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coeurdalene · 19 days ago

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ʀɪᴏᴛ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

This was from my poll .

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cussing, but SFW.

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

Desc. : Situationship final boss.

(This one's for you, my twin @wintrrsoul / @wintrsoul)

..……......................................................................................................................

He may not have a heart, but he sure as fuck has a soul, and it's superglued to you, it seems.

It's in the way he's actually sort of worried you'll somehow end up in the general vicinity of his jobs and get obliterated.

It's in the way he doesn't like the fact that he can't just straight up tell you things about him.

"I like the colour blue." No, would lead to a question about how long he has and then he'd have to talk about a childhood he never had.

"I hate fast food." So, what do you eat when you're out on a job? Hang on, what do you do at your job?

See? No good.

But it's also in the way he nearly acquiesces to all of your requests. Like this morning's.

"Tell me your real name."

It's not even just that. It's the way you say it. Ask it. Your fingers are in his hair like you're scared he'll get mad at you and that's the only way you can insure yourself against him, or something. By showing him how gentle you are. It's barmy, but it's you, so he'll allow it.

"Tell me yours."

"You know my name."

Unfortunately for him, he does. He'd have actually loved to have looked you up and been unable to find a face to the name you'd given him, but it was you. Right there. Too trusting.

"The one you'd like to be called, I mean." He's stalling. He's deflecting.

"The one I'd like to be called? What is this, a test? I have to say 'yours' or summat?"

He snickers. It's a quiet one, and if you'd been anywhere but in his arms, you couldn't have heard it. "Humour me."

"Humour you? I'm afraid I couldn't come up with one if you gave me all the time in the world."

"No?"

"No."

"Shame, that.", he grunts, stretching as he turns to you. He's been up for hours. Luckily, you're too used to it to ask why he's fully clothed in a fucking suit this early in the morning. "You could have heaps of fun with it. Little activity, if you ever get bored of ghostwriting."

"I'm only bored when you're not here."

"I'm your only source of entertainment, then?"

"Cable without a subscription, yeah."

"I can't even fault that. That's a good analogy. See? You should write summat on your own. Instead of helping write for talentless pricks. Who get credit."

He's doing the thing he likes doing again. Giving you a couple of his rings to 'model'. He thinks it's funny, how they only fit on your thumb, because he has insanely heavy taste in rings.

"Not this again."

"Yes, this again! It's true, innit? Some loser who can't write needs you to do their homework for them, but they get the credit?"

"That's not how it works."

"It is, too, how it works. You told me yourself."

"All this because I asked you what your real name was."

"Not this again.", he mimics, ruffling up your hair. "Have you kept your promise and narrowed it down, then?"

"I have, actually, yeah.", you say, and he watches with a lazy grin as you sit up, the morning sun like a halo behind you, igniting your hair.

Though he's more focused on the fact that you're topless.

"Let's hear it, then."

"Nigel."

"Nigel? Like the fuckin' pelican from Nemo?", he scoffs, shifting to rest an arm under his head.

"Hold your horses, I've got more, I've got more. I've got Thomas."

"Like the tank engine? What's with you and creepy animations today, love?"

"I figure there's a reason your brother keeps talkin' about the show. Am I warm?"

He shakes his head. "You're in Antarctica.", he informs, watching you roll your eyes. Watching you. That's all he's ever done. And that's all he ever wants to do.

"I'll get it one day."

"Pray you don't. It's really hot, how pissed you get."

"I will get it, though, some day."

"Lie back down, relax. It'll come to you in a dream."

You do as he says, flexing your fingers to display his entire collection of (four) rings, glinting in the sunlight. "Arnold?"

"Fuck you, sweetheart, you're just tryna take the piss now."

He doesn't laugh much, or smile, for that matter, but he's sure one day you'll catch him off guard. Not today, though. Mm-mm. Because he feels like you're not about to let up today.

Call it a lover's intuition. But he feels like this might either be your last fight or your last fight. In short, either you never speak again, or he croaks and he really can never speak again.

"Where are you going next, did you say?", you ask, between sporadic, breathy chuckles.

"Tokyo." he reminds, leaning an arm back on the headboard while his other played with your hair like that was his next job and it paid in infinite quid.

"Can I know where?"

"Uh... just the train, it looks like."

You turn your hand around to watch the light bounce off his rings. "Will you send me another postcard, then?"

