whimsical-roasting

[whimsical-roasting]

hate to say it but 1) lady boner 2) heart boner

What the fuck is wrong with him 😭

[whimsical-roasting]

[whimsical-roasting]

I am unwell

ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cuss words.

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

(I promise I will fix the images I made them at 3 am 😭)

For @g0lden-sky. I love you, and I hope this is what you meant in this ask <3. If it sucks, tell me.

Desc. : You really can't just stop knowing someone.

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"Well, fuck."

He's a strong man, yes, but it's been years.

He's a strong man, yes, but every fibre of his being was angling for a glimpse at you, just one.

Lemon nudged his elbow as if he didn't have fucking eyes. "Wonder what she goes by, now."

"Probably not Lemon.", he scoffed back. "She's probably out of the fucking business, mate, alright? We'll just slip past."

Were you summat boring, a desk job? Or were you a wife? Oh, god, what if he looked down, past the legs of passers-by and there was a ring on your finger, or a child clinging to you?

And so, he looked. He allowed himself a moment, and he scanned you. No child, no ring, no carpal tunnel. You were most likely still in the business. Alright, that's good, because that meant you were a rival, and resentment was an emotion he could work with.

Hate, he could work with. Disdain? Please. Cake-walk.

But whatever this was? The yearn for lost time? He struggled a bit. Wasn't in his training, was it? Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by your presence, one that's usually daggering to him.

Fucking phew. Great. Who cares? He could move on, finish the fucking job and then— "Oi!" Fuck, Lemon.

Weeding through the crowd, practically running, you slipped away from him once more, and he shared a look with his brother.

Tangerine's fists clenched and relaxed. He counted down from ten. He took deep breaths. He licked his lips. He tried not to have a fucking aneurysm.

"What're the chances I've become really fucking handsome now, and she was turned on to the point of fleeing?", asked Lemon, nudging him once again before they followed after you.

When they finally got to you — you did not make it easy — they found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun each, trapped against an abandoned freight elevator. Their hands shot up in surrender — not an easy thing to achieve, so kudos. It's been ages since they'd done that.

"You're not our target."

"Heard that one before."

Tangerine's hand nearly accidentally dropped (dangerous), with how hearing your voice after more than a decade had startlingly affected him. Pathetic, really. But he recovered, clearing his throat. "Well, unless you're an eighty year old bloke called fuckin' Maurice, you're not our target."

Your eyes narrowed — the same eyes he's not sure he's ever quite forgotten — before the guns lowered cautiously, steadily. "You need to off Maurice?"

"He's your target, too?"

Licking your lips, you shook your head, huffing. "Not exactly. 'M just supposed to break into his hotel room, into his safe, and get whatever's in there. AMN."

Any Means Necessary.

Lemon clapped his hands together, startling you and causing you to instinctively raise the gun at him once more. "Whoa. I— I was just about to say that this works out quite nicely, yeah?"

You and Tangerine scoffed at the same time. "How?"

"You'll need him..." — Lemon clicked his tongue and ran a thumb across his throat — "... out of the way. And we're being paid to do that, yeah? Makes sense to work together."

"No, fuck off, mate, not a chance in hell. We do our thing, she does hers.", grumbled Tangerine, yanking at Lemon's elbow. "C'mon."

"Do you really not trust us?", asked Lemon, gently, as though he were calming a bear and not a paranoid assassin with two guns.

Your glare softened, and you shrugged, ardently avoiding eye contact. "Would you?"

"Fair point. But we're not interferin' with each other, though, yeah? Just aidin'. C'mon."

Why you went was a mystery to all parties involved.

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He'd never really noticed how bloody blue his eyes are. Piercing. It's actually offending him, right now. Ugh. But what other choice did he have but to stay in the bathroom and glare at his own reflection after about ten ice cold splashes (and one warm one that he did not like) over his face while you and Lemon guardedly debriefed each other in a hotel room across the floor from the target?

Well. Yeah, he could be out there, where the conversations are being had, but no. He'd have to look at you again.

To be fair, it was his fault, he'd been nothing short of a prick to you the whole way to the hotel, with comments and scoffs at every fucking thing you said, so much so that Lemon had tried to convince you he was just severely sleep-deprived, and all but ordered him to go wash his face or summat.

And so, here he was.

His fingers slid over his jaw and flicked any residual droplets off his face before he sighed, flipping himself off in the unnecessarily swanky mirror. "Bell-end. Bell-end. Knob.", he gritted out, shaking his head.

When had he turned into such a dickhead?

He took another deep breath. Counted down from ten again. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door.

And what lovelier sight to be met with than the two of you kneeling on opposite ends of the table, glaring over the guns you'd placed there (for a show of good faith) like some sort of hostile, antagonistic coffee date?

"Right, what's all this, then?"

Grunting as he stood, and then laughing for god-knows-what-reason, Lemon thumbed at the door. "I'm doin' recon. Makin' sure he hasn't been tipped off."

"I can do it."

Lemon patted his chest, shouldering past him. "Nah, mate. Dibs."

"Lemon—"

"My codename, by the way.", informed Lemon, grinning back at you with a tiny bow.

"—I will shoot you in the fuckin' mouth."

"Sorry, mate. Dibs is sacred. And so's childhood.", he added, lowering his tone.

He hated this.

He hated when his brother played shrink.

He hated when he started with his stupid Thomas the Tank Engine analogies.

But there was nothing on God's green earth that he hated more than the fact that he couldn't hold his liquor for shit, because he'd lost the drinking game with Lemon.

Which is why he was here in front of you, after twelve years, with the codename Tange-fucking-rine.

Shoot him now.

"I'm Tangerine, if you were wonderin'.", he mumbled, clearing his throat. "What's your codename?" He'd say anything to make sure fucking "Tangerine" wasn't the last thing to ring through the room like a tuning fork.

"Don't have one. I dunno. This time, didn't feel like it."

You looked down, then. What was that about?

"That's unprofessional."

You snorted. "So's collaboration.", you said, gesturing between the two of you, and then at the gun-laden table you were still kneeling in front of.

"Yeah, but collaboration is just dangerous, not stupid-dangerous, like 'no codenames' is."

"With you two, yeah, it is stupid.", you mumbled, searching through the collection of firearms for yours.

"That's why you're sticking to petty theft like a fuckin' Oliver Twist character, and we're quite literally deemed "the best" in the business."

"I'm sorry, Citrus.", you scoffed, standing. "What the fuck do you think my last job was?"

"Pickin' locks?"

"I had to do three cleanups back-to-back, because no one does it like me. A mil' each, easy."

He rolled his eyes. What a fuckin' braggart.

"Geezer's back from the buffet!"

Brilliant.

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"No, no, we've got all the time in the world, we just have a bloody decaying body under our feet, so by all means, take your time."

"Tangerine, shut up, let her do her thing."

"We shoulda just left when we had the chance, instead we're here riskin' our arses because she can't crack into a bloody safe!"

"I'm done, alright?", you hissed, hands covering your eyes as the safe opened, the lights glinting off the contents and practically blinding you.

"Straight out a Tarantino film, innit?", remarked Lemon, whistling lowly, the gold of the safe reflecting in his eyes.

Saluting the body, you slung the backpack you'd stuffed everything into over your shoulder, standing. "Pay my respects to Mr. Maurice for me."

