#minetangerine

[megplant]

I harvested some old Tangerines from my sketchbook and polished them up for posting 🍊

[megplant]

Winning & Losing | Tangerine x F!Reader

Summary: Academy for Assassins AU, with Tangerine as the hot, new, mysterious CO. Reader is a legacy student that grew up in the Academy and is used to coming out on top, always. Warnings: None, really. T for Teen for some language and canon-typical violence. A/N: One shot/exploratory blurb for now, but I have lots and lots of ideas in this verse, so if people like it I might flesh out some more of my plot bunnies! I definitely have a slow burn enemies to lovers hidden in my notes for this 'verse. Hope you enjoy!

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Beep! Beep! Beep- 

You reach out and blearily smash your hand over the top of your alarm clock, eventually managing to hit the ‘off’ button. 

5:00 AM glares at you in that insistent red neon, but you only allow yourself a moment to feel the weight of the day ahead. 

With a sigh, you swing yourself out of bed, throwing yourself into your morning routine. 

Every day here is the same; structured, regimented, and strictly enforced. The routines are so rote you could go through most days blindfolded or half-asleep. 

You pad down to the dorm bathrooms in your flip flops, your little pink toiletries basket swinging beside you. A few other girls are up at this hour, but it’s still early for most of your cohort. There’s no line this early, and you’re back to your room quickly to finish getting ready. 

All trainees wear the same uniform, consisting of black cargo pants and black t-shirts or long sleeves. In cold weather, there were full fatigues. You glance out your window as you’re lacing the combat boots, and note the rain with a mild excitement. 

If it was still raining during Basic Combat, you wouldn’t be able to use the outdoor shooting range. That appealed to you since the instructors usually put together competitive exercises when you were stuck inside. Things like sparring tournaments, or tests of strength or skills.

You loved these days for the chance to utterly thrash on your fellow trainees. You always win these things. 

Your early lesson on Current Geopolitics passed by agonizingly slowly, your leg bouncing under your desk with barely contained tension. 

You bound into the gym, dripping and splashing water with every step towards the locker room. The storm outside hasn’t let up, the rain pouring down in sheets. The water bouncing off the hard cement building is loud enough to result in a dull roar echoing through the concrete gym. After a while it dulls into background noise, occasionally punctuated by violent gusts of wind. 

The rest of your cohort begins to filter in behind you, the locker room filling up with more and more girls as you all try to dry off and change. The stragglers are still splashing their way into the locker room while you’re already changed and headed to chat with your CO before warming up. 

You really can’t wait to find out what kind of contest you’ll be winning. 

But your anticipatory smirk falls off your face as you realize Captain Wen is nowhere to be found in the cavernously empty gym. 

That’s the other thing - you realize now as you’re actually taking the time to notice that the gym’s been completely emptied. The workout and fitness equipment is all gone - including the massive acrobatic gymnasium. The climbing wall? Gone. 

You’re frowning and crossing your arms as you take it in - it feels like someone’s been in your house. 

What remains in the echoing concrete space are some mats laid out with others stacked nearby, all ominously on display under the harsh gym lighting. You can see crates stacked together with other various equipment closer to the hangar doors at the back of the building. There are some target practice dummies amongst the pile, but you can’t make much else out. 

The only other thing of interest is the large, old school blackboard on wheels that stands behind the mats. You see your class’ roster neatly chalked into tidy columns, names listed by alphabetical order. 

A few of the other girls are clustered around the blackboard speculating quietly, but most mill around the periphery of the grouped mats. It’s quiet besides hushed whispers, everyone tense and waiting to find out what the hell was going on. 

You stood slightly outside the haphazard circle, arms crossed and foot tapping. You kept your eyes trained on that pile of equipment across the gym, certain you could gleam some clues about what was happening from there. 

“-Harper!” The terse whisper makes you stop in your tracks, already starting to walk in that direction. You pivot around innocently, hands up in surrender when you see Tara, one of your only real friends here, glaring daggers at you and motioning for you to come back. 

You join her at the edge of the mats, offering a sheepish smile. “I wasn’t doing anything!” 

“Liar!” She pokes you in the ribs, making you giggle and elbow her in return. “I’m NOT getting laps or patrol duty in this rain as a punishment for you getting into something you shouldn’t.

You sigh in relenting agreement, beginning to stretch by swinging your arms up and over your head. “Fine, fine - But, I want to know what the hell is going on. Where is Captain Wen? What happened to the gym?” 

You’re trying to keep your voice down so the girls in nearby groups don’t hear, but you’re getting more and more agitated, your voice rising. 

