Mrs Johnson

I write Aaron Taylor-Johnson x Female Reader stories — from soft romance to angst, from historical drama to chaotic action. Each of his roles holds something different, and I love exploring every side of them through my writing.

You’ll find stories featuring:

💎 Tangerine (Bullet Train) – the sharp-dressed assassin with a heart buried beneath the chaos.

🦁 Sergei “Kraven” Kravinoff (Kraven the Hunter) – the predator torn between vengeance and vulnerability.

💔 Alexei Vronsky (Anna Karenina) – the tragic romantic chasing love through the storms of high society.

🩸 Friedrich Harding (Nosferatu) – the devoted husband caught between faith and darkness.

🌒 Jamie (28 Years Later AU) – the survivor learning to love again at the end of the world.

⚡ Pietro Maximoff (Avengers: Age of Ultron) – the speedster whose heart races faster than his feet.

Requests are always open and appreciated! ✨

“Too White for the Seasonings”

Tangerine x Latina Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Domestic Comedy • Fluff • Cultural Differences • Soft Tangerine

Summary: Tangerine and Lemon can survive gunfights, but not your heavily spiced cooking. When you realize they’re suffering through meals just to spare your feelings, you finally decide to go easier on them—especially your dramatic boyfriend.

The apartment smelled incredible.

Warm spices filled the kitchen, mixed with garlic, citrus, simmering meat, and fresh herbs. Music played softly from your phone while pots bubbled on the stove.

You moved around the kitchen effortlessly, tasting sauce from a spoon before immediately grimacing.

“¡Ay, no, no, no!” you groaned. “Who taught this tomato to behave like this?”

From the couch, Lemon blinked.

“…Did she just insult a tomato?”

Tangerine didn’t look up from his phone. “Apparently.”

You continued muttering rapidly in Spanish while throwing more spices into the pan.

“Necesita más sabor… Dios mío…”

Lemon leaned closer to Tangerine. “I don’t know what she’s saying, but it sounds threatening.”

Tangerine snorted quietly.

“Probably talking about food.”

“Or plotting murder.”

“Same thing, honestly.”

You pointed the wooden spoon toward them without turning around.

“I heard that!”

“See?” Lemon whispered. “Dangerous.”

⸻

The first time you cooked for them, neither brother had expected the spice level.

They’d made a critical mistake.

Underestimating you.

Tangerine had taken one confident bite before immediately coughing so hard he nearly inhaled rice.

Lemon had gone bright red within seconds.

But because they were idiots—

Neither admitted defeat.

“Good?” you asked hopefully.

Tangerine’s eyes watered instantly.

“…Brilliant,” he croaked.

Lemon nodded aggressively while sweating through his shirt. “Fantastic. Really clears the sinuses.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly.

At the time, you believed them.

Now?

Now you were starting to notice things.

⸻

Like how Tangerine mysteriously drank three glasses of water during dinner.

Or how Lemon quietly kept sour cream nearby whenever you cooked.

Or how both men suddenly developed an interest in milk.

“Interesting,” you muttered one evening while cooking.

“What is?” Tangerine asked cautiously.

You turned slowly.

“You two.”

Both brothers froze instinctively.

“You hate spicy food.”

Silence.

Lemon looked at Tangerine immediately, throwing him under the bus without hesitation.

“I told him we should’ve said something.”

Tangerine looked offended. “You absolutely did not.”

“You were crying into a burrito last week.”

“It was emotional.”

You crossed your arms.

“Tangerine.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Alright, maybe,” he admitted reluctantly. “Maybe your food occasionally feels like chemical warfare.”

You stared at him.

Then at Lemon.

“…And you still ate all of it?”

Lemon shrugged. “It tastes good.”

Tangerine nodded once. “Worth suffering for.”

Your expression softened instantly.

“Oh my God,” you laughed. “You idiots.”

⸻

The next time you cooked, you adjusted the spice level.

Not completely.

You refused to disrespect your ancestors like that.

But enough.

Especially for Tangerine.

You plated dinner while he hovered nearby, watching curiously.

“No attempted murder tonight?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes. “I made yours less spicy.”

He blinked.

“…You did?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

A faint smile pulled at his mouth.

“That’s actually quite romantic.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, “I’m attached to you.”

Lemon appeared beside him. “And me?”

You handed him his plate. “Yours is medium.”

His face dropped. “Favouritism.”

“Correct.”

⸻

Dinner went significantly smoother.

No coughing.

No tears.

No near-death experiences.

Tangerine looked genuinely relieved after the first bite.

“Oh thank Christ,” he sighed.

You laughed loudly.

“Told you.”

“This is nice spicy,” he explained seriously. “Not ‘I can see through time’ spicy.”

Lemon pointed his fork at him. “That soup last month changed me as a person.”

“You ate four bowls.”

“It was addictive!”

You shook your head fondly.

Hopeless. Both of them.

⸻

Later that night, you stood back in the kitchen cleaning up while humming softly to yourself.

The apartment was quieter now.

Lemon had disappeared to the living room with snacks and a documentary about trains.

You were halfway through washing a plate when strong arms suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind.

You smiled instantly.

“There you are.”

Tangerine pressed against your back, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Mm,” he hummed softly. “Thought I should thank you properly.”

“For what?”

“Not poisoning me.”

You laughed warmly.

“You’re dramatic.”

“You put enough chili in food to kill a Victorian child.”

You snorted.

His hands slid gently along your waist while he pressed a lazy kiss against your neck.

“You smell nice,” he murmured.

“That’s garlic.”

“Still counts.”

You turned your head slightly, smiling as he kissed just below your jaw.

Soft.

Slow.

Warm.

Then—

“UGH!”

Both of you looked toward the living room.

Lemon stood there holding a drink, visibly horrified.

“Do you mind?” he complained. “Some of us are trying to digest in peace.”

Tangerine didn’t even look ashamed.

“Go away.”

“You’re being affectionate in shared spaces.”

“And?”

“It’s upsetting.”

You laughed as Tangerine rolled his eyes before pulling you closer again.

Lemon pointed accusingly.

“This is why I live in fear.”

“You live here rent free,” Tangerine shot back.

“Not emotionally.”

You buried your face in Tangerine’s shoulder laughing while he kissed the top of your head.

“Ignore him,” he murmured.

“I’m trying.”

From the other room Lemon yelled—

“I CAN STILL HEAR YOU BEING IN LOVE!”

Tangerine sighed deeply.

“Grace & Bruises”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Opposites Attract • Slow Burn • Soft Romance • Public Attention • Boxer x Ballerina Trope

Summary: You’re a disciplined ballerina; Tangerine’s a feared boxer. When you meet at an art museum, an unexpected connection forms—and people start noticing he never strays far from you.

The museum was quiet.

Soft footsteps. Low murmurs. The kind of place where everything felt… delicate.

You liked it.

It reminded you of the stage — controlled, intentional, every movement carrying meaning.

You stood in front of a sculpture, arms loosely folded, studying the lines, the balance, the way the artist had captured motion in stillness.

“Bit odd, innit?”

The voice came from beside you.

Low. British. Completely out of place.

You turned.

And immediately blinked.

He looked like he’d walked into the wrong building.

Broad shoulders. Hands wrapped in faintly worn knuckles. A faint bruise along his jaw that hadn’t quite healed.

He was staring at the sculpture like it had personally offended him.

“What?” you asked, amused.

“Looks like it’s about to fall over,” he said bluntly.

You laughed softly. “It’s supposed to look like that.”

He glanced at you.

Really glanced.

And something in his expression shifted — curiosity, maybe.

“Right,” he said slowly. “So it’s meant to look unstable.”

“Exactly.”

He nodded once, like he was committing that to memory.

“…Still looks like it’s about to fall over.”

⸻

You learned later he wasn’t there by choice.

A sponsor thing. Public image. Something about broadening interests.

He stuck out like a storm cloud in a room full of soft light.

But he stayed.

And for some reason… he kept ending up near you.

⸻

The second time you saw him, you were rehearsing in one of the museum’s private studios — part of a performance collaboration.

Music played softly as you moved, your body flowing through practiced steps, controlled and precise.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Not until the music ended.

Clapping.

Slow. Measured.

You turned.

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he belonged there.

“That was…” he started, searching for the word.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Good,” he finished.

You smiled. “Very descriptive.”

He shrugged. “I’m not an art critic.”

“No,” you said, glancing at his hands. “You’re not.”

He followed your gaze, flexing his fingers slightly.

“Boxer,” he said simply.

“I figured.”