He had to get a fucking grip, honestly. He was barely keeping from screaming at you to stay.

But, no. You were absolute chaos for him, and he was chaos for you. It's best you never saw each other again.

"What was that about?", he murmured, after you left.

"Mm?"

"That one. Absolute piece of work, yeah?", he said, thumbing behind him, at the door you've just walked out of. "Seemed off, though.", he added, offhandedly.

"What, after fifteen years? Yeah, I s'pose she's off. She's different, more like."

"Twelve, and she looks tired."

"And what do I look like, mate? Been walkin' around the fucking floor like a fuckin' guard dog makin' sure this old coot finished his plate at the buffet and gave us enough time to set up ; I'm exhausted. And we've got the flight to bloody Bolivia tonight.", Lemon grumbled, shaking his head.

He couldn't blame Lemon, really. Sure, nostalgia was a thing, but it was one that, for normal people like you and Lemon, would pass in the blink of an eye. But when had Tangerine ever been fucking normal?

"Bit of a legend, was he?", remarked Lemon, flicking at the Rolex on Maurice's wrist. "They don't even make these anymore."

"If you grave-rob, I will fuckin' riot.", he muttered, distractedly.

"Mr. Fancy Pants over here has Marlboros and shite."

Marlboros! Nicotine! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck. Alright. Nicotine.

He hasn't had a cigarette in thirty-six hours, and on top of that, he saw you ; of course he'd be all worked up. No wonder. Alright. He can rest easy now.

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Fresh off seventeen kills and a migraine, Tangerine really did not have time for this absolute bull. Honestly. In the span of, say, two bloody weeks, you'd shown up twice, and he didn't like that.

He used to know you better than the back of his hand, and now?

Both of your hands are painted with unfamiliar scars.

"You gonna go say 'hi'?"

"What, with this thing hangin' off my arm?", he scoffed, gesturing at The Son of the fucking White Death. "I'd rather not parade 'im about, all unconscious-like."

"Mate."

He was still glaring at you, and it took a couple thumps to his shoulder to make him turn. "What?"

"Don't be a James."

"Here we fuckin' go.", mumbled Tangerine, shaking his head. "I swear, this bloke wakes up, you'll find his ears bleedin', 'cause you've been on and on about bloody Thomas The Tank Engine the entire fuckin' journey to Tokyo."

"Listen, James fucked up so much because of one thing. What was it?", asked Lemon, pointing his finger at him, with his other hand on his shoulder like a mentor.

"Bein' low-quality animation?"

"Pride. Pride. He was so bloody proud of his bloody red paint job that he—", he cut himself off, though, rubbing at his nape. "Alright, if there really is somethin' off with her, this is your chance to gloat that you're better at readin' people than me."

Huh.

See, that incentivised him more than being compared to some annoying red, animated train.

~~

"We must stop meetin' like this."

Your head swivelled around, and he's sure he could sort of see the faintest, dimmest hint of the spark he'd seen across from him on the see-saw all those years back...? He couldn't be entirely sure.

You smiled, which was a good sign, but the spark wasn't fully there, and he hated it. You moving to the window seat so he could sit by you, stretching? Proof you weren't a total cunt now that you're all grown up.

"You goin' to Tokyo, then?"

"No, connecting flight to Seoul and then I'm off. The stop before Tokyo.", you added, when he looked at you as if you'd explained it all in Greek.

He nodded, flicking at the headphones on the seat pocket once he wrangled them out of it. "Right."

"You're going to Tokyo?"

"Yeah. Been dragging this poor boy all the way from Bolivia to now bloody São Paulo, and then another connecting flight— god, it's exhausting. His old man's so rich, shouldn't he be gettin' a private jet or summat?", he sighed, his hand rubbing over his eyes in sheer fatigue.

"Wouldn't that be the first place his enemies look, though?"

"How about you stop with the logic, yeah? 'S annoying."

The two of you laughed for a bit, and the nostalgia shot him in the mouth. Didn't seem to for you, though, you were avoiding eye contact like you'd been caught robbing Maurice.

He tried his best to stay patient as you looked out the window, tried to focus on getting his arm off the armrest because the aisles were clogged up with passengers brushing past. He moved to the middle seat. One seat closer to you.

More silence. Why did he let Lemon talk him into this?

He didn't know what to say, but he knew what he wouldn't say. Summat dumb like "you're lookin' well", or "how you been?", or — god forbid — "long time, no see".

"So. What you been doin' all this time?"

God. So much for not being dumb.

A shrug. You were infuriating.

"Me? Lemon and I, we have quite a bit of fun, actually.", he continued. "Made a name for ourselves and that. What about you? You been doin' Burke, I s'pose?"

"Not "doing" Burke, but yeah, he's still my handler.", you chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek. "But just been doin' jobs, y'know? Just... whatever."

"Whatever?", he pushed, furrowing his brows. "Thought you had fun on the job. You alright?"

"'M fine."

Tangerine nodded, fiddling with the headphones again.

"If it was what I said in Dubai, I was just bein' a bastard, tryna get under your skin, and, to be fair, I was cranky 'cause I got no sleep.", he muttered.

"Well then, maybe go to sleep, then. 'S a long flight."

In his own seat, you meant. He could take a hint.

"Wow. Twelve years, and you still don't wanna look back.", he grumbled, standing up to leave.

But he couldn't. Not when you grabbed his wrist.

"What?"

Alright, mate, c'mon, now's your time to shine. Wow her.

"At me. You don't wanna look back at me, maybe see that you're bein' a bit of a bitch."

Alright, not the best start, callin' her a bitch, but it's alright, it's alright, we can recover.

"A bitch? For not wanting t—"

A quick flick of his wrist and suddenly, it was him grabbing yours. "Come with me, yeah?"

He was genuinely lucky you listened.

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"Alright, now that there's no witnesses if one of us bloody kills the other, can you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Listen, mate, we don't know each other anymore. I'm not about to have some makeshift therapy session in an airplane bathroom because we pinky-promised or summat when we were six!", you whisper-yelled, and all the air was knocked out of him.

The spark. It blazed. It was you —fucking finally — sitting in front of him.

"We actually crossed our hearts, but I won't take that personally.", he muttered, solemnly.

A moment, and he couldn't help the smile (though he was a worthy competitor against it) when you started snickering.

"Fuck, we were corny."

"Yeah.", he agreed, nodding. "But we were also best mates."

"Right."

"Pisses me off, though."

"What?"

"The fact that anytime I hear 'best mate', I'm immediately thinking of — and looking around for — you."

"I thought that was Lemon out there."

"No, he's my brother. Brothers are different, he means so much to me that we have no choice but to get on with each other. You, though.", he huffed.

"Me, though?"

He shook his head, flicking your forehead. "You, though.", he muttered, somehow managing to move closer and hold your jaw with one hand. "You're something else. I have a choice, and I'm still tryin' to get on with you. So get on with it. Spit it out."

"I have a choice, and I don't want to."

Ugh! Could you not back-talk him for once in your fucking life?! Why did he even try? What was even the fucking point?

You'd leave at Seoul, and if you were so inclined, you'd share a handshake or two, he and Lemon would be off with the bloke in Tokyo, and then you'd all be on your merry ways.

As it should be.