Wen is one of your favorite Officers at the Academy. She’s older; tall and stern with severe features that you’ve only rarely seen warm with a smile. She was one of the only adults who would give you the time of the day as a younger girl, indulging your unending desperation to prove yourself. 

She’d trained you from a young age, teaching you everything from gymnastics to tai-chi with the same rigid discipline she expected from all of her students. Your awkward child body never excusing you from her exacting standards. 

Captain Wen has looked the same since you were a little girl - her tall, lithe body always topped with a severe, silver-haired bun. It occurs to you in a shocking pang that she’s been old for as long as you’ve been alive and it was very possible…

You begin looking around the darkened gym with renewed anxiety, desperate for any clue as to what was going on. 

Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait much longer. The metal doors that connected the gym to the next wing of the Academy proper clanged open loudly, everyone in your cohort falling silent as the figure slowly approached. 

With the only lights on being directed at your small circle in the center of the room, you couldn’t make out the person walking over. They walked briskly, an air of irritation already buzzing about them with each heavy step. 

You have to fight the urge to accost this person with questions as they draw nearer to the group, instead keeping your distance to watch everything unfold in front of you. 

The man - and you can finally make him out as he crosses into the spotlighted circle - is carrying a duffel bag on his back, and holds a bottle of water in his hand. He ignores all of you, slipping between the students to get to the chalkboard. 

He drops his bag on the ground - it sounds heavy, you note - and lets out a long sigh, finally looking over the group in front of him. 

You narrow your eyes as you cross your arms over your chest and look him over from the relative anonymity of your placement at the back of the group. He’s tall and muscular, in a tightly fitted t-shirt and the same black cargo pants you all wore. His hair is cut short, cropped in the same traditional high-and-tight that most men sported here. But he isn’t clean-shaven like all the other men, still sporting an unkempt 5-o’clock shadow that looked days old. You even notice the glint of an earring as he turns to survey the group and feel your mouth drop open. 

The blatant disregard for uniform standards! And he was supposed to be an instructor? 

Before you start exploding with unanswered questions, he finally addresses the class. 

“Right -” He claps his hands together once, hard, making everyone jump. You shoot a look at Tara when you hear his thick, Cockney accent, mouthing what you really think: 

Bad. News. 

“This is Combat Basics. I’ll be taking over for Wen for the time being, here and in Conditioning.” 

Your heart sinks, your fears confirmed. You pipe up hotly from the back-

“What happened to Captain Wen?” 

There’s a few murmurs of agreement, and you can see the new Instructor glancing around to find the source of the question. You don’t move to reveal yourself. 

He clears his throat, looking slightly annoyed. “Dunno. Maybe the old bat finally retired.”

In the middle of your senior year at the Academy?! You suck in air, ready to argue, only to double over wheezing thanks to Tara’s harsh elbow into your gut. 

Spluttering, you look up at her. 

“Shut up, Harper!” She hisses at you, She eyes you significantly, and you know that the matter isn’t dropped, she just doesn’t want you to catch shit from this new guy. You nod at her with an eye roll. 

“Quiet back there!” You hear him snap from the front, frowning at the general restlessness from your section of the group. 

He lets out a long suffering sigh, tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“All. Right.” He tries again, somehow with even less patience in his voice. “I will be taking over this unit from Wen. This is Combat Basics, so we’re going back to basics.”

He nods at the chalkboard behind him as he continues. “You’ll notice your rankings are gone.” 

You did notice, actually, lips pressed into a thin line with displeasure. That ‘1’ you’re used to seeing next to your name was hard-won and has been even harder to maintain. 

“I want to see what you all can do for myself.” He says, a slight smirk starting to pull at his mouth. “You’ll have real rankings in my class, based on performance alone. I do not play favorites, and I do not care who paid your way into this Academy.” 

You can feel hot shame bubbling up in your chest, swiftly transforming into affronted rage - a much easier emotion to address. Your class rank wasn’t influenced by your relationships with the instructors; It was earned by your personal blood, sweat, and tears over the last 3 years. You didn’t pull all-nighters in the shooting range for months to fix your tendency to pull left just for this chav to come in and demolish everything you’d worked for. 

You want to rip his trashy gold earring right out of his earlobe. 

“Today, you’ll spar each other one-on-one, knockout tournament style. You lose, you’re out. The ten finalists will spar me - not that I expect any of you to win, so the top 10 rankings will be decided on how long you can last.” 

Your teeth grind to stop yourself from scoffing out loud. Who the hell did this guy think he was? 

Getting to the top 10 would have to be your goal for the day, then. Because you really wanted the opportunity to hit this fucking guy. 