“And you’re…” he gestured vaguely.

“A ballerina.”

He nodded, like that made perfect sense.

“Explains the balance thing.”

You laughed. “And you? Explains the bruises.”

“Occupational hazard.”

⸻

It became a pattern.

You rehearsed.

He showed up.

At first, he said it was coincidence.

Then he stopped pretending.

“You always here this time?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the wall as you stretched.

“Most days.”

He nodded. “Right.”

“You don’t have somewhere else to be?” you teased.

“Plenty,” he said. “Just not as interesting.”

Your cheeks warmed slightly at that.

⸻

People started noticing.

It was hard not to.

A known boxer — rough reputation, intimidating presence — lingering quietly in ballet studios, watching rehearsals like it was the most important thing in the world.

Whispers followed.

“That’s him, isn’t it?”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Is he… with her?”

You tried to ignore it.

But one afternoon, a fellow dancer nudged you.

“You’ve got a shadow,” she whispered.

You glanced toward the doorway.

There he was.

Arms crossed. Watching.

Always watching.

⸻

One evening, after rehearsal, you found him waiting outside.

“Walk you home,” he said simply.

You smiled. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

You fell into step beside him anyway.

The city was louder than the museum. Messier. Real.

“So,” you said after a moment, “why do you keep coming back?”

He was quiet for a few steps.

Then—

“You move like nothing can touch you.”

You blinked.

“That’s… kind of the point.”

He shook his head slightly. “No. I mean—” he gestured vaguely, searching again. “Everything I do is… impact. Noise. Damage.”

You glanced at his hands again.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re the opposite.”

Your heart softened.

“And that makes you hang around?”

He looked at you.

“Yeah.”

⸻

A week later, you went to one of his matches.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe something else.

The arena was loud. Electric. Completely different from your world.

And then he stepped into the ring.

Focused. Sharp. Dangerous.

You barely recognized him.

Until—

Mid-fight, just for a second—

His eyes flicked to the crowd.

To you.

And something softened.

Just for a moment.

⸻

After the match, you found him backstage.

Sweaty. Bruised. Breathing heavy.

“Good?” he asked, half-smirking.

You shook your head slightly, smiling. “You’re insane.”

“Occupational hazard,” he repeated.

You stepped closer, gently brushing your fingers near his cheek where a bruise was forming.

“You should ice that.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched you.

“You always this soft?” he asked quietly.

“Only when necessary.”

“Right,” he murmured.

⸻

From then on, it wasn’t subtle.

He walked you to rehearsals.

Waited outside studios.

Sat through performances — still, focused, completely out of place and yet entirely yours.

People talked.

Of course they did.

“The boxer and the ballerina.”

“Opposites.”

“Strangely perfect.”

You heard it all.

But you didn’t care.

Because one evening, as you stood backstage after a performance, still catching your breath, he stepped up beside you.

“You were brilliant,” he said.

You smiled. “Better description this time.”

He huffed quietly.

Then, after a pause—

“You want to get out of here?”

You looked at him.

At the bruises. The rough edges. The softness he only showed you.

“Yeah,” you said.

His hand found yours — warm, steady, grounding.

And as you walked out together, whispers followed again.

But this time?

You smiled.

Because they were right.

Grace and bruises.

Soft and sharp.

Ballerina and boxer.

“Not Welcome Here”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Jealousy • Protective Reader • Drama • Mentions of Intimacy

Summary: Tangerine’s past resurfaces when a manipulative ex starts stalking him—but she makes a mistake showing up at his home, only to find you answering the door in his shirt.

It started small.

Too small to notice at first.

A familiar figure in the distance at the grocery store.

A shadow at the gym when Tangerine was halfway through his run.

A presence that always disappeared just before it became “officially creepy.”

Tangerine noticed.

Of course he did.

He always noticed everything.

But he didn’t say anything at first.

Not until she showed up outside your home.

⸻

That night, she stood on the pavement like she belonged there.

Like she still had access to his life.

Tangerine opened the door before she could knock.

“What do you want,” he said flatly.

She smiled like nothing had changed.

“I just wanted to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Her eyes flicked past him into the house.

“And her?” she asked lightly. “She just lives here now?”

Tangerine didn’t answer.

He simply stepped back inside and closed the door.

⸻

The next day was worse.

You were alone this time.

Or so she thought.

You opened the door in one of Tangerine’s shirts — oversized, sleeves hanging past your wrists, hair still slightly messy from the morning.

Very clearly his.

Very clearly recent.

You leaned on the doorframe.

“…Can I help you?” you asked calmly.

Her expression tightened instantly.

“I’m here to see Tangerine.”

You blinked slowly. “He’s not available.”

“I don’t think you understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” you interrupted gently. “You’re his ex.”

That made her pause.

You tilted your head. “The one who keeps showing up places she’s not invited?”

Her jaw clenched. “I just need to speak to him.”

You smiled — not warmly.

Not politely.

Just firmly.

“No.”

Silence.

The air shifted immediately.

Her mask cracked slightly. “Excuse me?”

You stepped forward just a little.

“Tangerine doesn’t want you here,” you said evenly. “He doesn’t want you calling. Following him. Or turning up at his home.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to decide that for him.”

You laughed softly.

“That’s funny,” you said. “Because I live here. I sleep here. And I know exactly what he wants.”

A pause.

Then your voice dropped slightly.

“So I’m going to say this once.”

You met her eyes fully now.

“Don’t come back.”

Her expression twisted. “Or what?”

You smiled sweetly.

“I’ll make it my problem.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel physical.

Then—

A floorboard creaked behind you.

⸻

“Everything alright out here?”

Tangerine’s voice.

Lazy. Sleepy. Slightly rough.

You didn’t turn.

The ex did.

And her expression shifted instantly.

Because there he was.

Tangerine standing at the bottom of the stairs in just joggers, hair a mess, chest bare except for faint lipstick marks trailing along his skin like careless evidence of the night before.

Very clearly just interrupted.

Very clearly yours.

His eyes moved from her… to you.

Then back again.

“…Why is she here,” he asked flatly.

You shrugged slightly. “She missed the memo.”

Tangerine sighed like this was the most inconvenient thing in the world.

The ex looked between both of you, visibly losing control of the situation she thought she still had.

“I just wanted to talk,” she repeated quickly.

Tangerine walked over to you, sliding an arm around your waist like it was instinct.

He leaned down slightly.

“Did she threaten you?” he asked quietly.

You hummed. “Not yet.”

He looked at her again.

That was enough.

“You’ve got ten seconds,” he said calmly, “to leave my property before I stop being polite.”

Her mouth opened.

Then closed again.

Because whatever she thought she had left of him… wasn’t there anymore.

Not even close.

⸻

She left.

Eventually.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Like she still expected the world to bend back in her favour.

It didn’t.

The door shut behind her.

Finally.

⸻

Tangerine exhaled, resting his forehead briefly against yours.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You smiled faintly. “She didn’t stand a chance, did she?”

He gave a small hum.

“No,” he said simply. “She didn’t.”

You glanced at his chest. “You might want to cover that before you scare the neighbours.”

He looked down at the lipstick marks.

“…She started it.”

You laughed softly, wrapping your arms around him.

He pulled you closer immediately.

“No more surprise visitors,” he muttered.

You smirked. “That a promise?”

He kissed your temple.

Hi guys! I know this isn’t my usual fanfic post, but I’ve been debating if I should post this or not, but here it is. My Bullet Train OC. I’ll also be doing my other three OCs — Mama Ajayi, Papa Ajayi, and Autumn — along with Tangerine and Lemon’s aesthetics and details.

Name: Libby ‘Strawberry’ Clarke

Age: 27

Occupation: Assassin (Formally) Stay at home mum (Currently)

Relationships:

Tony ‘Tangerine’ Clarke (Husband)

Louis‘Lemon’ Clarke (Adoptive Brother-in-law)

Autumn May Clarke (Daughter)

Bailey The Great Dane

Mama Ajayi (Adoptive Mother-in-law)

Papa Ajayi (Adoptive Father-in-law)

If you want any of Tangerine and Strawberry fanfic, let me know. I do have some written out. And yes, Strawberry is inspired by Barbie.

Strawberry’s aesthetic.

