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Hi i love your work! I was wondering if u could do a fic where tangerine x reader are running from enemies on a job and they end up making out to try and hide from the enemies because pda makes people uncomfortable? Like the comment black widow makes to steve rogers in the winter soldier before she kisses him?

im backkk! so sorry for the massive delay, i love this request. it may be a little rusty so i apologize now.

pda || tangerine

tangerine x reader

warnings: brief talks of shooting and guns

word count: 1.2k+

masterlist

"you're a fuckin' idiot, tan," you snapped in defeat, looking at the man who appeared clueless about the situation.

he tsked and continued to move deeper into the building, "there's nothing to worry about. alarm gets tripped so what? we got a few minutes before anyone shows up."

with slow footsteps you followed behind him. irate was the only word to describe your mood. you mimicked him behind his head, arms up in the air, your gun flailing around dangerously in your right hand as you muttered in a whiny baby voice, 'we got a few minutes'.

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

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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

ɪɴᴇxᴛʀɪᴄᴀʙʟᴇ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cussing, but SFW.

For this ask!

Desc. : Knife under your pillow.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

I like your stories

can you make a story about kraven and fem reader...that deals with the reader being a type of being that has to consume blood and is just as dominant as kraven and has scenes with blood...please and that the female reader and Kraven are already married and that the personality of the female reader is very cold, you know, like selfish or a little without feeling, you know.let the female reader be based on selene from underworld ,please.

Blood Hunt

pairing: Sergei Kravinoff x female!reader

word count: 720| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Aaron Taylor Johnson Masterlist

A/n:I'm sorry I haven't been active in the last week, school kept me busy, now I have more free time and I will respond to all your requests.

The moon hung high over the city, casting its silver glow over the rooftops where Sergei Kravinoff stood, blood still drying on his knuckles. He had returned from a hunt, the scent of violence clinging to him like a second skin. He had never been a man to hesitate in the face of bloodshed, nor had he ever cowered before the creatures of the night. That was before you.

You sat in the darkness of the lavish penthouse you both called home, your presence commanding in its silence. The world outside buzzed with life, but it felt distant—insignificant. You were above it, beyond it, something more than human and far less forgiving. Your fingers traced the rim of a crystal glass, the dark liquid within reflecting the cold fire of your eyes. Blood. Fresh, warm, intoxicating. You had fed, but it was never enough.

Sergei stepped inside, his movements predatory, but you did not look up. You had sensed him long before he arrived. The scent of him—sweat, metal, and death—was as familiar to you as your own.

"You took your time," you murmured, your voice laced with something distant, nearly bored, though he knew you were never truly indifferent.

He smirked, running a hand through his damp hair. "Had to finish what I started."

"As you always do," you mused, finally lifting your gaze. "You're bleeding."

Sergei glanced down at the torn skin along his forearm, a mere scratch, but enough to draw your interest. You stood, moving toward him with a grace that was eerily unnatural. The tension in the air thickened, a current of something dark and electric between you. He didn’t flinch as you reached for his arm, your fingers cold against his heated skin. You lifted it to your lips, inhaling deeply before your tongue flicked across the wound.

Sergei exhaled sharply, his body tensing as a slow, satisfied smirk curved your lips. The taste of him was exquisite—raw, primal, untainted by fear.

"You enjoy this too much," he rumbled, his voice rough with something unspoken.

"And you don’t?" Your eyes gleamed as you held his gaze, tilting your head slightly, the black silk of your hair cascading over your shoulder. "You could stop me if you wished."

"Could I?" His fingers wrapped around your throat, not in restraint, but in challenge. A silent dare.

You chuckled, the sound rich and velvety, but devoid of warmth. "You could try."

For a moment, neither of you moved. It was a delicate game, one you played often. A dance of control, power shifting and twisting like a blade between you. He wanted to break you, to bring you to your knees. You wanted him to try. But you both knew the truth—neither of you would ever submit.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, a whisper of a touch before you bit down, hard enough to draw blood. Sergei growled, the sound reverberating through his chest as his grip tightened, his own lips crashing into yours in a brutal, possessive kiss. Blood smeared between you, a taste both familiar and intoxicating.

