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! ✨

Title: “Winner Takes All”

Fandom: Fuze (2026)

Pairing: Major Will Tranter x Female Reader

Genre: Enemies to Lovers • Fluff • Comedy • Slow Burn • Military Romance

Summary: You and Major Will Tranter turn everything into a competition. But when a game of Monopoly ends with a kiss thanks to a ridiculous bet, you both start questioning your feelings.

Life on base was rarely quiet.

There was always someone training, someone cleaning equipment, someone shouting across the yard.

When the day’s exercises ended, however, the atmosphere changed.

The soldiers relaxed.

The common room filled with laughter.

Card games.

Movies.

Music.

And, unfortunately for everyone involved…

You and Major Will Tranter.

⸻

“You cheated.”

Will looked up from the pool table with an unimpressed expression.

“I won.”

“You cheated and won.”

“I beat you fair and square.”

You folded your arms.

“You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

⸻

One of the younger soldiers leaned over to another.

“They’re arguing again.”

“They’ve been arguing since breakfast.”

“They argued over toast.”

“It wasn’t toast,” another corrected. “It was whether jam belongs in the fridge.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

Within seconds the entire room was debating jam.

Will looked over at you.

“This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You started it.”

“You deliberately left the jam on the bench!”

“It tastes better!”

“It goes mouldy!”

⸻

The room erupted into laughter.

⸻

It was always like this.

Obstacle courses.

Shooting drills.

Fitness tests.

Board games.

If there was a winner…

The two of you wanted to be it.

⸻

“You know,” one of the corporals sighed one evening, “you two are exhausting.”

Will pointed at you.

“She started it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You challenged me.”

“Because you said you could finish the assault course faster.”

“I did.”

“By four seconds!”

“A win’s a win.”

⸻

Eventually someone slammed a Monopoly box onto the coffee table.

“Right.”

Everyone looked over.

“We’re settling this.”

⸻

Half the base squeezed into the recreation room.

Some sat on couches.

Others sat on the floor.

Popcorn appeared from somewhere.

Apparently this had become entertainment.

⸻

The rules were simple.

Normal Monopoly.

No quitting.

No flipping the board.

And…

One ridiculous punishment.

⸻

“If you come last,” one of the lieutenants grinned, “the winner gets one kiss.”

The room immediately burst into laughter.

You rolled your eyes.

“That’s stupid.”

“It’ll motivate you.”

Will smirked.

“I’m not losin’.”

“You always lose Monopoly.”

“I absolutely don’t.”

“You landed on Income Tax four turns in a row last month.”

“There was bad luck involved.”

“There was poor financial planning involved.”

⸻

Two hours later…

The room looked like a battlefield.

Hotels covered nearly every street.

Money was scattered everywhere.

Half the spectators had become emotionally invested.

⸻

“Pay up,” you smiled sweetly.

Will looked at the board.

Then at his remaining cash.

Then at your properties.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope.”

He sighed dramatically before sliding his final notes across the board.

“I’m bankrupt.”

⸻

Silence.

⸻

Then cheering erupted around the room.

“You actually beat him!”

“No way!”

“Major lost!”

⸻

Will leaned back in his chair, rubbing both hands down his face.

“I hate this game.”

“You hate losing.”

“I never lose.”

“You literally just did.”

⸻

One of the soldiers coughed loudly.

“Ahem…”

Everyone turned.

“The bet.”

⸻

Will groaned.

“Oh, for the love of—”

“You agreed,” someone reminded him.

“You all manipulated me.”

“Nope.”

⸻

You couldn’t stop laughing.

“This is ridiculous.”

Will folded his arms.

“Get it over with.”

⸻

You walked around the table.

Everyone suddenly became suspiciously quiet.

Phones discreetly appeared.

Someone whispered, “Don’t record it.”

Another whispered back, “Too late.”

⸻

Will looked at you expectantly.

His usual confidence had disappeared.