“Sir?” A boy pipes up near the front of the group, your brain searches for his name but comes up empty (not a threat, no need to remember). “Do you have a name?” 

A few of the others around him can’t hide their smirks and chuckles, and you roll your eyes. 

His gaze is cold and calculating as he takes in the group of boys. You wonder if he sees what you do - insubordinate, chuckleheads that thrive on adrenaline and don’t take this seriously. Or does he see what so many of the other instructors do? Growing, young men with a zest for life that will excel in their field of inevitable violence? 

“Tangerine. But you all call me ‘Sir’. Understood?”

Gasps and mutters ripple through the assembled students at his name, and you can’t help your own dropped jaw and raised eyebrows. He was infamous, to be sure, and what was he doing here? 

You’d heard of him as a bogeyman. He was supposed to be one of the most brutal, ruthless, and effective agents to ever come out of the Academy. His type didn’t come back to instruct. They lived and died in the field. 

Clearly, he had expected the reaction at revealing his identity, and didn’t seem phased by the shock in your class. He just repeated himself louder, more forcefully. 

“Understood?”

Your class got themselves together enough to chorus a loud ‘Yes, Sir!’ and he nodded once, satisfied. 

“Line up, alphabetically. Let’s get started.”

As things get started, you’re glad of your middle of the pack status thanks to your last name. It saves you from starting in the first rounds and risking tiring out by the time you’d get to spar Tangerine. You’re happy to let the competition thin itself out, as you wait your turn in line. 

Tangerine splits you all into five brackets - no seeding, no consideration for weight class or gender, just going straight down the line of you all. You end up starting in the third round of your group, only having to get through three more students before you can move up into the semi-finals. 

Watching the others, you notice most everyone is playing by the book. You watch the clean sparring happening around you with a look of consternation. They’re all too concerned with beating out each other that they’re missing the real test here. 

Then again, you’ve never given much consideration to the rabble around you - it’s always been a given in your mind that you’re better than them.

He’s the real competitor. 

If you wanted to have a shot at landing a hit on Tangerine, you would need to conserve as much strength and energy as you could. 

Your plan was to play dirty. Go for round-winning moves as quickly and efficiently as possible. You didn’t want to waste your strength on drawn out grappling matches on the mat. 

Tangerine winds his way between mats, observing the brawls without comment. Sometimes he’ll stop and watch a full match, cold blue eyes offering nothing as to what he might be thinking. He just nods at the winner and moves on to the next pair. 

You notice him watching you just as you sink your teeth into the meaty palm of a boy twice your size as he tries to get a hold of you from behind. Your mouth comes away bloody as the boy drops you, and you spit as you get back to your feet, holding his intense gaze. 

He merely raises an eyebrow and continues on to the next group without so much as a word. Your fury at his lack of acknowledgement at you, at your blatant disregard for the rules, drives you to sink your knee into your opponent’s groin as hard as you can, following him down with an elbow to the throat to cut off his oxygen and keep him down. 

You breeze through the rest of your group, coming out ahead in the top 20 students that would now fight for the chance to keep fighting. 

You’re pleased to see Tara also made the top 20, bumping her shoulder affectionately as you both wait for your turns to be up. She gets knocked out before you have a chance to spar with her - and you’re secretly glad. It wouldn’t feel good to pull her hair or scratch at her eyes, and you didn’t want the possible conflict of feelings to get in the way of winning. 

There’s more boys than girls in the top 20, but you can tell that their strength and size has been working against them. Forced to mostly fight each other, they’re beginning to slow down. The punches are packing less heat, the shoves not looking as strong. 

Your grin is razor sharp as you enter the ring against the same cocky boy asking Tangerine’s name earlier. It feels like child play to wipe the smarmy smirk off his face with the heel of your boot. He goes down with a broken nose, blood streaming down his face as his buddies walk him to the infirmary. 

As the others take note of your ruthlessness, they all start to let loose a little more. You’re not the only one with blood on your knuckles by the time the top 10 is settled. 

Tangerine grants you all a ten-minute break before the real games begin, and you take the time to clean yourself up a bit and sit on the cold gymnasium floor with your water. 

Tara sits next to you, examining your knuckles with a medic’s clinical eye. “Why are you pushing yourself so hard? It’s just Basics!” She sounds exasperated, used to your relentless pursuit of perfection. 

You shake your head fiercely, watching Tangerine as he starts warming himself up. “He doesn’t know who I am. And he disrespected Wen. I owe him one.” You tell her, meeting her gaze with a cocky grin. 

