of us, simply with 'good style', or whatever you tell yourself.", you spit, because you can't find a fork to poke into that smug little eye of his.
You'd hoped for a little shift in his exterior. You know. A little microexpression. Maybe a little fading of his smirk. Maybe his eyes moving away from yours for a fleeting moment. But he just laughed. "Feel better picking apart a bloody children's film for your own personal vendetta?"
"Sod off.", you grit out, but his fingers are on your wrist, yanking you to him.
"You get it all out of your system?"
"Fuck off, mate, I'm not joking."
And, of course, what logical next-step existed but snogging you like you'd never hurt him, like he'd never uprooted your entire life and brought you to the city of love with nothing but the Big Three, as he called it?
"I was the one who shot up Camden Town that day.", he murmurs against your lips, pulling you in for more and more, because whatever venom and wrath your tongue was about to spew out at him, he'd rather feel it directly from the source.
He's not sure if you're kissing back or not, but it doesn't seem like you're actively thrashing around trying to get away from his grasp, and it pretty much feels the same way as it did at The Bullet, sans l'alcool. So you have to be into it on some level.
"You fucking what?", you hiss, and he decides that's a good time to pull back and stop testing the waters. He'd incite a tsunami. "Were you trying to kill me?!"
And, yeah, he should've shut up, because wow. Look at that. You're back to flinging things at him left and right and he's not sure how long he can go without being able to kiss you to make up for lost time again.
"Alr— hey! HEY! That's en—", he splutters, dodging utensils, books, and even the cordless phone, left and right.
"You kill my landlady!", you yell, followed by a spork just barely missing his throat. "You offer to take me to a safehouse then change your mind once you realize you know me!", you continue, and he has to narrowly avoid a bunch of pens, this time. "Then you snog me like I'm your unreasonable wife you'll need to shut up, while telling me you tried to murder me years ago!" There's your laptop charger, that he catches mid-air. "What else? Were you the one that got my graduation cancelled?"
"Uh, no, that'd be COVID."
You scream, throwing a — thankfully plastic — plate at him, which he once again, catches. "When else have you seen me? Hm?! How many times have our paths crossed and I didn't know it!?"
This is a question he's actually willing to answer.
But in his own way.
"Well." He smiles, dimples and warmth, as he sets the plate down, patting the couch next to him for you. "Ever played two truths and a lie?"