For once…

He actually looked nervous.

⸻

You smiled.

“Scared?”

“Hardly.”

“You look scared.”

“I look annoyed.”

“Same thing.”

⸻

You gently reached up, placing one hand against his cheek.

His sarcastic reply died immediately.

The room disappeared.

The teasing stopped.

Even the soldiers seemed to hold their breath.

⸻

You leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Or overly long.

Just soft.

Gentle.

Almost… sweet.

⸻

When you pulled away, you smiled.

“There.”

“You survived.”

⸻

Will blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His brain seemed to completely stop working.

⸻

“…Right.”

That was all he managed.

⸻

The room exploded.

“I knew it!”

“Look at his face!”

“Major’s gone red!”

“I have never seen him speechless!”

⸻

Will shot everyone a glare.

“Shut up.”

Unfortunately…

The tips of his ears had turned bright red.

⸻

You couldn’t help smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously.”

“What?”

“You…”

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“…kiss better than I expected.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“That’s your compliment?”

“I wasn’t prepared.”

“You’ve faced live explosives.”

“I know.”

“And that caught you off guard?”

“…Yes.”

⸻

The room immediately burst into another fit of laughter.

⸻

Over the next few days…

Something had changed.

⸻

The arguments were still there.

“You loaded the dishwasher wrong.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You put bowls on the bottom.”

“Because they fit.”

“They don’t belong there.”

“They’re clean, aren’t they?”

⸻

The competitions continued.

He still raced you across the training grounds.

You still beat him at cards.

He still claimed you’d distracted him.

⸻

But now…

Every now and then…

You’d catch him looking at you.

Not with annoyance.

Not with rivalry.

Something softer.

⸻

One evening you found him alone outside the barracks, watching the sunset.

“You alright?”

He glanced over.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He chuckled.

“About the kiss.”

“Oh?”

“I expected it to prove we don’t like each other.”

“And?”

He looked at you for a long moment before smiling—a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

“It did the exact opposite.”

You felt your cheeks warm.

“So… what now?”

Will stepped closer until there was barely any space between you.

“I was thinking…”

He gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“…how about another game of Monopoly?”

You laughed.

“So you can lose again?”

“So I have an excuse to kiss you this time.”

Before you could come up with another witty comeback, he leaned in and kissed you—slowly, warmly, and with a confidence that made your heart skip.

When he finally pulled away, he smiled.

“You know…”

“What?”

“I still hate Monopoly.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his.

“You’re just a sore loser.”

“Probably.”

“But…”

He stole one last quick kiss.

“Waiting Beyond the Tracks”

Pairing: Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings: Angst • Hurt/Comfort • Romance • Afterlife • Family

Summary: After losing his wife and newborn, Tangerine becomes a shadow of himself, seeing the Bullet Train mission as just another job. But after being shot and left in the wreckage, he awakens somewhere peaceful—where the two people he missed most have been waiting for him.

People said grief became easier with time.

They lied.

For Tangerine, grief simply became quieter.

Instead of screaming in his ears every morning, it whispered.

Instead of breaking him apart all at once, it chipped away at him every single day.

He still reached for your side of the bed some mornings.

Still found himself buying your favorite tea before remembering there was nobody at home to drink it.

Still caught himself imagining what your baby would have looked like.

A little girl with your smile?

Or a little boy with his eyes?

He’d never know.

Because he’d lost you both on the very same day.

⸻

He hadn’t cried at the funeral.

Not because he wasn’t devastated.

He simply couldn’t.

He’d stood there in his black suit beside two coffins.

One full-sized.

One heartbreakingly tiny.

Lemon had stood beside him the entire service.

Not saying a word.

Just there.

Sometimes silence was all a brother could offer.

⸻

After that…

Tangerine buried himself in work.

Mission after mission.

Fight after fight.

If he was busy enough…

Maybe he’d stop thinking.

He never did.