But then, a vision. A flash, and suddenly, he was seven years old again, grinning at you after the recruiters came and went.

"We're gettin' adopted."

"We're gettin' recruited.", he reminded. "You did so well."

"I choked, is what I did."

If he thought you seemed vulnerable now, he'd have melted for seven-year-old you.

"No, no, trust me, none of the other girls assembled that gun as fast as you." "You sure?" "I was watching."

He figured that maybe a similar segue may be able to fill in the silence. Even if you didn't respond immediately, at least you'd be stabbed with unsettling nostalgia that got you to open up.

"You were very quick with the gun. Back in Dubai."

Furrowing your brows, you tore your gaze away from the bathroom door and fixed it back up at him. "...Thank you?"

"'S not a compliment. 'S an observation."

"Observations can be compliments."

"Yeah, but not this one.", he shot back. A pause. "You bein' hunted?"

"No." No. Well, that's good. He didn't need to become a target, too.

"I was quick with the gun because it's a high-profile job. 'M not bein' hunted."

He let out a low whistle, nodding as he looked past you for a moment. "Just tryin' to make conversation.", he muttered, running his hands over his face, and then hair, and then suit, and finally deciding on firmly perching them onto the edge of the sink.

"Maybe don't."

When has he ever listened to you?

"Hey. If you could look at me, that'd be fuckin' fantastic. Yeah, there you go. Stop bein' all secretive and fuckin' tell me why you look like you're about to jump off this fuckin' plane."

It's like he'd never changed. Yeah, sure, he's taller, fitter, and the muscles he'd claimed to have when he was thirteen had seemed to take the hint and actually show up, but he's still the annoying little twat that would mock you for having feelings while simultaneously moving hell and back (to the extent of his abilities) to solve your problems for you.

So, for your best mate, you sighed.

"I'm tired, alright?! I feel like shit, and I dunno why! Alright? Probably something in the air."

Something in the air. God, you were getting on his fucking nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring for a moment, before nodding, reaching into his pocket. "You had any cigs lately?"

What?

"No."

"See, that's a problem, that.", he explained, pointing a ringed finger at you as if he'd just deigned you with the knowledge of the century, and you were supposed to give him your firstborn as thanks. "Nicotine solves half of all that."

The flame flickered in front of his eyes momentarily before he flicked the lighter off, handing the lit cig to you.

"Are you mockin' me?"

Jesus fuck, I'm caring, you absolute twat.

He moved closer still. Gripped your jaw even harder. Used said grip to shake your jaw after each word he said, to prove his point.

"All you are is your job. Your work. You don't think you're even a person anymore, and you're tired of that."

It was adorable, you glaring at him while he shook your jaw.

"Let me go."

"You're not sure who you are, and it scares you, because everyone else seems to."

You hissed his name, his real name, and he nearly dropped his hand from your jaw. The last person to ever utter his name had also been the first person to do so, twelve years later? That's some chaotic shite right there.

"You're terrified that you don't matter. And you're terrified that whatever you wanna do, whatever you wanna make of your life, you'll never fuckin' get it, because you've got Burke and your job on your fuckin' arse all the time. Yeah?"

He had to chill out about Burke. You'd catch on.

Your jaw clenched under his fingers, and the corner of his lip turned up just a tad. "Blink twice if I'm right.", he teased, his forehead nearly on yours.

"Fuck off."

He simpered at the force of your shove. Still no match for his assholic streak, his impishness, the absolute cheek and audacity imbibed in his blood.

"Ah, so I'm right on the fuckin' money, then.", he grinned, rubbing your bottom lip between his fingers, forming a pout. "I'll fuck right off after you admit it."

When you stayed silent, he offered you the cigarette once more.

"I don't smoke. Put that out. 'S not allowed, anyway."

"If it weren't allowed, they wouldn't have this thing over here, now would they?", he asked, tapping at the ashtray on the wall.

And then... look, whatever. He's an idiot. We've established this. He's an idiot, and he's a bit of an arsehole, let's be honest.

He didn't know why he did it, in all honesty. Bathroom's already really fucking cramped, so this was really not the best thing for him to be doin', unless he wanted to induce fucking claustrophobia.

Snogging an already pissed-off assassin in an airplane bathroom was right up there with the dumbest things he'd ever done in his life. For instance, two years ago, having to crash a child's birthday party because of mistaken identity.

"Oi, what—"

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?!

"Mm? Sorry, couldn't hear you over this snog, sorry? What?", he murmured against your lips. What a bastard!

"What's wrong with y—"

"I was right on the money, wasn't I? As I said, I'll fuck right off if you just admit it."

"FINE!"

"Yeah?"

"Fine! Yeah, sure, fuck off. You might be right."

"Wanna know how I know?"

"Some other member of the Fruit Bowl told you? Grapefruit or Lime, or summat?"

He chuckled at that, his hands on the back of your head, gluing your forehead to his. "No, it's 'cause I know you."

"Oh, please, fuck off, for fuck's sake! Twelve years, you haven't known me, please don't give me that bullshit, how thick d'you think I am?", you hissed.

He liked that you made no move to pull away.

But he didn't like what you'd just said.

His brows furrowed for a moment, and he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits right now, do you seriously think you can just stop knowing someone?"

"Twelve years is—"

"Nothing. Twelve years is nothing. Fuck. 'M not a sap, but you sure are makin' me out to be one.", he mumbled, his jaw ticking. "Listen, hey. I'm not about to entertain myself with whatever's wrong with you, or anythin'. Just... figured I've got Lemon, if shit goes south, who've you got? Not like Burke is gonna play therapist."

Licking your lips, you looked down. "Fuck off, alright? We've been in here too long. They're gonna think we're shagging in here."

"'S long as we're not smokin', yeah?", he mimicked, gesturing at the ashtray.

"It's not allowed."

"Neither was collaboration, but we did it.", he muttered, with a tiny pat to your cheek before he manoeuvred you to look up at him again. "You'll be fine. Alright? I've gone through this before."

"What'd you do about it?"

God, he was not going to beat the sap allegations, was he?

"Thought about you, alright? Not just you, o'course. Me, you, and then, after he was transferred there, Lemon, too. All of us in that foster home. Figured those three pint-sized-pricks would judge me for thinkin' life is hard now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're... we're fighters, yeah? Survivors and that. We'll be fine because we have to be. It's our part-time job."

He tilted his head down at you. Whoa. You were actually, seriously thinking about his word vomit.

"Now, back to that fuckin' snog.", he murmured, with a sharp jerk to your jawline with his thumb.

And then, again, unexpected but not unwanted, you found yourself in an airplane bathroom snogging a guy you didn't think you'd ever see again in your adult life, with probably twice the fervour he had. Pathetic.

It's like neither of you never learn. It's all temporary with him.

You'll part ways at Seoul, and he'll go onto Tokyo with that sorry-looking passed-out-kid and you'll probably never cross paths again, but here you both were, kissing like you'll have a thousand more in your life.

Always taking things for granted.

Exactly like he was back at the foster home, always doing what he wanted.

Always pissing you off.

Always knowing you to an annoying extent.

Always being your best mate.

God, pulling away was gonna hurt like a bitch.