Name: Tony ‘Tangerine’ Clarke

Age: 37

Occupation: Assassin (Formally) Casino Owner (Currently)

Relationships:

Libby ‘Strawberry’ Clarke (Wife)

Autumn May Clarke (Daughter)

Bailey The Great Dane

Louis ‘Lemon’ Clarke (Adoptive Brother)

Mama Ajayi (Adoptive Mother)

Papa Ajayi (Adoptive Father)

Tangerines Aesthetic

Name: Autumn May Clarke

Age: 1 and a half years old

Occupation: Stay at home toddler

Relationships:

Libby ‘Strawberry’ Clarke (Mother)

Tony ‘Tangerine’ Clarke (Father)

Bailey The Great Dane

Louis ‘Lemon’ Clarke (Adoptive Uncle)

Mama Ajayi (Adoptive Grandmother)

Papa Ajayi (Adoptive Grandfather)

Autumns Aesthetic:

Name: Bailey

Breed: Great Dane

Age: 3 years old

Occupation: Guard Dog

Relationships:

Libby ‘Strawberry’ Clarke (Adoptive Mother)

Tony ‘Tangerine’ Clarke (Adoptive Father)

Autumn May Clarke (Adoptive Sister)

Louis ‘Lemon’ Clarke (Adoptive Uncle)

Mama Ajayi (Adoptive Grandmother)

Papa Ajayi (Adoptive Grandfather)

Baileys Aesthetic

Name: Louis ‘Lemon’ Clarke

Age: 35

Occupation: Assassin (Formally) Bartender at Casino (Current)

Relationships:

Libby ‘Strawberry’ Clarke (Adoptive Brother In Law)

Tony ‘Tangerine’ Clark (Adoptive Brother)

Autumn May Clarke (Adoptive Niece)

Bailey The Great Dane

Mama Ajayi (Adoptive Mother)

Papa Ajayi (Adoptive Father)

Lemon’s Aesthetic:

Name: Mama Ajayi

Age: 66

Occupation: Teacher (Formally) Retired (Currently)

Relationships:

Libby ‘Strawberry’ Clarke (Adoptive Daughter in Law)

Tony ‘Tangerine’ Clarke (Adoptive Son)

Louis ‘Lemon’ Clarke (Adoptive Son)

Autumn May Clarke (Adoptive Granddaughter)

Bailey The Great Dane

Papa Ajayi (Husband)

Mama Ajayi’s Aesthetic:

Name: Papa Ajayi

Age: 75

Occupation: Teacher (Formally) Retired (Currently)

Relationships:

Libby ‘Strawberry’ Clarke (Adoptive Daughter In Law)

Tony ‘Tangerine’ Clarke (Adoptive Son)

Louis ‘Lemon’ Clarke (Adoptive Son)

Autumn May Clarke (Adoptive Granddaughter)

Bailey The Great Dane

Mama Ajayi (Wife)

Papa Ajayi’s Aesthetic:

“Only One of You”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Hurt/Comfort • Pregnancy • Protective Tangerine • Pregnancy Risk • C-Section Risk • Soft Ending

Summary: With a high-risk pregnancy, a C-section is needed—but a question before surgery shakes Tangerine deeply. As he holds your hand, all he can do is hope, knowing he couldn’t survive losing you.

Hospitals made Tangerine uneasy.

Not in the obvious way.

He wasn’t scared of blood. Or injury. Or even death — he’d brushed shoulders with all three more times than he could count.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t a fight he could control.

You lay in the hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, your hand wrapped tightly in his. Your thumb brushed gently over his knuckles, trying to calm him when it should’ve been the other way around.

“You’re pacing again,” you murmured softly.

He stopped immediately, exhaling through his nose before forcing himself to sit beside you.

“Not pacing,” he muttered. “Strategically moving.”

You smiled faintly. “Right.”

Your other hand rested protectively over your stomach.

The doctors had been clear — high risk. Too many complications. A natural birth wasn’t safe.

A C-section was scheduled.

Controlled.

Planned.

Safer.

Still… not risk-free.

You squeezed his hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

He looked at you, really looked — memorizing your face like he needed it burned into him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It will be.”

⸻

A nurse knocked gently before stepping in.

“They’re ready for you,” she said kindly.

Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.

Tangerine stood immediately, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

They began wheeling you out.

He followed—until a doctor stepped in front of him.

“Mr.—”

“Tangerine,” he said flatly. “What.”

The doctor hesitated.

“We need a word before you go in.”

Irritation flickered instantly across his face, but he stepped aside anyway.

“Make it quick.”

The doctor lowered his voice.

“In rare cases,” he began carefully, “complications can arise during a C-section. If something were to go wrong—”

Tangerine’s expression hardened.

“Don’t.”

The doctor continued anyway, professional but firm.

“We need to know — if we are forced to make a decision — do we prioritize the mother or the baby?”

Silence.

Heavy. Sharp. Dangerous.

Tangerine stared at him like he’d just said the stupidest thing imaginable.

“You’re asking me,” he said slowly, “to choose.”

“It’s a standard question—”

“No, it’s not,” Tangerine snapped quietly, voice dropping into something cold. “It’s a ridiculous one.”

The doctor held his ground. “We need your consent in advance—”

“You save her,” Tangerine cut in immediately.

No hesitation.

No pause.

“If something happens, you save her.”

The doctor nodded slightly. “Understood, but—”

“There is no but,” Tangerine stepped closer, eyes burning now. “We can have another kid.”

His voice cracked just slightly — barely noticeable, but it was there.

“I can’t have another her.”

The words hung between them.

Final.

Absolute.

The doctor swallowed, then nodded properly this time. “Understood.”

Tangerine didn’t wait for anything else.

He turned and walked straight into the operating room.

⸻

The room was bright.

Too bright.

Machines. Monitors. Staff moving with calm efficiency.

And you.

Lying there, already prepped, looking smaller somehow under the harsh lights.

Your eyes found him instantly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He moved to your side immediately, taking your hand like it was the only solid thing in the room.

“I’m here,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “You look like you’re about to fight someone.”

“Considering it,” he muttered.

You squeezed his hand. “Don’t start anything in here.”

“No promises.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you — exactly what he needed.

⸻

As the procedure began, a screen was raised so you couldn’t see.

Tangerine didn’t look away from your face.

Not once.

He kept talking — low, steady, constant.

“You remember that place we went last summer?” he murmured. “The one with the terrible coffee?”

You smiled weakly. “You drank three cups.”

“Was making a point.”

“Your point was caffeine addiction.”

He huffed softly, brushing his thumb over your hand.

“You did brilliant,” he said quietly. “Through all of this.”

Your eyes softened. “So did you.”

He didn’t agree.

He couldn’t.

Because he wasn’t the one lying there, vulnerable, trusting strangers with everything.

⸻

But as the minutes stretched, his calm began to crack.

Too quiet.

Too focused.

He noticed every shift in the doctors’ tone. Every movement. Every second that felt too long.

His grip on your hand tightened.

“You alright?” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said quickly.

Lie.

His heart was pounding.

For the first time in a long time… he felt completely helpless.

Then—

A sound.

Sharp. New.

A cry.

Small. Loud. Alive.

Everything stopped.

Tangerine blinked, breath catching as the tension snapped all at once.

The doctor’s voice cut through.

“Congratulations.”

He looked at you.

You were already crying.

“Did you hear that?” you laughed softly through tears.

He nodded, speechless for once.

“…Yeah.”

A nurse stepped forward, holding a tiny, wriggling baby.

“Would you like to see?”

Tangerine hesitated for half a second — then stepped closer, eyes locked on the small, perfect thing in her arms.

“…Bloody hell,” he whispered.

Your baby.

Safe.

Alive.

You were safe too.

Both of you.

Everything he’d been bracing for… didn’t happen.

⸻

Later, once you were settled in recovery, Tangerine sat beside you, your baby carefully cradled in his arms like something sacred.

He looked between you both, quieter than usual.

You smiled softly. “You okay?”

He nodded, but his voice was low.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, more honest—

“Was worried.”

“I know,” you said gently.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then carefully to the baby’s tiny head.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured.

You frowned slightly. “About what?”

He met your eyes.

“You.”

Your heart softened.

“And now,” he added, glancing down at the baby, “I’ve got two reasons to worry instead of one.”

You laughed softly.

“The Easter Hunt”

Sergei Kravinoff ‘Kraven’ x Female Reader

Genre/Warnings: Domestic Fluff • Dad Kraven • Soft Family Moments

Summary: Easter in the Kravinoff home is quiet—until morning brings chaos, laughter, and two excited boys with one very important question.

The cabin was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet Sergei usually trusted.

Tonight?

It made him suspicious.

He stood in the hallway, holding a small basket filled with brightly wrapped chocolate eggs — something that felt completely out of place in his large, calloused hands.

Behind him, you leaned against the wall, trying not to laugh.