She just shakes her head, letting go of your hand with an eye roll. “Well, I guess I’ll be the one patching you up at the end of class today. Again.” 

You both laugh, and you’re glad to have Tara in your corner. She doesn’t understand you, not completely, but she’s here for you anyway. 

Tangerine whistles, loudly, piercing through the quiet chatter of the class and bringing everyone back to attention. “Alright, top ten!” He claps his hands, wrapped and ready for sparring, standing and waiting in the center of the largest mat. “Line up, let’s see how long you twerps last.”

You make a point of taking your time to get in line, wanting to watch at least a few others go first and get an idea of what you’d be working with. You weren’t the only with that idea, either, so you have to stomp on some toes and throw an elbow or two to secure your position at the end of the line. 

Your confidence slips ever so slightly as you watch him plow through student after student. He’s strong and fast, well-trained, and ruthless. You thought you fought dirty, but he’s using every trick in the book if it means winning. 

You watch him go for illegal grabs, jabs in the eyes or throat, sucker punches to the gut. He’s brutal. You know just by this small showing that he is deadly. 

The losers whine and complain as they limp off, licking their wounds. He never says a word in return, just calling “Next!” and making note of how long they lasted. 

Nobody has lasted longer than two minutes by the time it gets to you. 

“Name?” He asks you as you step up. He’s sweating, despite how unfazed he seems on the outside, he is still human after all. 

“Harper.” You respond, dropping into your fighting stance, purposefully dropping the respectful ‘Sir’ that’s expected of you. 

Your heart is racing madly, tension coiled tight in your chest along with the desperation of needing to succeed. You must win. You must survive. 

The timer starts with a beep and nearly makes you jump. You brace yourself, prepared for him to rush you, but he surprises you by keeping his distance. The two of you circle each other warily for a long beat. 

The goal isn’t to beat him, but to last the longest. The other students failed to grasp this, too desperate to prove their strength and prowess. Your strategy is to bait and wait. But he seems to know what you’re up to and is testing your patience to let him come to you. 

A few of the students are starting to catcall now, egging you on -

“C’mon Harper!” “Yeah, get him, Harper!” 

That infuriating eyebrow of his raises again, bringing your blood pressure up with it. Cocky fucking bastard. 

You’re both circling closer and closer, looking for openings. You decide to risk it all by opening with a feint - telegraphing a punch to his nose to disguise the suckerpunch to his gut. 

He surprises you further, catching both wrists with an iron grip even though he was only looking at the fist coming at his face. He clucks his tongue, all sardonic disappointment. “Patience, love.”

You hear the blood rush in your ears, feeling fury starting to overtake your more logical impulses. Is he teasing you?

You repeat a favorite move for when your hands are occupied, bringing your knee up - hard - to connect with his groin. But, he’s already released you and stepped out of your range. You compensate for the imbalance by pushing forward and sweeping a foot to try and catch him off. 

He stumbles, but doesn’t fall, and you try to take advantage of the opening with an upper palm jab to his nose - if it connected, his nose would surely break - but he’s faster than he looks and catches your wrist out of the air. He uses your momentum against you, pulling your arm up and spinning you so you’re trapped against his front in a crushing bearhug hold. 

You grunt, feeling the air forcefully pushed out of your lungs, even as you struggle to keep him from increasing the pressure on your ribcage. 

You swear to god he chuckles under his breath behind you and you see red. 

Your head dips forward and then whips back as hard as you can, resulting in a satisfying crunch of connection. It hurts you just as bad, but stuns him enough that you can break his hold and stumble away. You hear him snarl - the first bit of displeasure you’ve actually heard him voice during these fights - and see him shake his head to regain his bearings. 

That’s for Captain Wen.

He doesn’t look so unaffected anymore, you note with satisfaction. Actually, he looks kind of pissed. Good. 

Or maybe not so good, you think, as he careens at you with much less poise than before. 

Your wait and bait strategy finally comes into play now that he’s finally on the offensive - he wants to hurt you, you realize with a cold pang of fear as you dodge and weave between fists and jabs with the power of a semi-truck behind them. 

You block the hits you can’t dodge, and you feel the impact of every damn one rattle your bones.

Your breath comes in short, panicked bursts as he forces you further and further back to try to keep out of his range. Soon you’ll come up on the edge of the mat and you refuse to be disqualified for something as common as stepping out of bounds. 

You duck under an incoming fist, darting fast to the side and trying to get behind him. You send a targeted nerve strike to where his kidneys live - usually an instant downer for bigger guys than him - but he just roars and turns, grabbing at you to pull you down where he’s instantly on top of you. 