[whimsical-roasting]

happy father’s day to all the fictional men i wanna make a father <3

[whimsical-roasting]

omg can you pls do what tangerine would be like w a reader who’s doing their masters of clin psych - great at her role as a therapist but the degree and internship environment (supervisors, colleagues) are straight up draining her soul. and she’s like bubbly, sunshiney, people pleaser - opposite of him. and he sees her drained and dulled, tired of the constant “resilience” to complete the hellish post grad degree. and she’s like ‘wish i was more like you.. not givin a shit about others and their opinions, emotional guarded and neutral’ and he scoffs almost indignantly because her personality is what makes her, HER… and he’s so soft for her like that (also like grouchy and protective over her crying every other week??) - pretty please?

ofc!! thanks for requesting💌

TAKE A BREAK.

tangerine x implied fem!reader

wc. 948 warnings. none

⎯ ☆ ⎯

There was a realisation within you that grew more and more apparent with each passing day: the undeniably heartbreaking fact that you may not quite be cut out for your dream like you had planned to be. 

A change within you had become obvious to yourself and to those closest to you, your once charming bubbly self beginning to deteriorate — opposing traits moving in to replace the ones before. It wasn’t a nice you particularly welcomed. You were consistently groggy and drained with what was repeatedly asked of you. The unattainable amount of work already a hellish task without supervisors and colleagues making everything all the more difficult.

It had grown late and you were still no closer to finishing what you were assigned with. Many many hours passing with your attention solely occupied by your laptop screen and the stacks of papers beside it on the kitchen table. The ache in your eyes and butt still going ignored.

You were far too consumed with the task at hand to even notice Tangerine standing in the doorway with his robe and pyjama bottoms on. 

“I thought you were coming up,” he starts, voice quiet so as not to disturb your thought train. He hovers in place when his words fall on deaf ears, your eyes still in pure focus. “Love?” he calls softly, slippers scuffing across the tiles as he walks towards you. 

“Yeah, be up in a minute,” you mutter, not even looking in his direction. 

He knew something was up. Very rarely did you speak to him without meeting his eyes. It was one of your tells that something was on your mind and you didn’t want him to find out.

Tangerine sighs faintly and takes a seat beside you, his eyes flicking across the mess of papers across the table.

“You said that two hours ago,” he says, tone calm and cautious — not wanting to sound accusatory. “It’s late, you really should be sleeping.”

“In a minute,” you snap and shake your head, immediately regretting your mini outburst. You bring your hands to your face as if to hide the shame. “I’m sorry,” you muffle into your palms, voice beginning to crack.

“It’s okay,” he coos and wraps a hand around one of your wrists, trying to pry it away but you don’t budge. “Come on, move your hands.”

You shake your head and the motion urges out some tears you weren’t so keen on letting spill. “It's hard,” you sob, the feelings far more intense with your tired, delirious state. “It's so hard.”

“I know it is,” he whispers, trying to show his understanding. “It’s not easy, I know,” he continues and runs a hand up and down your forearm — not wanting to push you too far by pulling the shield away from your face.

“I wish I was more like you— I really do,” you admit. “You don’t care what others think— or do. You just do your thing and people let you… and I can’t do anything,” you cut yourself short with a small sob.

Why would you want to be more like him? It makes no sense to his mind. None at all.

“How am I supposed to help others if I can’t even help myself?” you mumble and you hoped it would go unheard, but that’s not the case. Not while Tan’s present, anyway.

“Come on, you’re tired. You’re just saying things.”

“No, I mean it,” you pull your hands away and quickly wipe under your eyes, ridding the tears as you turn to look at him. “How can I help people with their own problems when I’m like this?” you shake your head and scoff. “I’m miserable.”

Tangerine’s stumped. He doesn’t know how to comfort at the best of times and right now he cannot think of anything to say that may bring you an ounce of comfort. He would frankly make it worse. 

So instead he offers his comfort with everything but words. Showing his understanding through his gaze and his hands — soft eyes offering empathy, gentle touches reassuring it.

It's as if he’s winded by your dismay, unable to function seeing how hurt and upset and tired you are. He wanted to take it all from you and carry it all on his own two shoulders.

He reaches for your hand and holds it atop the table, his thumb beginning to draw small circles into your skin as if to soothe you. You look down at the little display of affection and your mind begins to ease, slow down even. While you focus on the interlocking of your fingers, his gaze remains solely on you — watching a small wave of calm flutter across your face. 

“Press save.”

You look at him as if to silently contest, and get met with a singular shake of the head.

“Save it, then log off.”

You do as asked, knowing in your heart that he was right. You shut your laptop and close your eyes, immediate relief replacing the discomfort in your body. You let go of his hand and begin to stack and organise the papers.

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head as he stands. “That’s for tomorrow,” he simply says and reaches for your hand once again, silently guiding you to your feet.

You oblige and stand, giving your back a quick little stretch — rolling out the aches.

Tangerine places his hands on either one of his shoulders, pressure firm like he was trying to ground you. He presses a kiss to your forehead and lets his lips linger there for a moment, allowing some time for it to soak into your skin. 

“The bed’s empty without you, come on.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[whimsical-roasting]

sadly.

[whimsical-roasting]

nsfw!! - sub!tangerine

sub!tangerine wanting to be taken care of but it’s hard to switch off and not be in control because let’s be real, he’s the one who’s doin mission briefings, plans, delegation etc. he’s gotta be in control or else they die.

so how can he truly just let go?? by physically being unable to take control… with restraints and bondage.

imagine sub!tangerine strapped to a chair, wrists tied behind his back, curls in his face, huffy breaths, pink cheeks and sensitive tip.

sub!tangerine having a vibrator to the underside of his cock. your pretty body heavy on his lap, making out with him slow and languid. kisses all over his face and neck. your clothed (soaked) pussy pressing against his leaky cock… your hands massaging his broad shoulders, dragging up to scratch his scalp. teasingly tugging on his curls to give him a jolt of pain with a smug lil smirk.

waiting until he’s practically pleading to feel you. slipping your fingers past your panties and dipping into your slicked folds. fingers all glistening in the dim light as you bring it up to his lips. the way his lips suction on your digits, the deep groan he lets out as he tastes you. his pretty blue eyes fluttering, brows furrowed in a silent plea to give him more - anything, something, just more of you.

sub tangerine literally brings a tear to my eye even after all this time he is literally so special and important to me

[whimsical-roasting]

Tangerine and Sergei + punching glass (and looking hot asf while doing it)

[whimsical-roasting]

no bro you don’t understand. we have to make out. it’s for science. dude just listen to me. when was the last time you kissed someone? i’m willing to help you out! you can practice by making out with me. i’m your oldest and best friend. this totally won’t be weird or change anything about our dynamic i promise. it’s what friends are for. making out with your homies to make sure they can really impress the ladies. maybe you’re on top of me. maybe we’re both flushed. maybe you have my hands pinned over my head and we’re both breathing hard and we both wait a beat too long to move but i promise bro this is totally no homo.

[whimsical-roasting]

ugh hi hubby

[whimsical-roasting]

ᴍᴇɴᴀᴄᴇ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

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.

Note : Can you tell this was supposed to be a series but I wasn't sure the plot was likeable so I just cut a lot? If it isn't intuitive, tell me. Queued + not proofread.

Desc. : He hates the word 'fate', but it's superglued to the two of you, it seems.