When you finally pulled back, your tongue flicked over your lips, savoring the lingering copper. "You’re reckless."

"And you love it."

You arched a brow, stepping back just enough to let your fingers trail down his chest. "Love? Such a fragile word."

His eyes darkened. "And yet, here you are. Still mine."

"For now."

Sergei chuckled, low and dangerous, his fingers brushing against your jaw before gripping it just enough to make your breath hitch. "You say that as if you don’t crave this just as much as I do. As if you wouldn’t tear apart anyone who tried to take me from you."

You tilted your head, lips curving into something between a smirk and a warning. "And if I did?"

He grinned, his teeth still stained with remnants of your bite. "Then I’d call it love."

The air between you crackled, a moment suspended in time. Then, without another word, Sergei lifted you effortlessly, his strength matching yours in a way no other’s ever could. Your laughter—low, almost cruel—filled the room as he carried you toward the darkened depths of your shared sanctuary.

Blood, power, hunger. Whatever it was between you, it was insatiable. And neither of you had any intention of stopping.

BULLSEYE.

It just so happens that your mission with Tangerine is to take down Sergei Kravinoff (NSFW).

w/c: 1.8k a/n: Just a quick thing I've had in the drafts for a min lol. They work pretty well together ;)

“Excuse me, Miss. Reception’s requested that you see to them immediately.”

Unamused, you instinctively opened your mouth to protest the waiter before closing it abruptly, opting for a subtle eye roll. The waiter wasn’t a waiter at all, instead your assignment partner Tangerine, who wore a smirk as smug as ever.

Sighing, you politely turned to the man you were dining with – the target, to be exact – a well-spoken, slightly rugged but neatly dressed man by the name of Sergei Kravinoff, who just so happened to be a vigilante. On the surface it seemed like quite the predicament but was rather common in the world of assassins.

Sergei waved a hand, letting you go rather cooly as you scooted out of the booth; Tangerine’s icy blue eyes burning holes into the back of your head. Once you’d made it up to the private room, he let you have it.

#florence writes!!#kraven x reader #kraven x reader smut #kraven the hunter x reader #tangerine x reader #tangerine x reader smut #bullet train x reader #atj x reader #atj smut #aaron taylor johnson x reader #bullet train imagine

Tangerine - Manhandle

Hehehe, okay, I wrote it! @cosmicyeehaw I finally wrote this like I said I would. I had to get through my asks first lmao, but it’s here now.

He’s a bit of a brat and likes being manhandled. Yippee! Word Count: 1665

#bullet train #tangerine #tangerine x reader #is that even a tag #I have no idea #this is a first #bullet train x reader #that tag exists at least #he’s a brat #and likes being thrown around #like yay! getting tossed around!#reader teases the shit out of him #it’s lovely

Been thinkin about how Tangerine would be so noisy the moment his girl is on her knees before him, kissing his lower stomach and hipbone while tugging on the waistband of his trousers, then getting up and not doing anything more. I just KNOW this man would get so grouchy and whiny LMAO

I love a grumpy & noisy tangerine <3

#my writing #tangerine x reader #tangerine fic #tangerine #bullet train fic #bullet train #bullet train x reader #tangerine bullet train #bullet train tangerine #aaron taylor johnson #atj fic #atj x reader #atj

Tangerine flavored

As if you didn't have enough problems already... You sighed as the man behind you pushed his gun in your rib to make you move faster. Your hands were up in the air and you were breathing slowly, focused on the sounds around you. Why did so many people want you dead again? You chuckled a bit, remembering all of the stupid decisions that brought you here. You kept smiling. Quite funny how most of your survival instinct can shut down when you've been sleep deprived and stressed long enough. The big bad man standing in front of you must not have liked that as he ordered his men to knock you unconscious.

When you woke up, your hands were tied to a rusty radiator with dried bloodstains. You weren't quite smiling anymore. Especially when you saw the instruments in a metal bowl lying on the ground not far from you. The room was dark and only a ray of light slipped through a metal door on the opposite wall. You blinked as someone opened the door, letting all of the brightness from outside reach your tired eyes.