His eyebrows furrow. "Come again?"

"Like, the one you sent from Bolivia. It was tops. Alpacas and whatnot."

"I'm sorry, love — postcard?" Oh. Fuck. His brother. "Oh, yeah. Not much to do in a train, but if I find one, I'll send it over."

There's a sort of domestic silence, and for a moment, he's sure he can hear the rays of sun crash through the window, all tinkly. But that might just be the hangover.

"Why won't you tell me your real name?"

"Because I can't. You know that."

He sighs magnanimously, allowing you to rise to brush your teeth and freshen up or whatever you did to avoid the fact that his secretiveness pissed you off to no end. Which was fair, honestly.

"I just feel like we're past that point."

Any response he might have had dies on his tongue. That is fair. You have known each other near a year now. If he were you, he'd be peeved as well.

Once more, a silence flashes through the room, before he does, too, his arms crossed as he firmly leans against the doorframe.

He exhales deeply for a moment, before you spit out toothpaste, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. "Y/N."

"That's my name, yeah."

"Alright, hey—", he scoffs, moving next to you, watching you again in the mirror. "That's the last one of those you get, alright? Snappy responses or wha'ever. I'm not doin' that. The whole soft, concerned bit? Nah. That's not what we are, and we have rules. Yeah?"

"I know we had rules, and you've broken far too fuckin' much of them, but I can't break one?", you retort, unscrewing the lid of your stupid fucking bottle of Listerine. God, why did everything you do today set his teeth on edge?

"No, you can't, 'cause your ghostwriting doesn't kill anyone except your dreams. My job does. I'm not gonna receive a phone call sayin' that you're hangin' from some ceiling or some streetlight or summat somewhere, yeah?", he reminds, sternly, with a finger pointed at you, a hand on his hip, the whole shebang, before he turns back into the warmth of the bedroom, folding his suit's sleeve, now.

"Your job.", you scoff, under your breath as you gargle and then spit.

He cocks his head, raising a brow as he spins right the fuck back around. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"'S what I thought.", he mutters, adjusting his tie, running his hands through his hair, standing in front of the window on the other side of the room — you know. Basically do anything to take his mind off how fucking frustrated he is.

You're being mildly unreasonable. But he supposes he can't blame you. "Contract killer" isn't a profession you can segue into a conversation. In your head, he's much nobler. A CIA agent.

"Fuck. You can't have a normal mornin', can you?"

'And you can't have a normal reaction.', you think.

"I heard that."

You snort, shutting the bathroom door behind you as you come back out. "I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking summat, I know you were."

"I was thinking you should shave."

He's glad you're back to the jabs at him, because he can shake himself out of this odd prophetic revelation he's supposedly having about his death or your loss of interest in him. Either/or.

He grins when you finally come out, flicking your forehead as you cross paths so he can take his turn in front of the sink. He really needed some fucking shut-eye on the plane there, but for now, washing and scrubbing at his face should keep him awake enough, and— what the hell were you doing?

He dabs his hands in between a plush hand towel by the sink, as he watches you trying to get dressed, from the bathroom mirror. "No. None of that."

"I have work."

"Oh, yeah? Funny. Sit."

"I told you, I've got work."

"There's a couple hours till my flight, and I'm sure incompetent authors can wait. Sit down."

"What, it's all according to your 'timetable', then?!"

He hates this. He hates the way you've just said "timetable" like you're accusing him of lying to you.

He doesn't care about the lying allegations, but he does care about how much audacity you seem to have, even though you know that he has a gun on him every time he kisses you.

It means that you know he's, for some odd reason, toned down around you. Not even remotely likely to hurt you.

And that's not good.

"I don't see any angry fake-authors knocking at your door right now, so yeah, yeah, it's according to my timetable. Stay. Get back in bed, alright?"

"Sorry to disappoint, but I actually have to go now, so."

He knows you're bullshitting. He's seen you when you're actually late, and that pretty little fuckin' vein in your head is nowhere near popping.

This is the only way you can get back at him for talking to you like that, and you're taking the chance.

How dare you do exactly what he would do if he were you?

"Hey.", he calls, but you're still rechecking that all your bullshit's in your bag. So, naturally, he moves behind you, his hands on your shoulders pulling you back while swivelling you around to face him.

"Why, hello, there. Go deaf or summat?", he muses, holding onto your face with both thumbs at your jawline.