“You’ve faced armed men without hesitation,” you whispered. “And this is what’s making you nervous?”

He glanced at you, unimpressed.

“This requires stealth.”

You grinned. “They’re three.”

“They are alert,” he corrected.

From down the hall, one of your twin boys shifted in his sleep.

Sergei froze instantly.

You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Go on,” you mouthed.

⸻

He moved like he was tracking prey.

Slow. Precise. Silent.

The door to the boys’ room creaked slightly as he pushed it open, and he paused — listening.

Two small bodies slept soundly in their beds, blankets half kicked off, soft breaths filling the room.

Sergei stepped inside.

Carefully.

Very carefully.

He crouched beside the first bed, gently placing a small pile of eggs near the pillow. Then the second.

One of the boys stirred.

Sergei went completely still.

The child mumbled something incoherent and rolled over, clutching his blanket tighter.

Sergei waited a full ten seconds before moving again.

When he finally stepped back into the hallway, he shut the door with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.

You raised an eyebrow. “Successful mission?”

He gave a small nod. “They did not wake.”

“Very impressive,” you teased, stepping closer to him.

He glanced down at the remaining eggs in the basket.

“The baby,” he said.

⸻

Your daughter slept peacefully in her crib, tiny hands curled near her face.

Sergei approached slower this time.

Softer.

He placed a single, small wrapped egg beside her — more symbolic than anything.

“She cannot eat it,” he murmured.

You smiled gently. “She’ll still get one. It counts.”

He looked at your daughter for a moment longer, something warm settling in his expression.

“She will hunt one day,” he said quietly.

You laughed under your breath. “Let’s start with crawling.”

⸻

Morning did not arrive quietly.

It never did.

“THE EASTER BUNNY CAME!”

Feet pounded down the hallway. Doors slammed open.

You barely had time to sit up before two small boys burst into your room, holding chocolate eggs like they’d just discovered treasure.

“LOOK WHAT WE GOT!”

“HE BROUGHT SO MANY!”

You laughed, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Wow, he must really like you two.”

Sergei leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them with quiet amusement.

“What did you say to him?” you asked.

One of them gasped. “We were sleeping!”

“Exactly,” you said seriously. “That’s how he knows.”

They both nodded, accepting this completely.

Then—

They paused.

“…What about her?”

Both boys turned toward the crib in the corner of your room where their baby sister slept, still completely unaware of the chaos.

“Did she get eggs?” one asked, suddenly concerned.

Sergei pushed himself off the wall, walking over.

“Yes,” he said simply.

He picked up the small egg beside her and held it out.

Their faces lit up.

“She did!”

“The bunny didn’t forget her!”

You smiled softly as they carefully placed the egg back near her tiny hand, like it was the most important thing in the world.

Sergei crouched beside them.

“She is part of the family,” he said. “She is never forgotten.”

One of the boys nodded seriously. “When she’s bigger, we’ll help her find eggs.”

The other added, “Yeah, we’ll share.”

You met Sergei’s eyes over their heads.

There was something softer there than usual.

Something full.

Content.

⸻

Later, the cabin was filled with chocolate wrappers, laughter, and two very energetic boys bouncing off the walls from sugar.

Your daughter slept peacefully through most of it.

You sat beside Sergei on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Good first Easter,” you murmured.

He glanced down at you.

“Yes,” he agreed.

Across the room, one of your sons shouted, “I FOUND ANOTHER ONE!”

“There are no more!” you called back.

“Then who hid this?!”

Sergei didn’t answer.

“The King and the Shipbuilder’s Daughter”

Ivar The Boneless x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Slow Burn • Angst → Soft Romance • Reunion • Viking Era

Summary: After becoming king of Kattegat, Ivar finds everything changed—except you. But now, you see him not as the boy he was, but as someone far more dangerous… and irresistible.

Kattegat had changed.

Or perhaps it was him.

The halls were louder now, filled with voices that bent around his will, eyes that lowered when he passed, warriors who spoke his name with something close to fear.

Ivar the Boneless ruled.

And yet—

There was one place he had not returned to.

Not yet.

⸻

The shoreline was quieter than the great hall.

The scent of salt and timber lingered in the air, the familiar rhythm of tools against wood echoing softly across the docks.

You stood bent over the skeleton of a ship, hands steady as you worked, carving carefully along the grain.

Your father’s craft lived in your hands.

Just as it always had.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Few did, when he chose not to be seen.

But Ivar noticed you.

The way your movements were precise. Confident. The same as he remembered, yet stronger now.

Grown.

“Still hiding by the water,” he said at last.

Your hand stilled instantly.

That voice.

You turned slowly.

And there he was.

Not the boy you had known.

Not the sharp-tongued prince who used to sit beside you while your father worked, asking endless questions, eyes bright with curiosity.

No.

This was something else.

His presence filled the space without effort. His gaze was sharper, heavier — like it could pin you in place if it wished.

A king.

“Ivar,” you said quietly.

His name felt different on your tongue.

He noticed.

“I wondered if you would still recognize me,” he said.

A faint smile touched your lips. “You are not easy to forget.”

His eyes flickered — pleased.

He moved closer, each shift deliberate, controlled, until he stood just within reach.

“You did not come to see me when I returned,” he said.

It wasn’t an accusation.

Not quite.

You set your tool aside, meeting his gaze properly now.

“You are king,” you replied simply. “Kings are not easily approached.”

Something dark and thoughtful passed through his expression.

“And yet you speak to me as though I am not.”

“Because I remember when you weren’t,” you said.

Silence stretched between you.

Charged.

⸻

He studied you differently now.

Not as a familiar face from his past.

But as a woman.

Strong. Unafraid. Unmoved by titles.

It intrigued him.

More than he expected.

“You have changed,” you said softly, your eyes tracing the sharp lines of him — the confidence, the intensity, the weight of power he carried like it belonged there.

“I have become what I was meant to be,” he replied.

“And what is that?”

His gaze locked onto yours.

“Something no one can ignore.”

Your breath caught slightly.

Because it was true.

Standing this close to him felt like standing near a storm — quiet, but dangerous, unpredictable, impossible to look away from.

“And you?” he asked. “You do not fear me?”

You held his gaze.

“No.”

A beat.

Then, more quietly—

“But I see you differently.”

That caught his attention.

“How?”

You hesitated.

Because the truth felt heavier than you expected.

“You are not the boy who used to sit beside me and ask my father how ships float,” you said. “You are… something else now.”

His lips curved slightly.

“And you do not like it?”

You stepped closer without thinking, your voice soft but steady.

“I did not say that.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The space between you felt smaller than it should have been.

His hand lifted slowly, almost as if testing whether you would pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers brushed against yours — rough, warm, grounding.

“I thought of you,” he admitted quietly.

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Often.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because this was not the Ivar others saw.

This was something quieter. More dangerous in a different way.

“I wondered,” he continued, voice low, “if you would still look at me the same.”

You shook your head gently.

“I don’t.”

His expression darkened slightly — not anger, but something deeper.

“Good,” you whispered.

That surprised him.

You stepped just a little closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the weight of his presence pressing against your senses.

“Because I like this version of you more.”

For a moment, the king disappeared.

And the boy who had once watched you work by the sea flickered back through his eyes.

Softened.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to something almost private.

“Then stay,” he said. “Here. With me.”

You smiled faintly.

“I have ships to build.”

“And I have a kingdom,” he replied.

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“I would have you in both.”

Your breath caught again.

Because this wasn’t a demand.

It was an offer.

And coming from him…

It meant everything.

⸻

As the waves rolled quietly against the shore, you realized something had shifted.

Not just in him.

But in you.

Because the boy you once knew was gone.

“Reunion Revenge”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Romantic Comedy • Light Angst • Glow-Up • Fluff

Summary: Tangerine wants nothing to do with his high school reunion—until you convince him. When he returns, it’s clear the past doesn’t recognize him anymore.

The invitation sat on the kitchen counter like it was personally offending him.

Tangerine had walked past it three times already, each time with a deeper scowl.

“I’m not going,” he muttered, grabbing a drink.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You haven’t even opened it.”

“Don’t need to.”

“It could be fun.”

“It won’t be.”

From the couch, Lemon snorted. “He’s right, actually. Wasn’t exactly the glory days, was it, mate?”

Tangerine shot him a look. “Shut up.”

You tilted your head curiously. “What does that mean?”

Lemon grinned — the kind that meant trouble.

“Oh, he hasn’t told you?” he said. “Back in school, he weren’t all… this.” He gestured vaguely at Tangerine’s composed, intimidating presence. “Bit of a wuss, honestly.”