-Sleep well darling? did a male voice say in a mocking tone

-Where were you all night? Off to another girl's bed I take it.

The man grinned a bit and you knew your sarcasm would sooner be beaten out of you then you could get a laugh out of this tall caricature of a gangster's handyman.

-A lot of money has been paid for your pretty head, you know.

-Always knew I could be a face model.

-I don't think that's so true anymore, bloody mary.

You wipped your cheek and looked at your hand. Dried blood and dirt covered your fingers.

-Anyway, sweetheart, my boss wants to know how you were able to piss off all of these people.

-Can't he ask me himself?

-You're not that important.

-Well it seems I am actually. And you guys are the only ones unaware of why apparently.

A voice coming from outside shouted "We have a fresh one!". The man in front of you harshly took your hands to tie them. Then he turned around calmly and left the room with the door still open. You tried to get up, but were too slow as he quickly came back with two other men. One was almost unconscious, beaten up, and bloody all other. His messy brown curls hid most of his face and a golden chain hang around his neck as his head was tilted towards the floor. The two men handling him threw him on the ground next to you and his already torn blue suit soiled with the grey dust of the room.

-Alright, we'll let you two rest for now, but don't worry, darling, I'll be back soon enough. And you better have an answer for me by then.

The two men left the room and you stared at your new now completely unconscious companion.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-Where the fuck am I?

He said in a raspy voice, waking you up from your very light sleep. You didn't answer and looked his way for the second time today. He was quite handsome, actually, with piercing blue eyes, a sharp jawline, and a nice British mustache. You stared more than you were meant to because that's how he took notice of you. As the weird girl staring at him.

-They locked me up with the crazys?? What the fuck is wrong with these people?! I'm a respectable sane man, I am. Fucking pricks.

You chukled, your eyes still lingering on his figure. You liked his accent too. You turned your head to the door, finally leaving the man some privacy as you closed your eyes. You heard him standing up with difficulty and reaching the other side of the room probably while leaning on the wall. He was grunting in pain. You opened your eyes.

-Yeah, they probably forgot to lock the door. Or maybe they left us the key. Oh, wait, what if this is just an elaborated escape room, uh?

-Your hands are tied, mines aren't. So maybe try that again in a nicer tone, uh love?

-Kinky...

He threw you a mean glance from across the room. That smug smile that earned you all those problems was still on your lips.

He slid on the wall and fell back in a sitting position. He looked exhausted. As you were trying to think of what to say, the door opened.

-So, are you ready to talk? Or do I need to deal with you in a less calm manner?

That man from earlier was back, smiling and clearly on a power trip.

-I don't know what you want me to tell you.

He walked across the room, past the handsom exhausted man, and stood straight like a stick in front of you.

-Maybe start by what you did to deserve one of the highest price I've ever seen on someone's head.

The british looking man, who was starting to fall asleep, began to pay attention at those words. His blue eyes were on you except you doubted it was to take in the sight of your face. Too bad...

-Would you believe me if I said I didn't do anything?

The handyman squat down, looked at you, and slapped you in the face harshly. Even the other guy flinched.

-Start speaking now or...

-Or what?! You'll kill me?? You're going to do that either way! So what's the point of figuring out why others wanted to do it themselves?! You'll collect the prize with or without knowing why it was put on my head in the first place. You don't need the info. You just need an excuse to keep me alive until the client comes in and sees me alive. I know they want proof. Live proof. They want to see you guys kill me. You're not doing me a favor by letting me live, you're just doing it to get the bigger bag.

The man stood up, hummered something that sounded like "smart cookie", chuckled, and left.

-Jeez... what did you do? *did british hottie say*

This time it was your turn to throw a mean look his way.

-You really think I'm gonna tell you.

-I can untie your hands for starters. And I can help you get out of there. However I like to know who I'm doing business with, so if you wouldn't mind disclosing the information that guy was looking for...

-Get me out of there and I might.

-Doesn't work like that love.

-Then leave me here. I never asked you to help me, did I?