⸻

The Bullet Train assignment felt no different.

Just another job.

Another payday.

Another distraction.

⸻

Lemon noticed.

Of course he did.

“You haven’t smiled in months.”

“I’m smilin’ now.”

“No, that’s indigestion.”

Tangerine rolled his eyes.

“Thomas would’ve called that emotional avoidance.”

“Thomas can piss off.”

⸻

Even Ladybug noticed something wasn’t right.

The usually sharp-tongued British assassin barely argued.

He looked tired.

Not physically.

Soul-deep tired.

Like someone who’d been carrying something impossibly heavy for far too long.

⸻

Then came Kyoto.

Everything happened so quickly.

The Elder.

The White Death.

Prince.

Ladybug.

Chaos.

Gunfire.

⸻

And then—

The bullet.

Straight through Tangerine’s neck.

⸻

He collapsed instantly.

Blood soaked through his shirt.

His breathing became ragged.

His vision blurred.

⸻

Lemon was beside him in seconds.

“No, no, no, no…”

He pressed both hands against the wound.

“Stay with me.”

Tangerine couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t even swallow.

⸻

“You don’t get to leave me too!”

Lemon’s voice cracked.

“You hear me?”

⸻

But Tangerine’s eyes were already closing.

⸻

The last thing he saw…

Was his brother.

⸻

…

⸻

Lemon didn’t survive much longer.

In this story…

The White Death found him before help ever arrived.

A single gunshot.

Then silence.

⸻

…

⸻

Tangerine expected darkness.

Nothingness.

Maybe pain.

⸻

Instead…

He woke beneath warm sunshine.

⸻

He blinked.

The air smelled different.

Fresh.

Like spring.

⸻

He slowly sat up.

Gone were the train.

The blood.

The wreckage.

⸻

Instead—

Rolling green hills stretched endlessly before him.

Wildflowers danced gently in the breeze.

Birds sang somewhere overhead.

A narrow stone path wound through a field toward a small white cottage with climbing roses growing across its walls.

It felt…

Peaceful.

⸻

“…The hell?”

His voice echoed softly.

⸻

“Tangerine?”

He turned.

Lemon stood several metres away.

Completely unharmed.

Still wearing the same ridiculous suit.

⸻

“…You dead too?”

Lemon shrugged.

“Looks like it.”

⸻

Tangerine stared for a moment.

Then walked over.

Without saying anything…

He hugged his brother.

Tightly.

⸻

Lemon hugged him back.

“I missed you too.”

“Don’t tell anyone I hugged ya.”

“Already planning on it.”

⸻

They laughed.

For the first time in years.

⸻

Then…

A tiny laugh floated across the meadow.

Not Lemon’s.

Not his.

⸻

A child’s laugh.

⸻

Tangerine froze.

His heart stopped.

⸻

“…Did you hear that?”

Lemon smiled softly.

“I think someone did.”

He nodded toward the cottage.

⸻

Standing outside…

Was you.

⸻

Exactly as he remembered.

⸻

You hadn’t changed.

Not at all.

The same dress.

The same gentle smile.

The same eyes he’d dreamed about every single night.

Time hadn’t touched you.

⸻

And in your arms…

A baby.

Wrapped in a cream blanket.

Small.

Peaceful.

Perfect.

⸻

Tangerine couldn’t move.

He simply stared.

⸻

“No…”

His voice barely existed.

⸻

You smiled wider.

“There you are.”

⸻

He broke.

⸻

He ran.

Faster than he’d ever run in his life.

Across the meadow.

Through the flowers.

Ignoring every ache in his body.

⸻

When he reached you…

He simply collapsed to his knees.

⸻

His hands trembled as they reached toward your face.

“…You’re real.”

You nodded.

“I am.”

⸻

“I watched you die.”

Tears streamed freely down his face now.

“I held your hand…”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t save you.”

“You didn’t fail us.”

⸻

He rested his forehead against yours.