"What?"

"Tell you what. You get to pick my codename for this job. Alright?"

"What?"

"Yeah. You already got some ideas, then?"

"What's the catch?"

You've abandoned your task of shoving things into your bag, and he can't have you achieve the satisfaction of coaxing a smile out of him twice in a row, so he kisses the side of your cheek and your shoulders to hide it.

"No catch."

"There's always a catch with you."

"Like what?"

"You'll reject everything with some bollocks reason."

"Nah, I'll give you a fair chance. Shoot."

"Like Dave? Or James? Or Aaron, or summat? It's like, casual, unseeming. Jane Doe, but for blokes, whatever it is. "

"John Doe. Right. But what if there's some poor bloke with the same name and description?"

"I just think the odds are terribly small."

He nods against your hair. Alright, that was fair. "Maybe my brother's done some weird shite.", he remarks, suddenly.

"Why do you say that?"

Mainly because his brother has just texted him, the absolute prick.

"He hates codenames, so he's probably sending a ridiculous one to piss me the fuck off."

🍋

Fucking what?

Excuse me?

CN. 🍋

CN. Codename. His codename was fucking LEMON?!

"I can't bloody well be James or Aaron now.", he mumbles, rubbing his hand over his jaw as he glares at the phone. You hear him, somehow.

"Why not?"

"My brother's codename for this job is apparently Lemon."

"Lemon? Like, the—"

"Yeah, like the fruit."

You snort. "So, what, you have to match, now? Uh... Melon? That would be matchy-matchy, no? Lemon-Melon."

"You're lucky you're hot, or I'd have shot ya just for that.", he comments, moving hair from your shoulders. "Look at me."

"No." It's a tease, he can tell by looking into your mesmerizing, beady little eyes.

"Why not?"

"Told you, you need to shave."

"And do what? Go clean-shaven like a fuckin' prepubescent?"

"No, I think you should get rid of the beard, go with the moustache only."

He lets out a sharp laugh of incredulity. "Not a chance in hell." He already knows he's going to do it. He's not too proud to cater to the female gaze once in a while.

You shrug, and he gestures for you to sit back down on the bed.

"I still don't believe you, you know."

He huffs, groaning as he runs his hands across his face. "What the fuck do you want from me, love? I'm not givin' you any form of identification, which, if that is what you want, is fuckin' stupid, considering the amount of times I've been inside you!"

You stare back, indifferent.

You have a habit of doing this - you leave him all huffy and red and angry and you just look at him like you don't give a crap, and it's unnecessarily sexy.

"Come on, we cross paths once in a couple months. Your job, sorry to say, is much less urgent than mine, so ju—"

"I don't even think you're tellin' me the truth."

"What? About my job?", he spits, exasperated.

"What sort of CIA agent is this flexible with their routine and, like...", you mutter, gesturing around at the hotel room.

"The good sort. You don't believe me?", he questions, sucking on the back of his teeth to hide his amusement.

"Don't you get government benefits or summat? Shouldn't you have a house?"

He raises a brow, and his mouth quirks for a second before he bursts out laughing. See? He knew you'd catch him off guard and make him laugh some day. So much for that not being today. "Government benefits. You're a riot."

"You're also not supposed to tell anyone that you're a CIA agent."

"No?", he asks, tilting his head. "Oh, I'll have to kill you then, don't I?"

"Please do.", you mumble under your breath, still acting like you have better places to be. And, in all honesty, you might. The vein is this close to popping now, so he may have been wrong about your lack of things to do.

He raises both brows as you sit there.

"Are you really still fuckin' angry?"

"I just want to know your name, what am I gonna do? Write it into a story?"

"Knowing my name will prove I'm a CIA agent, then, will it? How does your mind work?", he hisses.

"Lose the suit."

"What?" Oh, you were playing his game, with the subject changes, and he didn't like how hot that was, either.

"The suit. It's trash. That shade of green is trash. Go with blue."

"Go with blue? I need to go with blue, now do I?", he sputters, shoving you further back onto the bed, his medallion chain dangling in front of your eyes as if he were about to hypnotise you with it. "You're a riot.", he says, his fingers digging into both your cheeks.

"You said that already."

"You're gonna miss me, that's what this is." He says it like an insult, and, in this odd dynamic between the two of you, it very much is. "You're losin' your cable-with-no-subscription."