He’s calculated, even in his rage, sitting on your knees so you can’t kick out and pinning your hands down with all his strength. You struggle in the hold, but as the student assistant starts counting, you fear it’s in vain. 

He even keeps your hands pinned at your sides, leaving no flesh close enough that you can bite. No dirty tricks to help you here - you just aren’t strong enough. 

The crazed look in his eyes starts to fade as the count continues, and the calculating look returns. Like he’s seen what he needs to, and has come to his consensus. The shame and fury battle hotly in your chest and your nostrils flare with impotent rage. 

As the student calls “...8…9…10!” you hold Tangerine’s steady blue gaze with your own. And spit right into his face, hovering above yours. 

To his credit, he keeps the hold until the count is done, some of that fury settling back into his cold gaze. That feels better. He releases you when it’s all done, standing up nonchalantly, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. 

The student assistant hesitates, but calls out the time. “Almost three minutes!” 

The class crowded around, watching the intense match, all burst out in shouts of joy or disappointment. Some are happy to watch you win, others mad that they didn’t last as long. 

You stand up and give a mock bow to the class, pumping your fist for your fans. Tangerine just watches you, arms crossed. He waits for the class to settle down before speaking. 

“So - Winner -” He addresses you, voice dripping with derision. “What was the lesson today?”

Put on the spot, still flush with adrenaline, you aren’t sure what he’s looking for. “Sir?” You question between heaving breaths.

He looks annoyed, like he thought you should know the answer easily. He speaks again, slow and measured. The class is hanging onto his every word. 

“You seem to be the only one who understood from the start. Was this class really just about rankings?”

That fucking eyebrow lifts again, a dare in a facial expression. Your eyes widen, surprised to realize that he was watching you from the start. 

“No, sir.” You reply, trying to force your labored breathing back to normal. You aren’t totally sure what he’s fishing for, but you decide to be honest. “It’s about winning.” It’s always been about winning for you.

He gives one nod, an affirmative. “And what happens - out there - if we don’t win?” He prompts. He wants more from you.

The answer hits you like a truck. “We die.” 

The class is silent, taking it in. The atmosphere of camaraderie and fun competition has quickly evaporated, leaving you all feeling like vapid, silly children. 

“That’s right. Win, or die.” He addresses the whole class, gaze sweeping across the group before he moves back to the chalkboard. He marks a ‘1’ next to your name, but leaves every other space blank. 

It couldn’t be more effective than if he put a literal target on your back.

Tangerine holds your gaze as he gives a final nod of approval. “Class dismissed.”

[megplant]

Killshot

Tangerine x F!Reader

Summary: Rival assassins! You run into Tangerine at the tail-end of a job gone wrong. Wordcount: 1.5k Warnings: blood, violence, language, sexual suggestions (no smut, at least not yet), choking

A/N: I don't know if this is a one-shot or possibility of a bigger story, but I couldn't get this scene out of my head and I knew it would be fun to write! I LOVE rival assassin Tangerine fics, but I really wanted to feel like they would actually kill each other and kind of highlight the unhealthiness of what a 'situationship' in that world might actually look like. Basically if you shipped Obi-Wan/Ventress back in the day, you know the vibes.

Recommended listening: Killshot by Magdalena Bay, I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE by Maneskin

Read Pt. 2 - here

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An explosion runs into your jaw. Or, at least, it feels that way for the split second before your vision goes black from the impact and careens back to reality as your head is slammed against the wall behind you. 

Fuzzy black edges are creeping in around the periphery of your vision as you struggle to catch your breath. Some hair from your updo has given up staying in place and falls into your face. You blink a few times to clear your vision and catch the glint of brass on the knuckles that are swinging toward your face. 

Of fucking course, he’s here. There’s enough blood pooled in your mouth from that hit that it takes minimal effort to expel a bloody gob of spit into his face. He stops short of a follow-up punch and pins his arm against your chest to hold you in place instead. 

“Tangerine!” You exclaim, sounding just like you were so pleased to run into an old friend at the supermarket. “Fancy seeing you here!” 

To his credit, he didn’t flinch, but he looks pissed. He wastes no pleasantries, his hand shooting out to grab your free wrist and pinning it back against the wall. “Looking for something?” 

The knife you had been reaching for in your thigh holster gleams menacingly in his hand. He spins it around on the butterfly axis, holding the blade against your throat. You’re annoyed he knows your playbook so well, but you chuckle anyway, amused. 