-Obviously, it's going to be harder to escape alone.

-So untie me and I'll help you.

-What if you're actually crazy and will turn on me the first chance you'll get.

You chuckled. Smiled a bit, a sad look on your face.

-A big tough buy.. scared of me... scared I'll be the one to hurt him. It's crazy how life turns out, uh? One minute you're scared to walk home alone after the sun goes down. The other, the guy you would have been scared of on those streets at night turns out to be the one distrusting you.

His eyes were locked on you. Watching you as if you were some lab rat. An eyebrow raised in interest. A serious look that meant he wasn't taking this scientific anaylisis lightly. He rose back up, slowly walked up to you with the difficulty of a hurt man, and lowered to your level when he came close enough.

-What's your name?

-Is it important?

-It is to me. You thought of pointing out the implications of that answer, but were scared of where that would lead the two of you.

-Y/n.

-I'm Tangerine.

-That's a fruit.

-Good observation skills. A real detective.

-I'm just saying.

As you were talking, he came even closer and untied your hands. His fingers were grazing your skin. You smiled again, this time without the sad look on your face but a more embarassed one. Like a young girl with a crush in 6th grade recess. It wasn't that he was touching you (not entirely at least). It was that he was helping you.

He stood back up, straightened his back, and extended his arm towards you, opening his hand. You were looking elsewhere as he gestured to you.

-It is a fruit's name though... you're named after a fucking fruit... and I'm the crazy one...

You take his hand, get off the floor, and smile big this time, confidently, and with a mysteriously cocky look in your eyes.

-Alright, time to get out of here.

-Look love, I appreciate the confidence and all, but let me take the lead on this. You're obviously a bit slowed down by all the beating and like you said, I'm the big tough guy here.

-I'm not slowed down! *You said while starting to walk towards the door, damn your leg hurt...*

-You're limping...

You smiled a bit awkardly. "Nothing serious... just haven't stretched out yet is all". Tangerine smirked and walked (shall I mention a lot faster than you as he wasn't limping) towards the side of the door.

-Could you get your friend back in the room please? Just him though.

-HEY ASSHOLE!! COME BACK HERE I'M READY TO TALK!

And just like that, you heard footsteps advancing. The door opened 40 seconds later, and you locked eyes with the bitch slapping dumb looking goon. In shock of seeing you standing up, free of your ties, he took a milisecond to stare you down during which Tangerine grabbed his head in his hands, quickly broke his neck, and picked up the riffle.

-Could you pass me his handgun?

-You're not gonna kill me are you love?

-I don't eat tangerines... always preferred oranges.

-You do realize that there are other ways to interpete this right?

You laughed silently, murmuring "Yeah well I don't mean it like that obviously...". To your surprise he heard.

-Obviously?... *He smirked at you with a very cocky look on his face which made you blush a tiniest bit, but under the dirt and blood, you were almost sure he couldn't see it. He handed you the deceased goon's gun*.

But, time for banter quickly came to an end as your british eye candy advanced in the dark and gloomy hallway, on his gard. You followed after him. Quick story short: he shot most of the gards himself, and you had to fire the gun maybe 5 times total, surely hitting your target, but not contributing much to the team's effort as there was a little bit more than only 5 gards between you and the exit. To be completely fair though, you guys managed to not alert every guard there thanks to you, as you killed quickly the ones running for help.

All of this came to an end in a backalley of a London restaurant where the fire escape you took led. You were free. Somehow. Still limping and in a quite awful condition. But free.

-Well this is where we say goodbye Y/N. I don't know what you did to get that prize on your head, but surely you must be a terrible person. Get yourself out of trouble though, love, this isn't a life for a sarcastic humorist tangerine hater such as yourself.

-So no one believed me when I said I didn't do anything wrong?

He looked at you, a bit surprised, but you didn't look back. You just started walking (in that case limping) towards the Main Street. It must have been quite a pathetic show as he walked up to you and put his arm under yours to help you. You didn't say anything. Didn't look at him. Just starred at the ground before you, wincing quietly at each step.

-Where shall I drop you off love?