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A year ago, nearly, you'd received a text.

A simple "hello", not much. Before you could respond, though :

Are you still one of them online shrinks?

Being a Psych major, you'd registered to talk to people online. Whoever was down, emotionally. Figured it'd add as volunteer work for your resume. And it'd worked, so when your "tenure" (if you could even call it that) was up, you were fine, you'd earned your certificate, your experience.

But you were done with that. You were constantly terrified you'd fuck someone up worse, so once was enough for you.

So who the hell was this guy?

I'm not, no, I'm not a licensed therapist.

Do you still study therapy?

Yeah?

Great, can I call?

How did you get this number?

My brother really needs your help, alright? Pick up?

Alright.

The phone rang immediately.

And you hadn't stopped picking up since then.

What if this bloke was suicidal and you didn't pick up one day and he just bloody shot himself in the mouth? Couldn't have that on your conscience, and not a great way to start your career as a therapist.

He maintains that his name is and always has been Tangerine, and his brother's is Lemon, which pisses you off, big-time. Bullshit. What sort of mother is that cruel?

It's really not a normal day until you receive a call from him, though. lt's a part of your routine, now. The police would be called if he didn't call within the 24 hours you call a day.

You'd made a game of predicting when. Because it really came at odd times. One day, he calls you in the middle of class, the other, in the middle of sleep. It's a gamble.

One you're becoming less and less sure you're willing to take.

Because he doesn't ever give you a straight answer as to what he actually does for a living, or where he even is. For all you know, you could be talking to a terrorist or a hitman or summat.

Or worse, a genuinely fucked-up guy that you're probably fuckin' up worse because you're not licensed, and he won't listen when you tell him that.

"Can you hear me?" Honey, thick, dazzling. His voice.

"Yeah.", you reply.

"What were you doin'? Right before I called?" He always asks this and you've tried saying diabolically odd things to throw him off, but his only reply is "havin' lots of fun, then?"

And today, you're too tired to lie.

"Just... walkin' about. 'Member the croissants I was tellin' you about? The shop's moved, so I have a longer route to walk."

He knows. They're both watching you.

"Lovely. How's that thesis comin'?"

"Brilliant. What were you doin'?"

Tangerine squints down at the blood he'd just wiped from his forehead with a grimace. "Work."

"Yeah?" Again, could be a surgeon, could be an insurgent.

"Yeah. Figured I'd call. Y'know. Get your therapy or whatever."

"Get my therapy? You realise it's not so much a product as it is a service?

"Product, service, who cares. Point is, I just thought I'd call."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Been, uh, y'know. Thinking. Of what you said last time."

"What did I say last time?"

"The whole... you-steal-things-because-you-never-had-anything-of-your-own-shite.", he grumbles.

"Ah.", you sigh, watching the pedestrian light flicker and cars whizzing by. "And?"

"And you're a real good shrink.", he huffs, pinching his nose and running his fingers across the length of it.

"I need it on the record that you know I'm not a licensed therapist."

"You might as well be."

"No, no, no. That's a very important distinction."

"Alright. So you're an almost-shrink. Whatever. How was your day?"

"Pretty chill. Just working. Can we please circle back to the stealing-things bit?"

He grins, shaking his coat and flapping it around to get rid of any excess blood as he balances the phone between his ear and shoulder. "I dunno, alright? I see summat, I need to take it. I told you all this."

"But now you think my suggestion of 'why' you're doing it might apply?"

Huffing, he puts the phone on speaker before wordlessly shushing his brother.

"I thought you'd be happy. You're probably right, yeah?"

"Why would I be happy that I was right when it harms you?"

"Aw. That's adorable, that."

He's not sure why he's so obsessed with you. Yes, he's grateful. You are very good at being a shrink. But why he's so taken? Question for the ages.

Perhaps it's the fact that you picked up the first time. Maybe it's your patience. Maybe it's the fact that you're probably so suspicious of him, but your benefit of doubt has let you make very troubling decisions. Like, for instance, ignore things he says that the government would usually encourage civilians to report.

"Got a moral question for ya, if you're up for it."

"What's that, then?'

"Do you think — and I saw this in an American movie— that bombing a hotel room is terrorism? Even if the hotel room contained one of the world's worst cartel lords?"

You sigh. He does this far too often for either of your good. "Mate."

"Mm?" Are you onto him?

"You have got to stop watching these movies."

He snorts. "Are those Doctor's orders, then?"

"I'm not a doctor, but yeah, my humble advice is to stop watching those sorts of movies if you keep ruminating over the ethics of them so much it keeps you up at night."

"It doesn't keep me up at night. It's fun."

"That's not normal."

Lemon punches his shoulder, tapping on his watch, and he rolls his eyes. "Alright, I've got to go. Got a dinner with my brother."

"Alright."

"Bye, gorgeous."

You fight an eye roll. "Bye."

You've always refused to say his "name", because it's absolutely fucking ridiculous.

He shoves his phone into his pocket before turning to his brother, rubbing at his arm. "Was that bloody necessary?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Cockblock."

"Wh— I didn't introduce you so you could end up shaggin' her!", Lemon scoffs, shouldering past him to unzip the bomb-containing duffle bag.

A duffle bag. With a bomb. Very unique, secretive, never done before.

No, he introduced him to you because his nicking almost caused him to fuck up a job. And now, you're the closest point of contact to the new target. Which is, actually, quite lovely for him, because he has an excuse to watch you. Fuck, he sounds psychotic.

"There's no black-and-white rule that you can't shag your shrinks, alright? Have you seen her?"

"I'm not answerin' that.", mutters Lemon, gently placing the bomb on the table. "Alright, so we place this in the room tomorrow, then this weekend, when he's in the room, you go to—"

"Hang on, hang on."

He pointedly ignores Lemon's eye roll as he dials you again. "If she picks up again, she's down for a shag, too.", he grins.

"She'll obviously pick up, she's your shrin—"

"Hello?"

Tangerine smirks, patting his brother on the back. "You cheeky little minx. You're not only fuckin' sexy, you're also a bit of an unprofessional menace, aren't you?"

"What?"

"Drop the act, alright? Also drop the coat you're wearin'."

You nearly drop the phone. "What?"

"Yes, before you ask, I am watchin' you, but so's about... maybe three other people? So, yeah, drop it.", he drawls, rolling his ring across his fingers. You'd hopefully be impressed at that, but that's only if you ever get to actually fuckin' see him, and you can't, not this soon.

Not if he can help it, anyway.

"My coat?"

"Unless you're not wearin' anything underneath. In which case, definitely drop it."

"Alright, fuck off if you're just wasting my t—."

"Listen, if you have a death wish, I'll hang up, but it'd be easier just to run into traffic. Gettin' hunted ain't that fun, trust me.", he replies, screwing the ring back onto his finger before reaching over to his cigarette again.

A little bit of silence. He sees you slowing down, before shaking your head as your pace picks back up again and your phone's balanced between your ear and shoulder as you unbutton your coat. "If this is just you bein' a perv, I swear—"

"What? You'll what?", he chuckles, blowing out smoke as he rests one knee over the other. "You'll report "a kleptomanic bloke in a suit named Tangerine" to the peelers? You'll get laughed out of the station and shoved into a straitjacket."

You decide to ignore that.