Tangerine straightened. “I was not.”

“You absolutely were,” Lemon continued, delighted. “Didn’t fight back, kept his head down. Bloke once apologised for someone bumping into him.”

You blinked.

Then looked at Tangerine.

“…You?”

“People change,” he said flatly.

“Bullies loved him,” Lemon added. “Easy target.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Tangerine snapped.

But it was too late.

Because now you were thinking.

⸻

That night, you lay curled against him in bed, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside.

He was half-asleep, arm draped lazily around your waist.

“Tang,” you murmured.

“Mm?”

“You should go.”

He groaned softly. “We’re still on that?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at him.

“Just think about it,” you said gently. “You’re not that person anymore.”

He didn’t answer.

“You walk in there now,” you continued, tracing your fingers lightly along his arm, “and they won’t recognise you.”

A pause.

“They’ll see someone confident. Someone who doesn’t take anything from anyone.”

Another pause.

“And,” you added with a small smile, “you’ll probably look better than all of them.”

That got his attention.

His eyes cracked open slightly.

“Better?”

“Way better.”

He huffed quietly. “Flattery’s not gonna work.”

“Not flattery. Fact.”

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Go show them who you are now.”

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Then sighed.

“…Fine.”

You grinned instantly.

“But if it’s terrible,” he added, pointing a finger lazily at you, “we’re leaving.”

“Deal.”

⸻

The gym hadn’t changed.

Same polished wooden floors. Same banners hanging from the walls. Same slightly too-bright lights that made everything feel frozen in time.

But Tangerine had.

The moment you walked in together, conversations faltered.

People looked.

Then looked again.

Because the quiet, awkward boy they remembered?

Was gone.

In his place stood someone sharp, composed, confident — dressed well, standing tall, eyes scanning the room like he belonged anywhere he chose to be.

You squeezed his hand lightly.

“Told you,” you whispered.

Across the room, a group of men stood near the drinks table.

They noticed him.

Recognition flickered.

Then confusion.

Then something close to disbelief.

“No way,” one of them muttered. “That’s… that’s him, isn’t it?”

Tangerine glanced over, expression unreadable.

You leaned closer. “Friends of yours?”

He let out a quiet scoff. “Not quite.”

One of them approached hesitantly.

“…Tangerine?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Yeah.”

The man blinked, clearly trying to reconcile the memory with the reality.

“You look… different.”

“Yeah,” Tangerine said simply.

Another one stepped forward, glancing between him and you.

“And you’ve got a fiancée?” he asked, almost incredulous.

Tangerine’s hand tightened slightly around yours, pulling you just a bit closer to his side.

“Yeah,” he repeated, calmer this time.

The man let out a low whistle. “Didn’t expect that.”

Tangerine raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect a lot of things, I reckon.”

There was no anger in his voice.

Just quiet confidence.

The kind that didn’t need to prove anything.

The group shifted awkwardly, clearly unsure how to handle the situation.

Because the power dynamic had flipped.

Completely.

After a moment, they muttered polite goodbyes and drifted off.

You looked up at him, smiling softly.

“How does that feel?”

He exhaled slowly, tension leaving his shoulders.

“…Better than I thought.”

You nudged him lightly. “Told you you’d look better than them.”

He smirked slightly, glancing down at you.

“Only reason I came,” he teased.

You laughed, leaning into him.

And for the first time, standing in that old gym didn’t feel like stepping back into something painful.

It felt like closing a chapter.

⸻

Later, as you walked out together into the cool night air, Tangerine slipped his hand into yours again.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For making me go.”

You smiled, bumping your shoulder against his.

“Anytime.”

He glanced back once at the building behind you.

Then forward again.

“Two Left Boots”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Meet-Cute • Romantic Comedy • Light Angst → Fluff

Summary: After a brutal breakup, Lemon drags a miserable Tangerine to a country line-dancing bar. Instead of a terrible night, he meets you—the ranch owner who teaches the grumpy Londoner to dance… and maybe smile again.

The breakup had been messy.

The kind that left Tangerine staring at his phone at three in the morning wondering how everything had gone so wrong.

He wasn’t usually the sentimental type, but this one had stung.

Which was exactly why Lemon had decided drastic action was necessary.

“You’ve been sulking for three days,” Lemon announced, tossing him a jacket. “We’re going out.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Exactly why we’re going out.”

Twenty minutes later, Tangerine found himself standing outside a bar that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a cowboy movie.

Country music spilled out the doors. Boots stomped on wooden floors inside.

Tangerine stared at the sign.

“Line dancing,” he said slowly. “You’ve lost your mind.”

Lemon grinned. “Trust me.”

⸻

Inside, the place was loud, warm, and packed with people laughing and dancing in rows across the floor.

Tangerine leaned against the bar immediately, unimpressed.

“I’m not doing that,” he muttered, watching a group spin and clap in perfect rhythm.

Lemon clapped him on the back. “Give it ten minutes.”

Ten minutes later, Tangerine was still leaning there, drink in hand, when someone bumped into him.

“Sorry!”

You turned around, cheeks flushed from dancing, boots dusty from the floor.

Your smile was quick and bright.

“You look like you’re having a terrible time.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

“Little bit.”

You glanced toward the dance floor, then back at him.

“You don’t dance, do you?”

“Not like that,” he said.

Your grin widened.

“Well, that’s tragic.”

He snorted slightly. “I’ll survive.”

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Where are you from?”

“London.”

“That explains it,” you said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You lot look like someone asked you to wrestle a bear whenever music starts.”

Tangerine let out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

You stuck out your hand.

“Come on.”

He blinked. “Where?”

“To dance.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh yes,” you said, already pulling him toward the floor. “You look like you need it.”

Behind him, Lemon nearly fell off his barstool laughing.

⸻

The music started.

Tangerine stood awkwardly in the middle of the line of dancers like someone had dropped him in a completely different planet.

You stood in front of him, demonstrating the steps.

“Okay,” you said patiently. “Step right, step left, little kick, turn.”

He stared at your boots moving across the floor.

“Looks complicated.”

“It’s not.”

“You say that.”

You grabbed his hands lightly, guiding him through the first few movements.

“Step.”

He stepped.

“Other foot.”

He stepped again.

“Kick.”

He kicked slightly too hard and nearly lost his balance.

You burst out laughing.

“Alright, cowboy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But you’re learning!”

“I’m surviving.”

The next song started, and somehow he was still there.

Still stepping.

Still trying.

Every time he got something right, your eyes lit up like he’d accomplished something remarkable.

And for the first time in days, he felt the knot in his chest loosen.

⸻

By the third dance, he was actually… smiling.

“You’re improving,” you said proudly.

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m serious!”

He wiped a hand across his forehead, slightly breathless.

“You own this place or something?”

You laughed. “No. But I do own a little ranch about fifteen minutes outside town.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re serious?”

“Got horses, land, the whole thing.”

“That explains the boots.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder.

“And the dancing.”

Across the room, Lemon raised his drink toward Tangerine in a silent told you so.

Tangerine rolled his eyes.

Then he looked back at you.

“You teach this often?”

“Sometimes.”

“Think you could teach a bloke with two left feet?”

Your smile softened slightly.

“I think you’re doing just fine.”

For a moment, the noise of the bar faded.

It was just the music… and the way you looked at him like he wasn’t broken.

Like he was someone worth laughing with again.

The next song started.

You held out your hand.

“Ready for round four?”

He hesitated only a second before taking it.

“Yeah,” Tangerine said quietly.

“I think I am.”

And somewhere between the stomping boots, the spinning lights, and your warm laugh beside him…

The breakup stopped feeling like the end of something.

“Wrong Direction”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Fluff • Romantic • Comedy • Domestic Bliss

Summary: While getting ready for a rare night out, you ask Tangerine for help zipping up your dress. Only… he misunderstands the assignment completely. What follows is a rare sight — the usually smooth, unshakeable assassin getting adorably flustered.

Date nights with Tangerine were rare.

Not because he didn’t want them — he did, more than he’d ever admit out loud — but because life had a habit of being loud, chaotic, and occasionally explosive.

So tonight felt special.

Music played softly from your phone on the dresser. The warm glow of the bedside lamp filled the room while you slipped into your dress, smoothing the fabric over your hips.

“Tang?” you called, turning slightly. “Can you help me with the zipper?”

From the other side of the room came the quiet clink of his watch being set down.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he said, stepping behind you.

His presence was warm and familiar, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you as his fingers found the zipper at the top of your back.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then you felt it.