Sobbing.

Years of grief pouring out all at once.

“I’m so sorry.”

⸻

You gently cupped his face.

“There was never anything to apologize for.”

⸻

A tiny coo interrupted the moment.

⸻

You smiled.

“I think someone wants to meet her daddy.”

⸻

Carefully…

You placed the baby into his arms.

⸻

Tangerine looked down.

She was so impossibly small.

Tiny fingers wrapped around one of his.

⸻

His breath caught.

“…Hello, sweetheart.”

The baby blinked up at him with your eyes.

Then smiled.

⸻

He laughed through tears.

“Oh…”

“You’ve got your mum’s smile.”

⸻

The little girl giggled.

⸻

“I missed everything.”

His voice cracked again.

“Her first smile…”

“First laugh…”

“Everything…”

⸻

You knelt beside him.

“No.”

He looked at you.

“You didn’t.”

⸻

He frowned.

“What?”

⸻

“This place doesn’t have yesterday or tomorrow.”

You gently rested your hand over his.

“We’ve been waiting.”

⸻

“Waiting?”

⸻

“For you.”

⸻

The words shattered what remained of his walls.

⸻

He buried his face into your shoulder, still holding your daughter safely between you.

“I thought I’d never see either of you again.”

⸻

“You never stopped loving us.”

You kissed his temple.

“And we never stopped loving you.”

⸻

Lemon cleared his throat loudly from several feet away.

“So…”

Both of you looked over.

⸻

He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

“Family reunion’s lovely…”

He smiled.

“But…”

He pointed toward the cottage.

“I’ve got tea on.”

⸻

You laughed.

The exact laugh Tangerine had spent years trying to remember.

⸻

He looked between you…

Your daughter…

His brother…

The cottage…

The endless field.

⸻

No more contracts.

No more guns.

No more grief.

⸻

Only home.

⸻

He stood, holding his little girl securely against his chest with one arm while reaching for your hand with the other.

His fingers intertwined with yours as naturally as breathing.

⸻

“Ready to go home?” you asked softly.

Tangerine looked at the cottage, then back at the two people he’d spent years mourning.

A peaceful smile spread across his face.

The first truly content smile he’d worn in years.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

❤️ Tangerine Date Headcanons

Tangerine isn’t really a “rose petals and violin music” kind of boyfriend.

His idea of a good date is spending time with you somewhere that feels real, comfortable, and fun. He’ll complain the entire time that dates are “a bit cheesy,” while secretly putting a surprising amount of effort into planning them.

⸻

🍝 Dinner at a Nice Restaurant

His most common date choice.

Not somewhere ridiculously fancy where you’re afraid to touch anything, but somewhere with good food and a nice atmosphere.

* Pulls your chair out without thinking.

* Orders a drink for himself and asks what you want.

* Ends up talking for hours.

* Loves hearing you tell stories about your day.

If someone bothers you?

Congratulations, they’ve just earned a death stare from Tangerine.

⸻

🎡 Late-Night Carnival or Fair

A date he’d pretend he hates.

Then suddenly he’s trying every game.

* Tries winning you a giant stuffed animal.

* Gets extremely competitive.

* Refuses to leave until he wins something.

“That game’s rigged.”

Five minutes later he’s trying again.

⸻

🎳 Bowling

One of his favorites.

Not because he’s good.

Because he gets to tease you.

* Celebrates every strike dramatically.

* Makes fun of Lemon’s bowling if he’s there.

* Pretends he doesn’t care about winning.

He absolutely cares.

⸻

🏖️ Beach Walks

Especially in the evening.

No crowds.

No noise.

Just the two of you walking together.

* Shoes in hand.

* Talking about random things.

* His arm around your shoulders.

These are some of the rare moments where he’s genuinely relaxed.

⸻

🎬 Movie Night

Either at home or at the cinema.

The movie itself doesn’t matter much.