You give up the pretense of fighting back, opting to roll your body against his - bringing your hips flush together as you arch your neck away from the knife. You let out a breathy whimper - merely catching your breath, of course - 

You don’t miss the way he swallows, the way his eyes darken in a flash, that little tic between his eyebrows that jumps when he gets riled up. His grip tightens, and you know there will be a bracelet of bruises on your wrist from the crushing pressure. It’s just too easy. 

“You look like a right tart in that get-up, love - didya lose a bet?” He looks you up and down, taking the moment to pretend to think. “Or…you must be here to honeypot that jackass upstairs, hmm? Musta been too difficult for you to get to him directly, I suppose.”

Your amused expression drops - he’s insulting your skills and your outfit, cheap shots. He must be having a bad night, too. 

You keep your bodies flush together as you lean in close, ignoring the slicing sting of the blade as it presses against your neck. You lick your lips, take a breath, taking all the time in the world as if you’re about to tell him just what he most wants to hear. You can feel the held breath, feel his grip loosen a fraction on the knife, and you smile as you whisper - 

“Where’s Lemon?” 

His eyes dart up to the ceiling for a split second and you grin, all sharp teeth. It’s the opening you wanted. 

You slam your knee up into his groin with all of your strength. There’s a satisfying crunch of connection and his grip on you slackens as he groans loudly. You’re already inside his space, and it’s easy work to break his hold on your knife and to slash out at the arm boxing you in. 

“Fuckin’ Christ!” Tangerine exclaims, eyes screwed up in pain even as he’s still valiantly trying to hold you off and keep you pinned. 

Your wild slashing manages to cut across his arm, the blood arcing out across his shirt and your face and he roars, surging forward and pinning you to the wall by the throat. He slams your arm against the wall as hard as he can and the blade drops as you can’t hold your grip. If the crunch you felt in your wrist is any indication, something’s broken. 

“Where is Lemon?!” He roars at you at the top of his lungs, spit flying and mingling with the blood and sweat smearing across his face. His hair is a riot of curls, and his chest is heaving with the effort he’s exerting to hold you in place. 

His grip is iron-vice and you feel the hammer of your heart in your throat, the slam of it against your ribcage. Your breath flutters in his fist and the dark spots are reappearing at the edges of your vision. You are regretting using Lemon to get a reaction, in hindsight. 

Your feet slide against the wall as you struggle, your hands coming up try to pry his grip loose by any fraction of an inch that you can. It’s like trying to move stone. But you knew, you only needed to buy some time. You manage to crack a smile, spluttering out a regretful chuckle as you realize-

“Upstairs, I bet.” 

There’s a loud boom from above you both, the ceiling and walls shaking before the lights in the hallway immediately cut off. You take his moment of shock to make a final effort to free yourself and dig your nails into the slash you’d made across his arm a minute ago. He roars through clenched teeth as he tries to bear it and keep choking you but you rake your acrylics through his wound and he yells and hurls you down the hallway. 

You fall several feet back, slumped across the floor, wheezing and coughing. You glance back to see Tangerine lumbering towards you, the look in his eyes absolutely crazed. You have really pissed him the fuck off, this time, you think as you try to scramble backwards. 

You both freeze, though, hearing shouts coming from all directions now, mixing with the blaring of the fire alarm. You and Tangerine look at each other in the dark hallway for a charged heartbeat. 

“That was supposed to be my escape distraction.” You manage to croak out the admonishment, taking the moment of respite to awkwardly clamber to your feet. You hold your broken wrist to your chest and tilt your head toward the far window - where you had originally been running when somebody clotheslined you into a wall. 

You step over to the window, noting that Tangerine has swapped his brass knuckles for his gun. You roll your eyes, sliding the window open to reveal a rope ladder already tied to the sill and hanging down. “Hurry the fuck up, you absolute prick.” You hiss at him in a hoarse whisper, already swinging a leg out and over the windowsill. 

He closes the distance between you two in a second, grabbing onto your hurt wrist and squeezing. You freeze with a gasp, glaring into his eyes. You have never seen him like this. He holds the mouth of the gun to your temple, unwavering. 

“If Lemon was hurt in that explosion-” His voice is steady and slow. Scarier, even, than when he roars and raves at you. “-You will regret it.” 

“Relax, Tan.” You match his tempo, keeping the same unflinching energy even with a gun to your head. “It was just a little thing to knock out the power - even if Lemon was in the same room when it went off, he’d barely notice. I didn’t know it was Lemon following me, I could’ve left him some guards to kill.” 

Tangerine growls in response, only half-satisfied with your answer. You know he won’t calm fully until he can see Lemon for himself. You lick your lips, decide to try your luck. 