Your coat eventually lands on the pavement with a ruffle. "Mate, it's cold and you're scarin' me. Who's following me?"

"Turn the left corner."

You do.

"Now the next one.", he whispers, conspiratorially. "The next one. Yeah, the one after that."

Lemon fights a chortle, shaking his head as he smacks his chest. "You're the fuckin' menace."

"But then I'll end up right back where I— where's my coat? It was just there!"

"Exactly. You believe me now? That people are followin' you? Now take the right corner and go through the alley right there. No, not the second alley to your right, the third. Yeah, keep going. You're there, you're doin' a good job."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, what the actual f—"

"No, just look more frantic, yeah? Will do wonders for making you look inconspicuous.", he scoffs.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm... where am I going, where am I supposed to g—"

He sits up, a funny little furrow to his brows, one mirrored by his brother, manning the cameras. "Alright, first, you're gonna go to your happy place, 'cause you look real fuckin' close to a whole panic attack and we do not need that, do we?"

"No, sorry."

"Right, deep breaths, alright? Now, you're gonna— fuck, alright, uh, keep walking straight, draw as little attention to yourself as possible."

"You said 'fuck', why'd you say 'fuck', what happened? What happ— Tangerine, what the fuck happened?"

He clears his throat, standing as he adjusts his tie, his sleeves, his coat, and all you can hear is the rustling of clothes. "Nothing, just keep walking straight, uh, when you see me, give me the biggest snog of your life. The wetter the better."

You freeze. "I beg your fucking pardon?"

"Don't pause, you idiot! You've watched that Marvel movie, haven't you? Where the, uh... what's her name? Black Widow, yeah, where she says snogging makes people uncomfortable enough to look away? She wasn't lyin', you know?"

You scoff. He was joking. This whole time, he's been messing with you, and you're falling for it so easily, it should be illegal.

He's probably not even watching you, some rando probably picked up your coat. Ugh!

How could you even think of the possibility that he was an 'assassin'? Your imagination should be studied.

"You're fucking insane!", you hiss, throwing your head up, glaring at the sky because you couldn't glare at him. There's a sort of reluctant smile on your face that he wants to snog off you.

"Just a distraction from your thesis, and the croissants, or whatnot. You're welcome."

Fuck.

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Tangerine isn't convinced this isn't terrorism. How could he be, when this guy's room was in the middle of the fucking floor?! Wouldn't exactly help in the whole discreet aspect of their fucking job, would it?

And so, he stands in the fucking elevator of this ridiculously ginormous hotel, tapping his foot and imagining all the people in the lobby slowly becoming the size of ants. Imagining, not watching. It's good it's not a transparent elevator. Bad for business, that would be.

Twenty two fucking floors left?

He'd off himself if he didn't want the money.

The fifth floor, however, is where you walked in, and this whole mundane affair suddenly became heaps more interesting.

His first instinct is obviously to yell and ask how the hell you've tracked him, and shouldn't you be in bloody college right now, but then he realises you don't know what he looks like.

Curiosity wins, and he has to know if you recognise what he sounds like.

The first thing he notices about you is how fucking bored you looked. Out of place in this buzzing, unnecessarily-opulent swanky hotel. The music blaring through your ears (so loud that he could pick it up), seems to be nothing more than the sound of a pin-drop to your zoned-out self.

Enter Tangerine.

"Bonjour."

You raise a brow, lifting one headphone off your ear. "Uh, bonjour.", you reply back, politely, although it's clear you're weirded out. Fair.

His outfit, however (unlike on his other missions) is probably not what freaked you out about him.

The sharp suit and tie was a staple in this hellhole of a posh hotel. In Paris. That's what pisses him off. It makes no sense for you to be all the way here when you're supposed to be at Uni, slaving over a thesis. You had been, a couple days ago. You told him as such. So what the hell were you doing here?

"Quelle heure est-il?", he inquires. Asking for the time, he'd gathered, was the only form of small talk that was acceptable with these rich snobs.

Your eyes move from the slowly ascending floor numbers on the wall back to him, and then the watch on his wrist that he completely forgot to hide.

Continuing to glare at him, you reach into your pocket for your phone, turning it around and shoving it in his face so he could read the time.

"Merci."

You nod tersely, and he has to conceal his grin. This is the most fun he'd had in ages, and last week, he and Lemon had had to interrogate a stripper, so that was saying something.

"Mm... parlez-vous anglais?"

"Yeah?" Oh, thank fuck you didn't act like you couldn't speak English. His French is less than acceptable.

"Oh, good. I just wanted to say, y'know, my watch, it's not working."

He sees the subtle head tilt, the glint of recognition flashing through your eyes, and he knows his accent and his voice is ringing a bell somewhere in that stunning little head of yours.

"I saw you lookin' at it.", he continues. "'M not a creep who's about to ask you the time so he can distract you or summat. 'M just genuinely askin'."

"Why'd you wear a broken watch, then?"

"It just... stopped on the way here. Figured, since there's a watch shop somewhere here, I'll see if they can't fix it, too, for extra price."

"Smart."

"Yeah. But that was smart, too, though. The whole not-even-looking-down-at-your-phone-for-a-second thing. Very smart.", he praises, pointing at you with a ringed finger. At least he knows you're being safe when you're outside the Uni.

Except for visiting your estranged, drug-trafficking uncle for the first time in your entire life, unfortunately during the exact time that he was assigned to kill said uncle.

So, what are you here for, then? Like... vacation or...?"

Your brows furrow, and he's suddenly slapped in the face with the realisation that you really don't know who he is. Fuck. He keeps forgetting that little fact.

You shrug, nevertheless. Oh, he needs to give you a lesson on stranger danger. You don't talk to strangers. "Uh, yeah."

"Me, as well."

Both of you know the other's lying, but honestly. What's the point in trying to decipher the truth of each others' presences when you wouldn't even have three more minutes with each other?

He nods, meticulously watching you gnaw at your upper lip. "And I suppose you just happen to be going onto the same floor as I am?", he observes, pointing at the numbers on the elevator wall before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Or maybe you're going onto the same floor as I am."

He snorts, nodding as he reaches into his coat's inner pocket.

You tense, and his eyes shoot up. He's not making a good first face-to-face impression, but something tells him your fates are intertwined, and he hates it. Makes him sound like Lemon, believing in all that drivel.

"Relax, love, no firearms, no weapons, no nothin'. Just a celly.", he assures, wiggling the phone around in front of your face.

Nevertheless, your jaw clenches, and once again, he has to hide his grin of mirth. Wow, how did he get this lucky? Work and a show? He was gettin' paid for vacation, essentially.

"Now.", he mutters, holding his cell phone the safe distance away from his eyes, before typing in something.

Nuclear codes? You'd never know.

A comment on a Twitter thread? Possible, he seemed like a little shit-stirrer.

"I'm going to show you summat. A little document, but not the entire thing, of course. You tell me if your last name's on there. If it isn't, we have no problem. Yeah?", he offers, shrugging. "if it is... we'll finish this in the elevator. Deal?"

You scoff, crossing your arms as you tap your foot, turning off your phone so that the light buzz of the music still playing through your headphones dissipated from the elevator.

"Come on, sweetheart, we're both adults here." He raises a brow after an emphatic pause. "Deal?"