He’s spending most of the time:

* Making sarcastic comments.

* Whispering predictions.

* Stealing your snacks.

“That bloke’s definitely the villain.”

Ten minutes later he’s proven right.

⸻

🐕 Taking Dogs for a Walk

Even if the dog isn’t his.

Especially if you love animals.

He’d act like he’s doing it for you.

Meanwhile he’s kneeling on the ground talking to every dog he sees.

⸻

☕ Coffee and Wandering Around the City

A surprisingly common date.

No plan.

No schedule.

Just walking around together.

* Looking in shop windows.

* Grabbing coffee.

* Sitting somewhere and people-watching.

Tangerine loves dates where there’s no pressure to do anything specific.

⸻

🎯 Arcade Date

This brings out his competitive side immediately.

* Racing games.

* Air hockey.

* Basketball machines.

If you beat him?

He’ll demand a rematch.

If you beat him again?

The machine is obviously broken.

⸻

🛒 Grocery Shopping Together

Not intentionally a date.

Yet somehow it becomes one.

You’ll be halfway through buying groceries before realizing you’re both laughing the entire time.

These ordinary moments end up becoming some of his favorite memories.

⸻

❤️ His Perfect Date

Honestly?

It’s not about where you go.

It’s about getting you to laugh.

If he spends the evening hearing you laugh, seeing you smile, and getting to hold your hand while walking home, he’ll consider the date a complete success.

Even if he’d never admit how much he enjoyed it.

Lemon: “Did you have fun?”

Tangerine: “It was alright.”

You: getting a goodnight text five minutes later

“A Bump in the Road”

Tangerine x Female Reader

Warnings/Genre: Mention of Abortions • Hurt • Comfort • Slow Burn

Summary: After a rough week, you accidentally rear-end a stranger at a traffic light—who turns out to be the notoriously grumpy Tangerine. What starts as a terrible day becomes the start of something unexpected.

You were exhausted.

Emotionally. Physically. Mentally.

The last week had felt like a blur.

One bad decision at a nightclub.

A positive pregnancy test days later.

Hours spent crying in your bathroom.

Doctor appointments.

Difficult choices.

And now, after everything was over, all you wanted was to go home and disappear beneath your blankets for a week.

Instead, fate had other plans.

⸻

The traffic light turned red.

You slowed your car.

Or at least you thought you did.

Your thoughts were elsewhere.

Your eyes stung from crying.

And before you realized it—

BUMP.

Your car rolled directly into the back of the vehicle in front of you.

Not hard.

But hard enough.

“Oh no.”

You immediately covered your face.

“Please no.”

⸻

The driver’s door of the other car flew open.

A tall man climbed out.

Sharp suit.

Sharp jaw.

Sharp attitude.

You could practically see the anger radiating from him.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” he snapped.

You swallowed.

This was exactly what you needed.

⸻

The man marched toward your vehicle.

You stepped out.

“I’m so sorry—”

“Do you know how to drive—”

His words stopped abruptly.

Because you were crying.

Not the dramatic kind.

Not trying to get sympathy.

Just completely broken.

Completely overwhelmed.

And trying desperately not to fall apart in front of a stranger.

⸻

Tangerine’s irritation vanished instantly.

“Oh.”

You looked away, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry.”

His expression softened.

“Love…”

The nickname slipped out automatically.

He glanced at the small dent in his bumper.

Then back at you.

Then back at the bumper.

⸻

“Honestly?”

You nodded weakly.

“It’s just a bloody car.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“It’s fixable.”

“But I hit your car.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not angry?”

“Well I was.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“But now you look like you’re about two seconds from cryin’ yourself unconscious.”

⸻

Unfortunately, that was all it took.

The tears started again.

You immediately looked away.

Mortified.

⸻

“Oh no.”

Tangerine looked completely lost.

“Oh bloody hell.”

He glanced around as if searching for help.

There was none.

