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𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔

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

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

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

Masterlist

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

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

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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

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

Technically.

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

But he hasn’t said a word since.

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

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

You should say something. Anything.

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

The silence stretches, thin as a tripwire.

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

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

Which is why the quiet is worse than shouting.

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

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

"One—you don’t lie to me. Not ever."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the way he’s looking at you?

You owe him.

You swallow.

"Tangerine—"

His gaze cuts across the room like a blade.

"Don’t."

One word. And it flays you.

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

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

Your lips press into a tight line.

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

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

You flinch.

He notices. Doesn’t care.

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

"What look?"

You can’t help, but look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he nods.

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

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

Even when he’s behind you.

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

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

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

"No."

"But you do it anyway."

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

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

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

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

You inhale sharply — then curse yourself for the sound.

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

"Thought so," he murmurs.

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

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

"Take your vest off."

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

You don’t move.

Not right away.

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

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

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

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

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

You were lucky.

You were stupidly lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes track the motion. Still silent.

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

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

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

A test. Of power.

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

Even when part of you wants to obey.

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

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

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

You want him to make you.

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

But he won’t.

That’s not who he is.

He’ll wait. Until you decide.

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

So you do.

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

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

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

Waits.

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

Still, he says nothing.

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

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

Then, finally, he moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pats his thigh.

“Come here.”

Just that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He goes for your wrists.

Not sudden. Not soft. Just certain.

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

And then comes the tie.

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

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

It’s tight.

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

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

A reminder: he's letting you breathe.

You glance up.

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

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

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

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

One eyebrow lifts — faint, sardonic.

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

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

That’s where you’ll be.

Down there.

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

You don’t know what.

Not really.

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

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

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

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

You swallow.

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

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

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

“And after today?”

A pause.

The knot tightens just slightly between his fingers.

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

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

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

Then he lets go of your wrists.

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

No command. No sentence.

Just the implication.

And somehow, it’s worse than being ordered.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

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

But he doesn’t fill the silence.

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

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

But somehow it feels like a cliff.

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

But that’s not how he works.

You know that now.

So you lower yourself.

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

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

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

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

And then — a shift.

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

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

The chair was never meant to hold him.

It was just a throne — a test.

Now he wants you beneath him.

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

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

He doesn’t speak.

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

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

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

He doesn’t undress you.

Not even close.

He just… waits.

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

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

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

Your wrists are still bound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t respond.

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

He smirks.

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

“Oh, now you’re helpful.”

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

He sits back just enough to look at you.

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

And the look on his face?

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

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

His fingers come next.

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

Your whole body jerks.

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

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

You whimper. It escapes before you can stop it.

He raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t stop.

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

He leans forward.

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

“You want it?”

You nod.

He clicks his tongue.

"Not good enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not cruel. Not punishing.

Just a reminder.

"Did I say you could fuckin’ move?"

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

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

No—he teases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—contact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Look at me," he orders.

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

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

And he has.

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

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

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

You gasp — full-body, bone-deep.

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

Your back arches. “Please—”

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

It’s torture in the most exquisite sense.

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

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

You're so close it hurts. Too close.

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

He hears it anyway.

And he laughs.

Low. Cruel. Mocking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thought not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

He stops.

Everything.

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

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

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

Just a smirk.

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

And then he stands. Quiet. Unhurried.

Leaves you there.

Wet. Empty. Denied.

Exactly like you deserve.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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

𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔

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

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

Masterlist

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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

Technically.

But he hasn’t said a word since.

You should say something. Anything.

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

The silence stretches, thin as a tripwire.

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

Which is why the quiet is worse than shouting.

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

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

"One—you don’t lie to me. Not ever."

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

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

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

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

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

But the way he’s looking at you?

You owe him.

You swallow.

"Tangerine—"

His gaze cuts across the room like a blade.

"Don’t."

One word. And it flays you.

Your lips press into a tight line.

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

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

You flinch.

He notices. Doesn’t care.

"What look?"

You can’t help, but look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he nods.

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

Even when he’s behind you.

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

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

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

"No."

"But you do it anyway."

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

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

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

You inhale sharply — then curse yourself for the sound.

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

"Thought so," he murmurs.

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

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

"Take your vest off."

You don’t move.

Not right away.

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

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

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

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

You were lucky.

You were stupidly lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes track the motion. Still silent.

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

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

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

A test. Of power.

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

Even when part of you wants to obey.

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

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

You want him to make you.

But he won’t.

That’s not who he is.

He’ll wait. Until you decide.

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

So you do.

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

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

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

Waits.

Still, he says nothing.

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

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

Then, finally, he moves.

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

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

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

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

He pats his thigh.

“Come here.”

Just that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He goes for your wrists.

Not sudden. Not soft. Just certain.

And then comes the tie.

It’s tight.

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

Your breath catches.

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

A reminder: he's letting you breathe.

You glance up.

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

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

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

One eyebrow lifts — faint, sardonic.

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

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

That’s where you’ll be.

Down there.

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

You don’t know what.

Not really.

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

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

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

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

You swallow.

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

“And after today?”

A pause.

The knot tightens just slightly between his fingers.

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

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

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

Then he lets go of your wrists.

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

No command. No sentence.

Just the implication.

And somehow, it’s worse than being ordered.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

But he doesn’t fill the silence.

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

But somehow it feels like a cliff.

But that’s not how he works.

You know that now.

So you lower yourself.

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

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

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

And then — a shift.

The chair was never meant to hold him.

It was just a throne — a test.

Now he wants you beneath him.

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

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

He doesn’t speak.

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

He doesn’t undress you.

Not even close.

He just… waits.

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

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

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

Your wrists are still bound.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t respond.

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

He smirks.

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

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

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

You do.

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

“Oh, now you’re helpful.”

He sits back just enough to look at you.

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

And the look on his face?

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

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

His fingers come next.

Your whole body jerks.

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

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

You whimper. It escapes before you can stop it.

He raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t stop.

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

He leans forward.

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

“You want it?”

You nod.

He clicks his tongue.

"Not good enough."

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

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

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

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

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

Not cruel. Not punishing.

Just a reminder.

"Did I say you could fuckin’ move?"

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

No—he teases.

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

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

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

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

Then—contact.

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

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

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

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

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

"Look at me," he orders.

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

And he has.

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

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

You gasp — full-body, bone-deep.

Your back arches. “Please—”

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

It’s torture in the most exquisite sense.

You're so close it hurts. Too close.

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

He hears it anyway.

And he laughs.

Low. Cruel. Mocking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thought not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

He stops.

Everything.

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

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

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

Just a smirk.

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

And then he stands. Quiet. Unhurried.

Leaves you there.

Wet. Empty. Denied.

Exactly like you deserve.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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

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