You look at him for a moment, and he's just about ready to shoot the cameras and bring you to your knees. What a shame. He was always having to kill the people he wanted to shag. Really wasn't fair.

"Deal.", you say, curtly.

That's good, it snapped him back into the zone. "Mm. Alright.", he mumbles, his thumb scrolling, text running past the screen. He turns the phone to you, the same way you had a couple minutes ago, watching your eyes as they scurried across the screen.

Your eyes stop moving, and he smirks. "Yeah?"

"Right there."

He furrows his brows in mock curiosity, tapping his chin before turning the screen back to himself. "Which one?"

"Third from the bottom."

"Oh, right, the only one that's not checked off, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, well, that's a lovely twist of fate, innit?", he muses, shoving his phone back in his coat pocket and sniffing before clearing his throat. "Beautiful." Ugh, that word again. Fate.

He makes a show of looking down at his watch, before rolling his eyes all exaggerated, because 'Oh, right. Silly me.'

And then he strikes.

A pistol presses right on your sternum, a hand presses on the elevator wall beside your head, and a little pout forms on the lips in front of you. "Alright, love?"

"Alright.", you grit out. Fuck. Come to visit your stupid estranged, black-sheep-uncle no one seems to want to talk about and you get mugged in a bloody elevator.

"Weapon?"

"None."

He sighed. "Again, I'll ask. Weapon?"

Narrowing your eyes at him, you gently lift up your foot so you could reach in for the knife lodged between your skin and your boot — per your rich, evidently notorious uncle's instructions — without taking your gaze off of him.

He brandishes it around in front of the elevator mirror for a moment. "Piratey. I love it. Anything else?'

"No."

"Love, I don't have the patience nor the time—", he chuckles, gesturing at his broken wristwatch, "For all that."

"I really don't have anything else."

He weighs his options - believing or not believing you - for a moment, before shaking his head, obviously choosing the latter. "You're really not letting me disprove the creep allegations, eh?", he scoffs, his hand gripping your waist for a moment (more for himself than anything else), before shoving his hands up your top, ripping off the gun plastered to the back of your bra. "Hot.", he remarks, lifting your top up further. "A fuckin' revolver, too? What are you, a Midwest cowgirl or summat?", he asks, peeling the thing from being strapped to the front of your bra. "Any other surprises I should know about?"

"No."

This time, he believes you. "Alright.", he huffs, rubbing at his forehead with the edge of one of your guns, shoving the rest of your weapons into his pockets. "How'd you know we were gonna be here, then?"

Familiarity aside, he's a complete stranger. Tangerine has to keep reminding himself of that fact.

Must be hard, being you in this moment, he reckons.

Your uncle that no one in your family talks to mails you and tells you he's some generational crimelord and you need to come so you get your fair share of his money, and so here you bloody were.

With weapons, as the mail had apparently clearly instructed. Funny, seeing as you obviously had no idea how to use them and no idea why you would need them until this bloke suddenly started threatening you.

"Information.", you reply.

"That's not telling me too much, now, is it, love?"

You shrug, wincing when he presses the mouth of his gun even harder against your sternum.

"Do you get off on this shite?", you manage to spit out.

Oh, was he waiting for that question.

"On what? Guns? Or feeling pretty girls up?"

"Murder."

Good response.

"Depends."

"Mm."

"You're not asking me what it depends on.", he observes.

"No, I'm not."

In a sudden flash, he has his arm around the front of your neck, his chin on your shoulder, his gun pressed between his abdomen and your back. "Move and the bullet's in your blood.", he whispers, before kissing your cheek.

Of course he's going to milk this. Who wouldn't? Pretty bird like you trapped in an elevator with him. It's basically an elevator to heaven at this point.

Swaying you slightly, he (and his stupid fucking moustache) smiles against your neck as the doors part, an elderly, clearly filthy rich couple walking in, polite smiles etched on their faces.

He makes a big show of pretending that he's flustered at holding you so intimately when they'd walked in.

And then, the old lady speaks. "Oh, don't be shy on our account. We were on our honeymoon, once, too."

Oh, buggering Christ.

"Yeah? Always wanted to come to Paris, this one.", he replies, shaking you slightly with the hand that's wrapped around the entire expanse of your ribs, his thumb brushing your collarbone almost exactly like a newlywed madly in love would.

"Ah, she must be so happy."

"Aren't you, my heart?", he muses, kissing at your temple.

You nod, your jaw clenched so you didn't reach back and elbow him in the crotch. You couldn't have bent that way, but still. A girl could dream, yeah?

"She's a bit shellshocked. Embarrassed, even, I would say.", he explains.

Tittery laughter that makes you want to claw your eyes out, and then the elevator dings. "That's us. 16th. We'll see you at the buffet dinner this evening, perhaps?"

"Yes, of course.", he reassures, waving them off until the doors closed once more.

"That's us one day, isn't it, my dear?", he taunts, swiftly spinning you back around to face the mirror he'd been leaning on the whole time. "Look. A couple more wrinkles, a pearl necklace, and you're her. The same clothes, a bit of a shave and grey hair and I'm him."

"Where does the pistol come in?", you spit, glaring at the thing he was gently trailing from your spine around to your chin.

"Bedroom.", he retorts, almost immediately.

You scoff in disgust, and he guffaws. "Right. Now. Back to business. How'd you know we'd be here?"

"I told you. Information."

"Not enough."

"Not my problem. You're going to kill me either way."

"Yes, but wouldn't you like to get to Heaven? Do a good deed, help a bloke out, make sure he doesn't lose his job to loose ends? Would earn you points before you go."

"You want me to tell you where I got the information about you because it's a 'good deed'?"

He nods. "Will you do that?", he asks.

"No."

"Yeah, thought not. So you're coming with me, then? To watch the rest of your family be shot, and then be bombed with all of them?"

No response, as he expected. "Oh, cheer up, love, the honeymoon period doesn't last that long, anyway."

You tilt your head. Did he just say bomb? "You're bombing my uncle's hotel room?"

"That's what I said. Things you do for a paycheque, yeah? But I sort of understand it. Cathartic, no? Plus, cleaner. No huge investigations on the victims, just the damages caused to the hotel. And a possible motive, maybe."

Bombing a hotel room. Now, where the fuck had you heard that before? Especially in this very strong accent? Couldn't put your finger on it.

Ding. You look up. "One more floor.", you mutter, absentmindedly.

You say that far too casually for his liking.

"Fuck.", he murmurs. "Meant what I said, you're really fucking smart." Quick as lightning, he presses the button for the 24th floor, plowing you out with him. "How many are waiting up there for the ambush?", he growls, glancing up at the ceiling of the (thankfully empty) 24th lobby.

Wow. You'd been given an out! "Too many for you.", you lie.

"What happened to my brother?"

"Was he in the building?"

"No."

"Then nothing."

"Fuck. Fuck, it's always the sexy ones that are, like..."

"Dangerous?"

"No, annoying! One job, that's all I'm asking, one job that goes smooth so I can relax, go to the beach, then have a cuppa."

"Don't get a lot of those in your line of work, do you?"

"Listen, smart-mouth, this is what we're going to do. I'm going to text my brother. We're going to abort our plan. I don't know what sort of communication system you lot have, but you will te—"

Blast.