You stopped moving. Chuckled. Looked the other way. And with a sad but desperately trying to be funny tone, said:

-I'm not sure to be quite honest...

He didn't respond. Took a deep breath for a minute. Then put his arm back in place and you both walked towards a phone booth. There he let go again and went in. Made a phone call, went out, starred at you, you starred back.

-Hungry?

You nodded your head to say yes and, wonderful timing as it was, your stomach started growling just then. You put your hand on your stomach as to silence it and Tangerine chuckled which showed off his extraordinary jaw definition.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You both sat on the same side of the table, apparently waiting for someone. As your british knight in a shining armor looked around the diner, you ordered fish and chips, chocolate milkshake, and a banana split. Once you were finished talking to the waiter (who was very disturbed by your bloody appearance by the way), Tangerine looked at you.

-That is the weirdest order I've seen placed in a while.

-Well what did you want me to order?

-Lemon! *Did he exclaim*

-Lemon for dinner? I don't think so, that would be terrible...

Tangerine stood up and hugged the man that came in. Both took a minute to catch up as you continued to mutter on how dumb ordering lemon would be for diner...

They both sat down, and Lemon starred at you.

-Who's that? A bit roughed up are you? Do you need a tissue or something? To wipe all that off...

You looked up from the menu.

-Ah, I look fine, haven't slept in a bit is all.

-Who is she Tangerine?

-That's Y/N, she needs a place to crash and we have a couch, so I thought...

-When did you meet?

-At least 24 hours ago. *You said in all honesty*

-Tangerine are you fucking mental?? Do you know how many people want us dead for what happened last year? We're not inviting a bloody stranger to the hotel. Hell no...

-Lemon... She seems to be on her own and it's not like she couldn't have killed me earlier had she wanted to... Jim's men wanted to sell her off to some kind of client, she's a bit lost is all*He said whispering*

-No! What are we?! A fucking adoption shelter taking in strays like that? She's a liability is all she is... You can't help a girl just cause she's pretty and seems harmless. She could be a hired assassin for all we know.

-I should probably go... I'll just wait for the food though, if it's okay with everyone. *You said looking down and with a low voice.*

You all sat in silence for a minute.

-Why did they want you dead so badly? Jim's clients? *asked Tangerine*

You didn't respond, just looked down. The food came. You ate the fish and chips quite quickly, then the banana split. All in silence. As you sipped on the milkshake, you noticed they were both still starring at you, waiting for you to answer probably.

-Well I meant it... I didn't do anything wrong.

-No one ever does... *sighed Lemon, visibly distrusting of you*

-I'm not an assassin okay? I don't kill people for a living... I find things, things people want. Like antics, or old military files.

-But you're a good shot, and quite calm for a civilian. *Raised Tangerine*

-When I started the job, I was just an academic looking for pretty random stuff, but the work wasn't just adventures and detective work, sometimes criminal organizations looked to acquire the same objects as I was. So I got help from hired gunsmen and sometimes even official special forces. They didn't want me to be helpless without them so they trained me a bit. Once I got a few skills added to my resume, my clients started asking me for more valuable objects, that more and more people wanted. So of course my skillset kind of diverged to dealing with the competition. But it wasn't on the job description when I applied.

-Jim specializes in assassination though? Why would he want you? *Asked Lemon*

-Because there's a bid on my head...

-And why is there a bid on your head?

-Because they think I stole something...

-What did you steal?

You finished the milkshake. You were about to stand up but Tangerine was looking at you a bit too concerned.

-Look Love, if you tell us what happened, and you didn't actually do anything wrong, then we might agree to help you. We're not complete assholes...

-Aren't we?! Now why would we help?

-Because Jim is a prick and anything to piss him off is worth the effort.

-Fair point... Alright Y/N, tell us, what happened?

-They think I stole the key to the MI6 database.

-Wait... don't tell me they have one key that can access...

-All datas on past, present, and future missions, on British government security, on british criminal organizations, on undercover agents, what they have on the CIA, on the FBI, on every other country's secret services, on the nuclear codes... Yeah all of that. Yes it exists.