"I'm just saying the green isn't classy, not even remotely."

The grip travels to your hair, and suddenly, you're eyelashes apart. "Yeah?"

"It's trash."

"Mm.", he nods, in mock consideration. "Right."

There's a moment of silence.

"You know, if I die on that bullet train, you'll regret being such a cunt today."

"I think if you die, you'll regret spending your last morning being a cunt to me."

"So we're both cunts?"

"Apparently."

"Oh, darling, we're made for each other, then, yeah?"

You roll your eyes, and he kisses you.

Like always.

..……......................................................................................................................

Seriously.

He may not have a heart, but he sure as fuck has a soul, and it really is superglued to you, it seems.

It's in the way he's pretty sure you're making the worst stylistic choices for him ever — an extremely expensive wristwatch on a mission where he'll get multiple peoples' blood on it, but he'll let you pick anyway.

It's in the way he's sure it's supremely dangerous to text you in between jobs but he'll do it anyway.

How's by you, then?

Fine. How's the train? Did you do the coin thing?

No, haven't had the chance.

Who's the target? Or whatever.

If I could tell you that, we wouldn't have had the conversation this morning, would we?

Are you on a break or summat? How are you texting me?

He grimaces, looking up at the man out of breath opposite him.

Break. Yeah.

Did you go with my codename?

Ladybird, he thinks his name was. Can't remember, doesn't need to. The only codename he needs to remember is the one you set for him.

"Move.", he grumbles, shoving his foot away.

"Lady love?", he retorts back, nodding his head at the phone.

"Summat like that. What's it to you, virgin?"

The Insect chuckles at that, and he grimaces. His laugh's not like yours, and it's kind of disgusting to him, now. Fuckin' wanker.

Yes, I did.

How do I know you're telling the truth? Do you and your brother have name-tags?

No. Turns out, he wanted me to be Lemon. Told you he doesn't like codenames, so that was his form of revenge.

No way!

This is so unnecessarily fun, he wants to kill himself. He's about to be murdered by some Russian underworld crime-lord for losing a briefcase of money and a bell-end of a son, but he's here, talking to this girl about why his codename had to be a citrus fruit variant for this particular job.

He was really fucking priority-less.

But he's not going to acknowledge how much he needed this conversation.

Instead, he glares up at Ladybug. Or was it Ladybird? Oh, right, he doesn't care.

"I didn't even say anything."

"Again, shut up, virgin.", he scoffs, eyes darting back down to his phone.

Told him he's Lemon and that's that. I'm Tangerine.

Did you say why?

Yeah, like you said. 'Cause it's sophisticated.

Good job.

There's some old guy here tryna fuck up our chances at getting our paycheque.

He sounds like a right fucking arsehole. Stealing jobs from younger people like that.

He hides a grin at that, nudging the man with his foot.

"For what it's worth, you seem like a right fuckin' arsehole, and I'm glad you're gonna fuckin' die with me.", he declares, shoving the phone into his pocket. He knows he doesn't need to say goodbye or anything. Not with you.

Especially not now. Not when he could actually die.

It's just bad form.

Buggering hell. He's dressed head to toe in you, essentially. The suit. The watch, fuck. The rings -though they were his initially - have you all over them. The fucking facial hair. And he's still on the fence about who you even are. To him, that is. Who you are as a person? He's researched every drop of information about you. And sadly, he knows there's heaps more that he hasn't found out yet.

"That's nice.", replies The Insect.

Fuck. This wanker has Lemon's phone. Lemon's whereabouts are unknown. And he's sitting here, catching his breath like he'd never taken a beating before, and thinking about you. Idiot.

But honestly. All Tangerine could do was wait around, really.

"What kind of a name is Tangerine?", asks the tosser named Ladybug.

"Back off, my girl came up with it."

My girl. That's new. Moving on.

"Your girl's your handler?"

"My brother and I don't have 'handlers', we're outside contractors. Why do you have a handler? Loser."

"You know, you have the insults of a twelve year old boy. 'Loser'. 'Virgin'."

"Fuck you, mate."

The Insect shakes his head, chuckling as he picks off some semi-dry blood. "So. Why 'Tangerine'?"

"It's sophisticated."

"In what world?"

"The one you're about to leave if you don't fuck off."

He groans and clenches his teeth in absolute fucking agony as he moves to sit more comfortably. Oh, if you were here, you'd both laugh at him and help him get fixed up, wouldn't ya?