The zipper sliding… down.

You blinked, glancing over your shoulder. “Oi— what are you doing?”

He paused, hand still halfway down your back. “Helping?”

“With the zipper,” you said, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, I am.”

You turned a little more, eyebrow raised, the dress now loosening at your shoulders. “I meant up.”

The realization hit him instantly.

His hand froze like he’d touched a live wire, ears turning pink almost immediately.

“Oh— right. Yeah. Up.” He cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the wall. “That makes more sense, don’t it.”

You bit back a smile as he carefully pulled the zipper back up, this time with exaggerated focus, like it was a delicate mission that required full concentration.

“There,” he said, stepping back quickly, hands lifting as if to prove innocence. “Sorted.”

You turned to face him fully, grin finally breaking through.

“You alright there, tough guy?”

He scoffed, though the flush hadn’t quite left his cheeks. “Was a tactical error, that’s all.”

“Mm-hm.”

You reached up, straightening his collar, fingers brushing his jaw. “Didn’t know I could make you nervous.”

He huffed softly, but his hand found your waist, pulling you a little closer.

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, though his eyes were warm. “You just caught me off guard.”

You leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“Good,” you whispered. “I like seeing this side of you.”

His arms slipped around you fully now, confidence returning in that quiet, steady way of his.

“Careful,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Keep lookin’ at me like that and we won’t make the reservation.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his.

“Then we’d better go.”

And as he grabbed his keys and opened the door for you — still stealing glances like he couldn’t quite believe his luck — it was obvious.

“Keep Her Close”

Request by: @kpopgirlbtssvt

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Angst • Hurt/Comfort • Action • Family

Summary: When your daughter receives messages that appear to be from her father, she trusts them — and ends up on the bullet train as bait. Panic turns to fierce determination as you and Tangerine race to find her, and once they do, nothing — and no one — is getting near their girl again.

The call came when Tangerine was halfway through a coffee he didn’t even want.

Your name lit up his phone, and he answered instantly — instinct, always instinct.

“Hey, love—”

“She didn’t come home.”

Your voice was tight. Wrong. The kind of wrong that made his stomach drop before his brain could even catch up.

“What d’you mean she didn’t come home?” he said, already standing.

“The school called. She told her teacher she got a message from you. Said you asked her to meet you at the train.”

Silence slammed into him.

He hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t—

“Tangerine?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “It wasn’t me.”

The realization hit both of you at once, heavy and cold.

“The train,” he said, already moving. “I’ll get her. I promise.”

⸻

By the time he and Lemon boarded, the air already felt charged — like the train knew it was carrying something dangerous.

“Who’d do that?” Lemon muttered, scanning the carriages.

Tangerine didn’t answer.

Because he already knew.

White Death.

Petty. Cruel. Calculated.

Using a child.

His child.

⸻

They found her three cars down.

Small legs swinging nervously from the seat, backpack still on, eyes scanning every person that walked past — trying to be brave the way kids do when they’re scared but don’t want to admit it.

Tangerine’s heart cracked clean in half.

He slowed, not wanting to startle her. “Oi, sweetheart.”

Her head snapped up.

“Dad!”

She launched out of the seat, running straight into him. He dropped to his knees to catch her, arms wrapping around her so tight it almost hurt.

“You came,” she said into his shoulder, voice wobbling just a little.

“Course I did,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Always will.”

Lemon stood beside them, softer than usual, ruffling her hair. “You alright, squirt?”

She nodded. “I thought it was weird… you don’t usually text with emojis.”

Tangerine huffed a breath that was half laugh, half relief. “Yeah, well. Dead giveaway, innit.”

⸻

From that moment, the mission changed.

No chasing briefcases.

No clever plans.

Just protection.

They kept her between them at all times — Tangerine’s hand never leaving her shoulder, Lemon distracting her with stories and snacks he “definitely didn’t steal.”

Every loud noise made Tangerine tense. Every stranger got a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Dad,” she whispered at one point, tugging his sleeve. “Are we in trouble?”

He crouched in front of her, hands gentle on her arms. “No. You’re safe. That’s all you need to worry about, yeah?”

She studied his face like she always did when deciding whether to believe him.

Then she nodded.

“Okay.”

⸻

As the chaos of the train unfolded around them, Tangerine shielded her from the worst of it — turning her away, covering her ears, keeping his voice calm even when his pulse thundered.

At one point she fell asleep, curled against his side, exhaustion finally winning.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe too deep.

Just watched her.

Lemon glanced over, voice quiet. “You’re gonna give yourself a cramp, mate.”

“Don’t care.”

⸻

When the train finally slowed — the nightmare ending in screeching metal and silence — the first thing Tangerine did was carry her off.

Into the open air. Into safety.

Into home.

⸻

You were waiting.

The moment you saw them, you ran — wrapping your arms around your daughter first, then Tangerine, holding both of them like you were afraid they might disappear.

“She’s okay,” he murmured into your hair. “Got her.”

Your daughter looked between you, confused by the tears. “I told you he’d come.”

You laughed shakily, kissing her cheeks. “I know, baby. I know.”

⸻

That night, she slept between you.

Small hand curled in Tangerine’s shirt, like she needed proof he was real.

He stayed awake longer than he meant to, watching both of you breathe in the dim light.

You reached over, lacing your fingers with his.

“She trusts you,” you whispered.

He swallowed, voice rough. “I’ll spend the rest of my life earning that.”

You squeezed his hand.

“You already have.”

⸻

Because no matter how dangerous the world got…

“Hunting Shadows”

Request by: @kpopgirlbtssvt

Sergei ‘Kraven’ Kravinoff x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Action • Romance • Slow Burn • Adventure

Summary: Finding your boss dead and Kraven at the scene sparks panic—but he enlists your help, and working together in danger slowly builds trust…and more.

You knew something was wrong the moment the office felt too quiet.

Mr. Taglin’s door was half open, the lights inside still on even though he never stayed late without telling you. The hallway smelled faintly metallic, sharp and unfamiliar.

Your hand hovered on the door.

“Mr. Taglin?” you called softly.

No answer.

You pushed it open.

And froze.

Your boss lay slumped behind his desk, the stillness unmistakable. Papers scattered. A glass shattered on the floor.

And standing beside the desk—

Him.

Tall. Broad. Unmoving. Watching you with a predator’s stillness.

Your breath hitched, panic flooding your chest so fast it made your hands shake.

“You— you killed him,” you whispered, voice breaking.

Kraven didn’t move toward you. He simply studied you, eyes sharp but not cruel.

“He was not innocent,” he said evenly.

You stumbled back a step, heart racing. “I don’t care— I don’t care what he did, there are people here, there are—”

You stopped yourself, fear and anger colliding in your chest.

Because you did know what he did.

You’d seen the paperwork. The shipments. The reports about animal testing and the hired enforcers who kept everything quiet.

Your hands curled into fists.

“The others,” you blurted, voice trembling. “They’re not here. They’re at the secondary facility by the river. There’s guards, and cages, and—” Your voice cracked. “They’re hurting people too.”

Kraven’s expression shifted, something like approval flickering behind his eyes.

“You would tell me this,” he said, “even knowing who I am?”

You swallowed hard. “Someone should stop them.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then he nodded once.

“You are free to go,” he said. “You have done enough.”

Relief hit you so hard your knees nearly gave out.

But as you turned toward the door, you hesitated.

Because walking away meant pretending you didn’t know what was happening.

You looked back at him.

“If… if you’re going after them,” you said quietly, “you’ll need access codes. Schedules. I know how they operate.”

Kraven’s gaze sharpened.

“Then help me,” he said. “Not as prey. As ally.”

⸻

What started as a single night turned into weeks.

You became his eyes on the inside world — decoding files, mapping routes, pointing out which names on the lists mattered most.

He called you his assistant, but it felt more like partnership.

You worked from his home, a place far quieter than any space he’d ever belonged in. Large windows, the smell of pine and earth, the constant sense that the outside world couldn’t reach you there.

At first, you were nervous around him.

He moved too quietly. Watched too closely.

But you also noticed the way he always made sure you ate, the way he slowed his pace when you walked beside him, the way his voice softened when he asked if you were tired.

One night, after hours of sorting through documents, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing your eyes.

Kraven set a mug of tea beside you without a word.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He leaned against the table, arms folded loosely.

“You are not afraid anymore,” he observed.

You thought about it.

“No,” you admitted softly. “Not of you.”

His gaze lingered on you longer than usual, something warm beneath the intensity.