“I am sorry - it’s just business, you know that.” Your head tilts in toward his and you feel the barrel of the gun move away from your temple. Your eyes close in relief and anticipation, waiting for Tangerine’s lips to brush yours. 

You feel the steel of the gun push into your side and Tangerine mutters next to your lips. “Get us outta here, love, and I won’t kill you. That’s business.” 

Your eyes open to stare into his, though neither of you move an inch. Your options are few, and none of them are very good. This job was done, and as long as you don’t get caught, you can get paid. But to not get caught now, you need the Twins. You must have stolen this contract from under them, so they’ll want the money. There was no way to escape with all the money, and live. 

You break the moment by leaning all the way in, and planting a chaste kiss on his bloody, sweaty cheek. “Let’s go, we’ll pick up Lemon on the way.” 

You give him a cheeky grin, and he lets you go with narrowed eyes and a distrustful expression. You slip down the rope ladder with your one good arm, scanning each floor of windows while descending for familiar blonde curls.

[megplant]

Killshot - Flashback 1

Tangerine x F!Reader

Summary: Rival assassins/enemies to lovers Tangerine and Fem!Reader. You haven't seen Tangerine in years, since an unfortunate incident between the two of you in Johannesburg. He's popped up again while you're undercover hunting a mark - the same mark he's after.

Wordcount: 5.4k

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language, some nudity, drugs/mention of drugs.

A/N: This will probably actually end up being chapter 3 when I clean everything up and put it on AO3, but I'm bad at waiting and I love posting my finished scenes for some feedback! This scene would serve as a flashback - chronologically maybe a year prior to the events of Pt. 1. Let me know if you're liking the direction this headed, or if it's feeling too slow/drawn out! Thanks so much for all the positive feedback on the first chapter !!

Read Pt 1 - here

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Your head pivots slowly, surveying the ballroom and surrounding crowds while the Duke schmoozes. Introductions made, you are now not much more than an accessory. The shiny bauble on his arm to complement his image, nothing more. You play the part: simpering, beautiful, bored. Your gaze roams around the milling crowd, outwardly lazy, disguising your focused searching.

You're hoping to get a glimpse of your mark out here in the open before you need to pin down his location more precisely. It will make things easier later when you’ll need to find him in the dark, dingy corners of a secret bacchanalia in the basement. This opening hour of the benefit will be your best chance; if you just keep an eye on the entrance and the bar you’re sure to catch a glimpse of him.

Someone does catch your eye, a man's flashy gold jewelry catches the light in a way that grabs your attention. You scan the general area, and sip your champagne, choking on a gasp when you realize just who this man is.

Your date checks in on your polite coughs with nothing more than an annoyed side-eye and a squeeze on your arm that has you giggle appropriately and make your excuses. Of course, you will return when you have properly collected yourself, so sorry, so sorry. 

He stands at the outskirts of the bar, a fresh glass of what you’d bet is whiskey in one hand. He looks to be surveying the party himself, but with no plus one sparkling on his arm to draw the eye he stands out. 

You think he would stand out anywhere.

In this case, the classic lines of his crisp black three piece suit offer a striking contrast to his thick gold jewelry, slicked back hair, and perfectly groomed mustache. 

He is quite distinctive in the crowd. His white collared shirt is loose, unbuttoned one too many to be entirely decent and without a tie. He looks at once expensive, but there's an aura of grit and sleaze about him that marks him as other in this crowd. 

Dangerous. 

The word materializes in your mind with a flash of gunsmoke and a throbbing in your shoulder. You dismiss the frisson of fear that runs through you at the unbidden memory, and square your shoulders. 

Before you know it, you have nearly downed your champagne glass and are heading over to the bar. Presumably, for a refill. 

You sidle into place at his side, silently, fiddling with your glass between your fingers as you mimic his stance looking out across the crowd. 

“It’s been a long time,” You greet him with a barely restrained smirk. “Since Johannesburg.” 

You can’t help yourself, you drop an inch of pretense to turn your head and take in his reaction. You never could have attempted to guess at his reaction, but as you meet his gaze, the intensity there surprises you. He doesn’t look angry, like you might have expected, but he also doesn’t look nearly as surprised as you imagined. 

He holds your gaze for a long minute, and there’s something intense and unspoken behind his piercing blue eyes that you couldn’t hope to decipher. Finally, he lifts his glass to his lips, and swallows a slow sip. 

“Working?” He questions, voice hard, and you can feel the slamming of the door between you as he shifts into his more put-on professional demeanor. 

Despite the tension hanging between you, you realize that he most definitely is here working and it’s likely the exact same contract that you’re here for. 