"Just curious."

"Yeah?"

"Do they even know what Lemon looks like?"

Huh. The Insect seemed to have some sort of sixth sense that was unexpected of him. He's going to impersonate his brother, apparently.

They could both die for this. Especially with the fake fucking case, and The Insect's god-awful British accent.

Fucking hell.

He rolls his eyes and yanks the phone out of his pocket again, scrolling, scrolling, scroll— ah, there you are.

I told him he was an arsehole.

Yeah? What'd he say?

He said 'your girl can go fuck herself'.

And what did you say?

'I'll go fuck my girl myself.'

Bullshit.

He loves making up stories and telling them to you, because you believe them all and eat it up.

He knows that by "bullshit", you mean the thought of him ever calling you "his girl", and he honestly can't fault that. But you are. Always have been. He just wishes you'd know that, without him having to tell you.

You're constantly on his mind, why can't you fuckin' read it, too?

I do have to go, now.

"You have to go? Where?"

A voice message. God, is it fucking amazing to hear one familiar voice that doesn't want to bloody kill him, maim him or torture him for not taking care of their son or their briefcase!

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me, Tangerine."

And then, it happens. You coax a full-blown laugh out of him. "That's growin' on me, y'know? I'll bring back a whole box of 'em and force-feed it to you."

"Get your brother lemons, too, then."

His brother. Fuck. "If I find him."

"What do you mean?! Is he okay?"

"Listen, love, I'll call you later, alright? I've got to go sort out this Lemon situation."

"Alright, yeah."

"I'll send you a postcard."

He doesn't know why he just said that, seeing as his survival would be nothing short of a miracle, and he's giving you false hope on a catastrophic level.

God, he was a pathetic little cunt. Wearin' his girlfriend's pick of jewellery and clothing and accessories and even moustache? Of course, it made him look good, but still.

And now he's sitting here, worried that he's lied to you, inadvertently.

There's a fuckin' limit, yeah?

"Oi.", he calls, tired and reluctant, but this has to be done.

"What?"

Tangerine licks his lips as he leans against the rumbling wall of the train car, arms crossed, muscles flexed. He wipes off a spot of blood from his nose, sniffing before he speaks. "If shite goes downhill. "Hits the fan", as your people would say it.", he mumbles, unable to fucking believe that this is what he'd come to.

His fingers rub desperately at his temples.

You (or Ibuprofen) would do a peak job at that, actually. But neither are in sight.

"Mm?" The Insect's dusting off the proxy briefcase as he responds, glancing at him from over his shoulder. "You lightheaded?"

"No, I've got a fucking migraine thanks to that ten quid water bottle you threw at me, mate!", he snaps, clenching his fists so he doesn't sucker punch this proxy-Lemon again.

He clears his throat. "If shite goes wrong, uh, would you help me send a postcard, to my girl?"

The Insect guffaws for a moment, fixing up the case as he turns, before raising both brows in astonishment. "You're serious?"

"Why the fuck would I joke about my girl?"

He holds up his hands in surrender, the briefcase glinting slightly in the fluorescent train lights. "I didn't even think you actually had a girl."

"Well, I do , alright? And if I die, just tell my brother to send her a postcard, uh, with my name on it."

"Tangerine.", he comments.

"No, you absolute stupid git, my real n— Lemon'll know what to do."

"What if he dies, too?"

Tangerine's eyebrows furrow, and his lips purse. "You're a real ray of sunshine, aren't ya? Fine, if he dies, too - he better fucking not have - you get my phone. Find my girl's address, send her a postcard with my real name."

"What's your real name?"

"Oh, fuck off, it's all in my phone. 'M not tellin' you now, and then if somehow we both survive, there's someone out there who knows my real fucking name, how much of a muppet d'you think I am?"

"Alright, alright. Done. What if I don't surv—"

"You better fucking survive!"

The train door jolts open right then, and honestly? The Insect's so lucky that happened.

"If your British accent's a stereotype, I will throw you under the train.", he growls under his breath as they both step off to 'prove' that the case is still with them.

He'll get a postcard to you, dead or alive.

At the very least, you'll get a story out of it and you can write some books on your own.

Ha. Ghost-writing.

God, you'd have loved that joke.

Ugh, fuck his luck to hell.

#bullet train #tangerine x reader #fic rec #something to hold on queue

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