-And they think you have it...

-No, they think I stole it.

-But then why would they want you dead?

-Because they also think I destroyed it after looking at it.

-And no one wants their secrets spilled out by you...

-Yep.

-But you didn't steal it?

-Not exactly...

-What did you do?

-My client wanted me to recover a file of the MI6. It was practially undoable. So I digged and I digged until I found this hardrive in an old vacant MI6 hideout. It was weird because it looked top secret but didn't have anyone around it to gard it, it was like it was handed to me. I looked at it, didn't have that much protection, just enough for me to think it was valuable, but easy enough to crack down. Then when I accessed it, it was a whole database of incredibly sensible documents. Yeah I looked at it, but not for long, got the file I needed, but before I could send it to my client, someone knocked me unconscious and I woke up without the hard drive but with a billion dollar target on my back. Somehow the information got out that I stole the hard drive from the MI6 super super secret base, which I never even set foot int.

-So someone set you up?

-Yes.

You stopped talking. Looked at them. Lemon looked sorry for you, Tangerine looked concerned, and you... chuckled.

-The bill's on you, right? *You asked in all seriousness.*

Tangerine smiled, and lemon was about to refuse, but his brother replied first.

-Yeah, the bill's on us love, but maybe let me eat first, okay?

-Are you gonna eat a fruit?

-You know I've already ordered right, and this joke's old already.

You waited for the two brothers' food to arrive while Lemon changed the subject to whatever happened to Tangerine. Apparently Jim and his men had some beef with the fruit brothers, and those nice lads had a plan to take down Jim's goons except it all went wrong when Lemon made one too many references to Thomas the train... ah no, it went wrong when Tangerine took too long in the bathroom to check his hair, well something went wrong, and, ah the food arrived!

-Where's your family Y/N? *Lemon asked*

-Countryside.

-So you have one. Do you want us to drop you off with them?

You didn't reply right away. They were almost fininshed with their food. You waited until the plates were clean to say:

-Look, if you want to drop me off somewhere and forget I ever existed, take me to the airport, I can look after myself, but don't think my story is gonna have some fairytale ending. Obviously I'm gonna get killed at some point or another, I'm just trying to enjoy my time until then.

-It's not like we can make the entire criminal world stop looking for you. I would help you, you see, but I don't know how. Honestly, you're kinda fucked...

-Don't listen to him -*Tangerine jumped in*- You're not fucked, you just have to diverge the attention to whoever has the key. Once people start looking for them, they'll forget about you.

-The problem is, I don't know who has the key. If I did, not only would I be off the hook, I'd be damn rich.

-Hold on... *Lemon stared at you for a moment* How much money is in the game?

-More than a billion that's for sure...

The two brothers starred at each other not sure what to say for a minute. Tangerine turns back to you and is about to speak when Lemon says:

-Let's make a deal, we help you find whoever got the key, it gets the target off your back, and we get 2/3rds of the money. You get the rest.

-I'll make you one better. *You smile fully, showing your teeth and visibly amused* You get all the money, as long as I'm still alive.

-Deal! *Lemon extands the palm of his hand which you clap right away*

As the three of you head to whichever hotel the brothers booked in a cab, Tangerine whispers to you:

-For the record, I was ready to help you regardless of the money.

-That's stupid. You shouldn't do that.

-What's stupid is being a big though guy and not helping people who so clearly need it.

You looked at him for bit. The same look you gave him in that cell when you first saw him. "Fuck you're actually so beautiful" you thought.

-Thanks. Not the reply I would have expected, but thanks.

Sleep deprivation clearly made you a tad bit lunatic, saying stuff you weren't supposed to. You looked away immediately and rested your head against the window. Closing your eyes felt like heaven.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hotel was old and cheap, the late 80s style still intact. You liked it. Starred at the curtains of the room as the sound of the shower filled the silence. You closed your eyes.

-The shower is free. May I suggest you take one before going to bed love?

You woke up with a dizzy head, you really wanted to go back to your nap, but the guy standing in front of you wasn't budging.

-Are you saying I smell bad?