“You are safe here,” he said.

And you realized you believed him completely.

⸻

The feelings came quietly.

A brush of hands when he passed you a file.

The way your heart sped up when he stood too close behind you, looking over your shoulder.

The softness in his voice when he said your name.

One evening, after a long day, you found him on the balcony, looking out at the forest.

You stepped beside him, the night air cool against your skin.

“It’s quieter here,” you said.

“Yes,” he replied. “No masks. No lies.”

You glanced up at him. “I never thanked you. For letting me stay.”

Kraven turned, his expression gentler than you’d ever seen it.

“You chose to stand beside me,” he said. “That is not something I take lightly.”

Your breath caught.

The space between you felt smaller, charged, like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

His hand lifted, hesitating for the briefest moment before brushing a strand of hair from your face.

The touch was careful. Reverent.

“Predators are not meant to keep soft things close,” he murmured. “And yet… I do not wish you anywhere else.”

Your heart fluttered.

“Maybe,” you said softly, “I’m not as soft as you think.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

“No,” he agreed. “You are stronger.”

And when he leaned down to kiss you — slow, certain, gentle despite all the strength in him — it didn’t feel like danger.

“Honey & Shadow”

Severus Snape x Hufflepuff!Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Soft Romance • Secret Relationship • Light Comedy • Fluff • Polar Opposites

Summary: At Hogwarts, the gentle Hufflepuff professor and the sharp-tongued Potions Master keep their marriage secret—until Harry, Ron, and Hermione start piecing it together.

Hogwarts had always been a place of whispers.

Portraits whispered.

Students whispered.

Even the castle itself seemed to hum with secrets in its ancient stones.

But none were quite as carefully kept as yours.

By day, you were the embodiment of Hufflepuff warmth — patient, kind, endlessly encouraging. Your classroom smelled of honeyed tea and parchment, and your students lingered long after lessons just to talk.

By contrast, your husband ruled the dungeons like a storm cloud.

Professor Snape’s footsteps echoed like a warning. His voice could silence a classroom faster than any spell. Where you offered smiles, he offered cutting remarks. Where you comforted, he intimidated.

And yet, when the staff room emptied and the corridors grew quiet, the distance between warmth and shadow vanished.

⸻

It started with small things.

A teacup appearing at Snape’s usual place at breakfast — prepared exactly how he liked it.

A stack of essays from your class quietly sorted by difficulty, his handwriting correcting the margins in precise green ink.

The briefest brush of your hands when you passed in the corridor — so subtle no student noticed, but enough to ground you both.

The staff knew, of course.

Minerva’s knowing glances.

Filius’s delighted smiles.

Pomona’s habit of leaving you two alone when you entered the greenhouse together.

But the students?

They saw only what they expected to see.

Until three of them started paying closer attention.

⸻

It was Hermione who noticed first.

“Have you ever realised,” she whispered over lunch, eyes flicking toward the staff table, “that Professor Snape always sits next to her if there’s space?”

Ron shrugged, mouth full. “Maybe he just likes the quiet.”

Harry watched as you leaned slightly toward Snape, saying something too soft for anyone else to hear.

For just a second — barely a heartbeat — the corner of Snape’s mouth lifted.

Harry blinked.

“I’ve never seen him smile like that,” he said.

Hermione’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Exactly.”

⸻

Over the next few weeks, the evidence piled up.

You refilled Snape’s goblet without asking.

He adjusted the chair for you before you sat.

You shared a look during a staff meeting that spoke volumes without a single word.

Ron finally leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Alright. Something’s going on.”

Hermione grinned. “We investigate.”

Harry sighed, but he was smiling too. “We’re not spying.”

“We’re observing,” she corrected.

⸻

Their opportunity came on a quiet morning.

You arrived early to your classroom, sunlight spilling through tall windows, humming softly as you arranged parchment on desks.

A moment later, the door opened again.

Snape stepped inside.

The shift between your public and private selves was immediate — not dramatic, not obvious, just softer. You looked up with a smile meant only for him.

“You forgot your notes,” you said, holding them out.

His fingers brushed yours as he took them.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, voice stripped of its usual edge.

Before either of you noticed, the door creaked open wider.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood frozen in the doorway.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Snape’s expression returned instantly to its familiar sternness, but there was no real irritation behind it — only resignation.

“Is there a reason,” he said slowly, “you are loitering?”

Hermione stepped forward, eyes bright with triumph and nerves. “We know.”

Ron nodded. “Well, we don’t know know, but we’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Harry glanced between you both. “You’re together.”

Silence settled over the room.

You exchanged a look with Snape — a whole conversation in a single glance.

Then you smiled gently.

“Yes,” you said. “We are.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “Blimey.”

Hermione looked delighted. “I knew it.”

Harry just smiled, oddly relieved. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

⸻

Snape folded his arms, regarding them with a long, measured look.

“This information,” he said, voice low, “is not for public consumption.”

Hermione nodded quickly. “Of course, Professor.”

Ron raised his hands. “Mum’s the word.”

Harry added softly, “We won’t tell anyone.”

Snape studied them for another moment, then gave a small, decisive nod.

“Very well.”

You stepped closer, warmth returning to your voice. “Thank you for being kind about it.”

Ron grinned. “Honestly, it’s sort of nice.”

Hermione elbowed him. “It’s very nice.”

Harry looked at Snape. “You seem… happier.”

Snape paused, as if the word caught him off guard.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he glanced at you.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly.

⸻

After the students left, the classroom felt softer somehow, like a secret shared but still safe.

You reached for his hand, fingers slipping into his.

“Not the worst outcome,” you murmured.

“No,” he admitted.

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles — a small, private gesture, invisible to anyone who didn’t know to look.

“Though I suspect,” he added dryly, “Miss Granger will now observe us with even greater enthusiasm.”

You laughed softly.

“Let her,” you said. “It’s nice not to hide quite so much.”

Snape looked at you, the severity in his expression melting into something warm and deeply fond.

“In that case,” he said, voice low, “perhaps we might risk sitting together at dinner.”

Your smile widened.

“I’d like that.”

⸻

That evening, at the long staff table, three students shared a quiet, knowing grin as Snape pulled out your chair before taking his seat beside you.

Around you, the Great Hall buzzed as always — unaware of the small, beautiful secret unfolding in plain sight.

“Headphones Exist For A Reason”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Romantic Comedy • Domestic Fluff • Valentine’s Special • Light Smut

Summary: Tangerine plans the perfect Valentine’s night—until Lemon keeps interrupting. After the fifth time, Tangerine finally snaps and reminds him why he bought noise-cancelling headphones.

Valentine’s Day with Tangerine was not what most people would expect.

There were no over-the-top speeches or grand public gestures.

But there was a perfectly cooked dinner, your favourite wine, and a bouquet that he pretended he “just grabbed on the way home” even though you could tell he’d clearly spent far too long picking it.

The evening was soft. Easy. Comfortable.

You ate on the couch, legs tucked under you, while a movie played mostly ignored in the background. Tangerine’s arm rested along the back of the sofa, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your shoulder whenever you leaned into him.

It felt normal.

Quietly happy.

By the time the credits rolled, the apartment lights were dimmed low, and the city outside had settled into its late-night hush.

Tangerine tilted his head toward the hallway, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips.

“Fancy heading to bed?” he murmured.

You laughed softly. “Was wondering when you’d ask.”

⸻

The bedroom was warm, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. You kicked off your shoes, the day’s comfort settling in, the kind that comes from being with someone who feels like home.

Tangerine closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

For a moment, you just stood there, facing each other — smiling, close enough that you could feel his warmth.

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you gently closer.

“Been waiting all evening,” he said softly, voice low and fond.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning up to kiss him—

Knock knock.

Both of you froze.

Tangerine sighed through his nose, already irritated. “Ignore it.”

The knock came again, followed by the door opening a crack.

Lemon poked his head in.

“Oi, have either of you seen the TV remote? I swear it grew legs.”

You blinked.

Tangerine stared at him flatly. “No.”

Lemon nodded thoughtfully. “Right, cheers,” he said, closing the door.

Silence.

You burst into quiet laughter.

Tangerine groaned. “He’s got impeccable timing, that one.”

⸻

Five minutes later, you were back where you left off, curled together, the mood slowly returning.

Then—

Knock knock.

Tangerine didn’t even look at the door. “What.”

It opened anyway.

Lemon stepped in holding a glass. “Quick question. Do you think milk’s still alright if it smells slightly like cheese?”

Tangerine’s eye twitched. “Out.”

