‎tangerine is a proud lady's man. ‎ ‎he had his own set of records of ladies. very countable, yes, but atleast it was as organized as a morgue's corpse list. like jill. his lady, amy. and little suzy. brianna. know why he calls her brianna? yeah, it's a long story— then, there's you. you and that tangerine hair. ‎ ‎at first, he thought—oh, my luck is great. but the moment he lingered, he realized that dating the epitome of his name is a bad idea cause damn, he give a fuck. he give lots of fuck, actually. he's practically pole stripper of feelings, figuratively and quite literally. ‎ ‎america became known as the land of the free, which must have come as a surprise to all the poor lads he killed for not giving a damn about their freedom, though yep, lemon cares about that and would do bits of talk down and through with a dull face if some target starts crying and calling out mommies— but as sweet as his name, he don't give a flying fuck, he just don't, that was just not him. he's stronger than that. ‎ ‎that is why he's so goddamn confused as to why he ends up blabbering inside and out, cloying around you, taking his sweet time picking up some tiny details of your likes and dislikes rather than asking then go buy it on spots, places— even country it's originated, like biryani— he even got all the types available and gave it to you with a lie that he just saw some stall, like it's just some decision he came up with. ‎ ‎he won't even admit to it, won't even be nice about it. his ego just can't take that much of romance though he's all bendy and kneeling when he's with you and it's just pathetic and sad, and all gooey, like who would've expected a lad like him to end up as some sappy, doting fool to a domesticated person like you. ‎ ‎strolling through the warehouse, doing some killing with lemon, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. he checked and saw a chat, from you. i love you, you said. ew. but he sent i love you, too, with heart, back. "dear fuck." he rubs his temple, irritated but blushing then dial you.