-Yeah, I am. Get up now.

You did, he held up a hand for you to take it which you did as you were more than tired. He didn't let go when you were up though and led you to the bathroom. You weren't sure where Lemon had gone to. He turned the shower on, pointed to the soap, and said:

-I reckon you know how to shower. Won't need my help for the next part then.

You grinned a bit and looked at him, he smiled. After he left, (and only after), you started undressing and finally took the shower. Once you turned the water off, he knocked on the door.

-Are you decent?

You grabbed a towel and answered positively. He came in, took a glance at you, closed the door, and stood in front of you for a second. His eyes went from your wet hair whose natural color was finally visible, your face which was now recognizable, your clean skin, your bruises, and then back to your face. He had some medical products in his hand and gestured to the bathtub. You took a seat on the edge of it. He dabbed a cotton in disinfectant, and slowly went over every single one of your cuts. They were quite a lot of them.

-Jesus, how many days did you stay in that place?

-Just a couple hours before you came in.

-Where are all these marks from then?

-Other people.

The last injury was your cut lip. He went over it delicately and you just starred at him for the third time this week.

-You're quite sweet for an assassin.

-Are you gonna make another fruit joke?

-Saw right through me... No but really, why the kindness?

-Just because you do some bad stuff for money doesn't mean you have to be an asshole for free too now does it?

-Thank you.

-You're not saved yet, thank me when you are.

-I will.

You both smiled, this time he was looking right back at you. Nice blue eyes like antartic ice. Really, really nice eyes.

-I'm back. *Lemon shouted from the room. He then entered the bathroom looking for his brother and his gaze settled on you.* You look quite nice without all the blood and dirt on you. Oh, wait, guys... Did I walk in on something?

Tangerine scoffs, gets up, and pushes Lemon out the bathroom. You hear them banter for a second before Tangerine comes back with a bag that he hands you. He politely smiles at you and exits the room, closing the door behind him. You go through the bag to realize your old clothes are no longer in condition to be worn and two men who were complete strangers a week ago just had to guess the size of your bras and panties. What was even more awkward is that the ones they bought fit quite well. The rest of the bag was some blue jeans, a black halter top, and a loose shoulder black sweater which you liked. You didn't put it on though, opened the door without getting out and asked for a t shirt. No way you were sleeping in jeans for 12 hours straight. A t shirt flew right to your face a second after. Probably Tangerine's guessing by the smell. He smelled nice. But not the point. You put it on and finally got to fully crash out on the couch. You couldn't move anymore, too tired, too comfy, you were just there. Before falling asleep, you saw the handsome brit throw a blanket on you trying not to look at your figure.

You woke up a bit lost, not sure where you were or how long you had slept for. A few seconds brought your memory back and your eyes adjusted to the light. Tangerine was there. Sitting at the desk typing away on a computer, his back turned to you. You got up and walked towards him. You were standing just a few centimeters away as you leaned over his shoulder and stared at the screen.

-What's that? *You asked*

-Holy... fuck, have you heard of heart attacks??

-You're that old? Don't look a day over 50. Are you trying to hack into the MI6?

-Well obviously yes.

-From a cheap retro looking computer?

-Do you have a better idea?

He then realized you weren't wearing pants. To which he gave you a disapproving look over his mustache and continued:

-Maybe start by wearing some pants before attacking the cheapness of my computer.

-Pants are overrated.

-I'm sure they are. *He turned back to the screen. You sat on the desk, facing him.*

-If my legs disturb you so much, stop looking at them.

-Get off the desk. You know for someone getting threats from half the criminal population, you're surely quite calm.

You hummed, got off the desk as prompted, and went to get the jeans from yesterday. However, he stood up and grabbed your hand before you could get fully away.

-Alright maybe you don't need to put pants on right away. *You turned your face to him, starring into his eyes* I was right though, when we met. You are really crazy.

-For not wearing jeans to sleep?

-For flirting in the middle of a life or death situation. *He pulled you in closer.*

-Who said I was flirting? *You closed the last gap between you two*

-Me. *He leaned in to kiss your lips*