Lemon had activated the fucking bomb, and you're both suddenly on your hands and knees, a couple pieces of debris hitting his back as he, out of some odd instinct, shields you from it all.

His ears ringing, he's pretty sure he's yelling something at you, but he can't figure out what it was, and what you're yelling back.

All he can make out is the terror on your face.

He loves his job, he really does, it helps his creative side fluorish, pays well, and hey, he was trained for this. If he didn't do it, who else would? But sometimes, when he leaves a survivor, he has to come face-to-face with the chaos he's caused. Like now. He's lucky his arms are holding your wrists down firmly to the ground, because fuck, would you have uppercut the (nonexistent) soul out of him.

"Shall I kill you, as well?" It's a genuine question, not rhetorical. If you're going to be a liability, get the Twins arrested or tracked, he needs to know.

You vehemently shake your head and he huffs, nodding as he blew hair from his eyes, looking around at the debris-fort around you. "Let's get out of here. Can you walk?"

"I'm not goin' anywhere with you!"

"You really don't want to be here when the police get in here."

You sigh. Yeah, that was true.

"Are they all dead, then?"

He pauses. Looks up. "Yeah."

"Every last one?"

"Listen, it's all part of the job, love, alright? No matter how hot I find you, or the fun little banter we had in the elevator, I mean— none of it was personal."

You aren't deluded. This isn't an apology, or even an attempt at easing his own conscience. This is just a statement.

Once you make it to the lobby— difficult feat considering he had to walk you down twenty-three floors with your bad leg — he grunts as he slumps onto a couch, watching you do the same next to him after waving off a couple paramedics asking if you were alright.

You both watch them all run into the bomb site with the rest of the authorities in silence.

A tiny ruffle, the soft shifting of tissues and his hand emerges back out from his coat pocket. "Pastry?"

"Where'd you get that?", you ask, glaring at the tiny yellow thing that looks like it actually could solve your entire problem and get your mind off the fact that you'd known your estranged uncle (with a huge fortune) all of two seconds.

He tilts his head, raising a brow as he breaks off a piece.

You furrow your brows for a moment, before you sigh in realisation. You don't even have the energy to be shocked. "Fuck. You nicked it."

He shrugs, handing the piece to you. "Can't help it."

"So you're Tangerine."

"Yeah."

"Tangerine is a codename, then. Knew no one would name their kid that, not even the richest, hippie-est, most out-of-touch-celebrity.", you mumble, through bites.

He licks his lips, stretching for a moment, with a polite nod at the lobby receptionist, before turning back to you. "You really should get that license. You're an amazing shrink."

"I'll need one, probably. After all this."

"Listen, so long as you go back to college, I'll make sure you're not bloody killed."

"Oh, that's so sweet, thanks a ton.", you scoff. "I'll be going now."

He yanks your hand to get you back down. "I'm serious, alright? You're not going to go report us and then get yourself killed because you're miffed that we killed your uncle. Yeah?"

You nod, and he kisses your temple (in defeat, probably? Or remorse. Either way, he kisses you like you'll disintegrate if he does it too hard), before patting your head.

"Good girl. Off you pop."

"Never leave a survivor", and he's left a very liable one.

Oh, he's gonna get an earful from Lemon for this.

[whimsical-roasting]

well Jesus Christ.. the lashes AND ass.. men don’t deserve good things

PHIL DUNSTER Surface 2.08 "Unearthed"

[whimsical-roasting]

hopefully may will be kinder to me

[whimsical-roasting]

love when fictional men are so devoted to their partner it makes them dangerous and insane. very slutty behavior keep it up king

[whimsical-roasting]

if this movie has no fans, the fbi finally got me

[whimsical-roasting]

Holy fuck the way he’s written and the dynamic between them

PART 2 where he LIVES PLS ILL CRY. I need him soft with her

ʀɪᴏᴛ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

This was from my poll .

Other fics of mine. 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.

[whimsical-roasting]

Tangerine x fem!reader

Summary: You and Tangerine discover you love sucking on his fingers.

Genre: SMUT (nsfm), blurb

Warning: oral fixation, sex, alluding to more sexual activities, finger sucking in a sexual context lol

~ to the sweet anon that requested this, I hope this is what you envisioned <3 ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

Tangerine has just come home from a mission; he'd been beaten and bruised as usual but you'd cleaned him up.

Now, you're sitting on his lap on his favorite armchair, one of your knees pressed to your chest in between his spread legs while the other is splayed across his thigh. Tangerine's head leans against the chair, his eyes closed, as one of his hands smoothes up your exposed thigh while the other teases the strands of your hair in his fingers.

God, you always make him feel so loved. 

You hum, gently moving his hand away from your hair and holding it inside yours. You tilt your head, smiling as you begin to play with his long fingers. You admire his hands and chew on your lower lip as you twist and turn the array of rings he has on while soft classical music lulls in the background.

Tangerine's eyes remain shut. He hasn't even processed the feel of your hands playing with his until he feels your lips touch his palm and he smirks.

However, he doesn't open his eyes until your lips wrap around his fingers. It surprises him and he turns his head to look down at you. 

Your mouth is still closed around his fingers as your gaze meet his. Your cheeks burn warm, but you can't bring yourself to pull away from him or be too embarrassed as sucking on his fingers like this feels too soothing.

You feel safe. 

"What are you doing, angel?" Tangerine murmurs, his dark gaze stuck on how your lips part around his fingers. He's turned on. He doesn't know if he should be—this feels more intimate than it feels dirty.

"Are you okay?"

You hum again, eyes lidded and you shift so you're straddling his lap now. Tangerine's other hand finds your hip as he smirks. He pulls his other hand from your mouth, running his thumb over your bottom lip and then pushing his thumb past your lips and into your mouth, the rest of his fingers resting under your chin. You smile, feeling warmth in your stomach, and suck eagerly 

"Good girl," he whispers, his voice raspy with lust, "you missed me so much, didn't ya?" 

"I missed you so much," you echo, your voice muffled behind his thumb. 

Tangerine pulls his hand away and cups your cheeks as he leans in to press a kiss against your forehead. "I love you," he mutters as he pulls you closer to him. 

* * *

The second time it happens he's buried deep inside you, hips mid-thrust. 

You're pressed against the mattress, body warm and mind hazy as small gasps of pleasure escape your lips. Tangerine is hovering over you, hair falling messily over his lidded eyes as his hand clenches around the headboard so he can steadily pound into your soaked pussy. 

"Tan," you whine for the fourth time, your voice pitchy and breathy, "Tan, please,"

He doesn't know what else you could be whining for as he's already fucking into you just like you'd been begging him to. His eyebrows pinch together and his other hand now moves up your throat and rests under on your jaw. Tangerine parts your lips and allows you to suck on two of his fingers. 

You accept happily, moaning against his hand, as your eyes snap open and stare at your boyfriend with a hungry look. You know he'd half done this to shut you up but you don't care. 

"Bloody hell," Tangerine groans, snapping his hips into yours with more frenzy and desire, as he watches you take his fingers in your mouth obediently. It shouldn't be as hot as it is, having your lips stretched around him as you suck sensually—but holy fuck his cock is so hard.

"You're so stunning," he breathes out and his heart skips when your pussy clenches around him in response. 

Shit, he thinks as he continues to fuck into you, he should really have you suck something else later…