⸻

So he awkwardly offered you a handkerchief.

“You alright?”

You laughed through your tears.

“No.”

“Fair enough.”

⸻

Somehow twenty minutes later the two of you were sitting on the curb beside the road.

You hadn’t intended to tell him anything.

But he had a surprisingly calm presence beneath all the sarcasm.

And before you realized it, you’d explained why you’d been distracted.

Not every detail.

Just enough.

Enough for him to understand.

⸻

Tangerine sat quietly for a moment.

Then gently nudged your shoulder.

“Sounds like you’ve had a rough week.”

You laughed weakly.

“That’s one way to describe it.”

“For what it’s worth…”

He hesitated.

“You did what you thought was right.”

You stared at him.

The kindness surprised you.

⸻

“How are you being nice right now?”

He snorted.

“Don’t spread it around.”

⸻

You exchanged insurance information.

Phone numbers.

And somehow—

For reasons neither of you could explain—

You stayed in contact.

⸻

Three weeks later he texted you.

You still owe me a coffee for wrecking my car.

⸻

You stared at the message.

Then laughed for the first time in what felt like forever.

⸻

That coffee became lunch.

Lunch became dinner.

Dinner became regular dates.

⸻

You quickly discovered Tangerine wasn’t nearly as intimidating as he pretended to be.

He was grumpy.

Loud.

Overdramatic.

Constantly swearing.

⸻

But he also remembered your coffee order.

Held doors open.

Walked on the roadside of the pavement.

And somehow always knew when you needed cheering up.

⸻

One evening you found yourselves sitting beside the Thames.

The city lights reflected on the water.

Tangerine had his arm around your shoulders.

You leaned comfortably against him.

⸻

“You know,” he said.

“What?”

“If you’d hit anyone else’s car that day, we’d never have met.”

You smiled.

“You’re still talking about that accident?”

“It was a very important accident.”

⸻

You laughed.

“And why’s that?”

He kissed the top of your head.

“Because it got me you.”

⸻

A year later—

⸻

The church was beautiful.

Small.

Elegant.

Filled with people you loved.

⸻

Tangerine stood at the altar looking unusually nervous.

Lemon was beside him trying not to laugh.

⸻

“You alright, mate?” Lemon whispered.

“No.”

“Thought so.”

⸻

When the doors opened and you appeared, Tangerine completely forgot how to breathe.

⸻

You looked beautiful.

Absolutely breathtaking.

And all he could think was how close he’d come to never meeting you.

⸻

A stupid little car accident.

That’s all it had taken.

⸻

The ceremony passed in a blur.

And before long you were officially husband and wife.

⸻

That night, as the reception continued around you, Tangerine pulled you into his arms.

“D’you ever think about it?”

You smiled.

“The accident?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Best thing that ever happened to me.”

⸻

Two years after the accident—

⸻

You sat on the bathroom floor staring at a pregnancy test.

⸻

Positive.

⸻

Again.

And again.

And again.

⸻

You laughed.

Then cried.

Then laughed again.

⸻

When Tangerine arrived home, he immediately knew something was up.

“You alright?”

You handed him the tests.

⸻

Silence.

⸻

Then more silence.

⸻

Then:

“Wait.”

His eyes widened.

“Wait.”

⸻

You started laughing.

“Tangerine—”

“WAIT.”

⸻

His jaw dropped.

⸻

“We’re having a baby?”

⸻

You nodded.

⸻

For a moment he simply stared.

Then he pulled you into the biggest hug imaginable.

Lifting you clean off the floor.

⸻

“We’re having a baby.”

His voice cracked.

⸻

You smiled into his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

⸻

Years earlier, a terrible day had led to a small accident.

A dented bumper.

A chance meeting.

A stranger who stopped being angry when he saw someone hurting.

⸻

And somehow, through all the twists and turns life had thrown at both of you, that accident had led here.

To marriage.

To love.

“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 Sister 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.

“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.