“Right, yeah, fair,” Lemon said, retreating again.

You buried your face in Tangerine’s shoulder, laughing.

“This is a conspiracy,” he muttered.

⸻

Attempt number three lasted exactly two minutes.

“Sorry,” Lemon said from the doorway, holding up a phone. “Just needed the Wi-Fi password again.”

“TATTOOED ON THE ROUTER,” Tangerine snapped.

Lemon nodded. “Right. Knew that.”

Door closed.

You were laughing so hard your eyes watered.

Tangerine dragged a hand down his face. “I’m going to strangle him.”

⸻

Attempt four.

The door opened slower this time, like Lemon knew he was pushing his luck.

“Do you reckon,” he began cautiously, “if I order takeaway now it’ll be here before midnight?”

Tangerine pointed at the hallway without a word.

Lemon saluted and disappeared.

⸻

By the fifth interruption — this time Lemon claiming he heard a “weird noise in the kitchen that might be haunted” — Tangerine finally snapped.

“Right. That’s it.”

He kissed your forehead apologetically and stood, marching out into the hallway.

You could hear them immediately.

“Tangerine, mate, I was just—”

“Just what? You’ve got impeccable timing for a bloke who’s not supposed to be in this part of the flat.”

A pause.

Then Lemon, quieter, slightly sheepish—

“I don’t wanna hear you two, alright? Walls are thin. Bit traumatising, innit.”

You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh from the bed.

Tangerine let out a disbelieving huff.

“Do you remember what I gave you this morning?”

“…The headphones?”

“Yes. Noise-cancelling. Very expensive. For a reason.”

“Oh.”

“Put them on. Turn your music up. Watch your trains. Do whatever you need to do. But stay out of my room.”

Another pause.

“Fair enough,” Lemon admitted. “Happy Valentine’s, by the way.”

“Out,” Tangerine said, but there was a smile in his voice now.

⸻

When he came back into the bedroom, he looked both exasperated and amused.

“Problem solved,” he said, climbing back onto the bed.

You grinned. “Did you actually yell at him?”

“Educational discussion,” he corrected, sliding his arms around you again.

You rested your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady and familiar.

“Best Valentine’s ever,” you teased.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Next year,” he said, “we’re booking a hotel.”

You laughed softly, tangling your fingers with his.

Outside, the apartment finally went quiet — except for the faint sound of music leaking from Lemon’s headphones down the hall.

“Heartbeat Next Door”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Angst • Hurt/Comfort • Emotional Reunion • Miscarriage

Summary: After surviving the Kyoto train disaster, Tangerine wakes in the ICU—only to learn you’ve been fighting your own battle down the hall, and nothing can stop him from reaching you.

The ICU was too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

The kind that made every beep feel louder. Every breath heavier.

You hated it.

Hated the antiseptic smell. The low hum of machines. The way time seemed to stretch into something shapeless and cruel.

You sat curled in a chair beside Tangerine’s bed, one hand wrapped gently around his, careful of the IV taped to his skin.

He looked so unlike himself.

No sharp suit. No sarcastic remarks. No steady, watchful eyes.

Just pale skin, bruising creeping along his neck where the bandages wrapped tight, and the slow rise and fall of his chest.

You were six months pregnant.

And you’d never been so scared in your life.

⸻

The doctors said he was lucky.

The bullet had missed major arteries by millimeters.

But luck didn’t feel real when you’d watched them rush him past you on a gurney, blood on his collar, his face slack and unmoving.

The stress had been constant.

Waiting. Not sleeping. Not eating. Living in a hospital chair.

Your body kept going long after your strength ran out.

Until it didn’t.

⸻

The cramps started small.

You told yourself it was stress.

Then they got worse.

Then there was blood.

Too much blood.

The next thing you remembered was nurses, bright lights, someone calling your name, and the awful, sinking feeling in your chest before anyone even said the words.

You knew.

You just… knew.

⸻

When Tangerine woke, it was to the sound of a chair scraping.

He blinked slowly, throat burning, vision swimming.

Everything felt heavy. Thick. Like he was underwater.

A familiar voice spoke quietly.

“Welcome back, mate.”

He turned his head slightly, wincing.

Lemon sat beside the bed, arms folded, eyes tired but relieved.

“Been out for a bit,” Lemon said softly. “Gave us a proper scare.”

Tangerine tried to speak. His voice came out rough and broken.

“…Where is she?”

Lemon’s expression shifted.

Not dramatic.

Just… careful.

And Tangerine felt it immediately. That instinctive dread curling low in his stomach.

“She’s here,” Lemon said quickly. “She’s safe.”

But he didn’t stop there.

Which meant something was wrong.

Tangerine’s fingers tightened weakly in the sheets. “What happened.”

Lemon rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words that didn’t exist.

“She was under a lot of stress,” he said quietly. “Being here. Waiting. Worrying about you.”

A pause.

Then softer—

“She lost the baby.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

For a second, Tangerine didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

“…No,” he rasped.

“I’m sorry,” Lemon said gently. “She’s in another room. She’s alright physically. Just… resting.”

That was all Tangerine needed to hear.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Pain exploded through his neck and chest instantly, making his vision spark.

“Oi—!” Lemon shot up. “You’re not cleared to move!”

Tangerine ignored him.

His hands shook as he pushed himself upright, IV tugging, heart monitor protesting with faster beeps.

“Where,” he demanded, voice hoarse but fierce.

Lemon hesitated only a second before sighing.

“Down the hall. Room 312.”

Tangerine was already pulling the wires loose.

⸻

The hallway felt endless.

Each step sent sharp reminders through his body that he shouldn’t be walking.

Didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except getting to you.

A nurse called after him. Someone tried to stop him.

He kept going.

One hand braced against the wall, hospital gown shifting with each uneven step, determination burning through the fog of pain.

Room 312.

The door was slightly open.

He pushed it gently.

⸻

You were sitting up in the bed, a blanket pulled around your waist, staring out the window like you were trying to disappear into the sky.

You looked smaller somehow.

Quieter.

He’d never seen you so still.

The door creaked softly.

You turned.

And for a second, neither of you spoke.

Your eyes widened, immediately filling with tears.

“Tangerine?” your voice cracked. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

He didn’t answer.

He just walked — slow, uneven — until he reached you.

Then he cupped your face in both hands like he needed to prove you were real.

You broke first.

A sob slipped out as you grabbed his wrists.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I tried to stay calm, I tried not to stress, I didn’t—”

“No,” he said instantly, voice rough but firm. “None of that. None of it.”

Your tears fell faster.

“I couldn’t protect them,” you choked. “I couldn’t—”

“You don’t need protecting from this,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently to yours despite the pull in his stitches. “And you didn’t fail anyone. Do you hear me?”

You shook your head, overwhelmed, guilt and grief tangling tight in your chest.

His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping tears that wouldn’t stop.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve been awake. I should’ve—”

“You almost died,” you said, voice trembling. “I thought I was going to lose you too.”

The words hung heavy between you.

For a moment, the room felt suspended in shared heartbreak.

Then he leaned carefully onto the bed, ignoring the pain, pulling you into his arms.

You clung to him immediately, burying your face into his shoulder.

He held you like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

“I’m here,” he murmured against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You cried quietly, shoulders shaking, and he just held you — one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles over your back.

No jokes.

No bravado.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the quiet understanding of something lost and something still surviving.

After a while, your breathing steadied.

You pulled back slightly, eyes red but softer.

“You’re really okay?” you asked.

He gave a small nod. “Yeah. Bit sore. Bit annoyed. But I’m here.”

Your hand drifted carefully to the bandage at his neck.

“You scared me,” you whispered.

“You scared me too,” he admitted.

You gave a shaky smile.

“I’m glad you came.”

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Always.”

And this time, there was no rush.

No mission.

No chaos.

“One Phone Call”

Tangerine x Black!Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Protective Boyfriend • Hurt/Comfort • Power Reveal • Light Angst with Soft Ending • Racism

Summary: While shopping, you’re wrongly accused of shoplifting by cops who’ve already judged you—until they make one big mistake: letting you make your phone call.

It was supposed to be simple.

In and out.

You were just picking up a few things — skincare, a new jacket, maybe something nice to wear when Tangerine inevitably dragged you somewhere “posh and annoyingly expensive.”

You were at the register when it happened.

“Ma’am, step aside.”

You blinked, confused. “Sorry?”

The security guard was already moving around the counter. Two police officers stood near the entrance.

“We’ve had a report you concealed merchandise.”

Your stomach dropped. “What? I paid for everything.”