You know in that instant that the two of you will most certainly not be having some kind of terse heart-to-heart here tonight. Pity.

He seems to have the same realization as you, as you catch his eyes flick to yours quickly, accusingly. 

Your heartbeat kicks into overdrive in response, your muscles tense expectantly. 

His eyes narrow. 

Your shoulder throbs with phantom pain around a long-healed bullet wound. 

You know exactly what Tangerine is capable of. 

You shift your weight to your back foot, ready to run - 

“There you are!” The booming voice of your date carries across the crowd, and you’re so tense that you jump at the sudden intrusion. The champagne in your glass splashes back in your trembling hand, and you turn away from Tangerine. 

“Are you alright?” 

His timing could not have been better. He strides into place at your side with one hand sliding around your waist as he checks in with you with a glance. His other hand is thrown out for a handshake with your new conversation partner. 

Before Tangerine can say something stupid to ruin your cover you rush to fill in the blanks of introductions yourself, and you interject before anyone can speak. 

“Ah, William, yes, I’m so sorry! I’d gone for refreshments, and ran into an old friend. William, this is an old colleague of mine, Percy Smith. Percy, this is William Statton, he is a very generous donor to our foundation.” 

Your eyebrows are raised high at Tangerine, pleading, as you make the “introductions”. Your hand shakes as you place it on William’s arm, adrenaline surging through you. 

Tangerine shakes hands with the man, finally looking his way after tearing his disbelieving gaze away from yours. You can see the mocking laugh on his lips even if no one else can, but he is a professional, after all. He plays Gentleman to the hilt. If you didn’t know him much, much better, you might even buy it. 

“Mr. Statton, charmed. Yes, I just had the delightful surprise of running into our mutual friend here.” Tangerine gestures his glass in your direction with a knowing smile. 

You notice he’s careful not to say your name, since he doesn’t know which one you’re using. It might make you blush, if your nerves weren’t so frayed trying to figure out exactly what game he’s playing. 

 “It really has been a long, long time since we worked together.” 

He bites off the second ‘long’ in a way that hints at his aggravation just below the surface. His thumb runs along his mustache absently as he takes in the two of you together. It’s an uncomfortably analytical gaze.

William watches ‘Percy’ watch you, and glances in your direction, uncertain and clearly confused. Slowly, he asks, “Sorry…where did you say you two used to work together?”

“Johannesburg!” Tangerine cuts you off, forcefully interjecting the word before you can state your carefully crafted lie. You can practically see the mischief twinkling in his blue eyes as he looks your way. 

“...Yes, that’s right!” There’s a long pause before you’re able to jump back in with a cheerful cadence, despite your faltering. “The foundation had a mission out there, and Percy was one of the other volunteers.” 

“Right, the foundation.” Tangerine stresses the word ‘foundation’ in a way that lets you know he thinks this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. 

“Oh, with his brother - Thomas!” You add brightly, and you don’t miss the way his mustache twitches in annoyance at your cover names. “Is Thomas with you tonight? I would certainly love to catch up with him, as well.” 

Tan’s eyes narrow at you, as he realizes what you’re playing at. You want to know if he has backup, and where it’s coming from. He smirks, glancing around the crowded ballroom. You follow his eyeline, sure you see a glimpse of blonde curls in the crowd, but you blink and there’s no Lemon in sight.

“I’m sure he’s around. Never quite know what that Thomas is getting up to.” His tone is much too amiable to be genuine. He is definitely loving messing with you way too much. 

You smile thinly while you glare at him, annoyed. “Of course!” You force out, intent on carefully extricating yourself from this conversation. Just as you open your mouth, ready to make your excuses to the ladies room, Tangerine cuts in.

“So, William, you must have made a hefty donation to her foundation to score the VIP tickets tonight…” He pauses to take a sip from his glass, clearly savoring the moment. “But, that doesn’t even matter does it, because you own this mansion, don’t you - Duke Statton?” 

Tangerine locks eyes with you, although it would appear that he was still talking to William. He wants you to know that he knows just what you’re up to. “I do apologize, I’m sure you’re trying to go incognito this evening. But, ah, I couldn’t help but recognize you.”

“You recognized a Duke from a small Scottish Peerage?” You snort. You don’t think you could emanate a more hateful aura if you tried. 

William looks bashful and laughs loudly, embarrassed in the way where he’s not embarrassed at all and loves being recognized. 

“You’ve got me there! I may be hosting their benefit, but the Foundation does such incredible work that I wanted to get involved on a more personal level. Anna has been so fantastic, she’s been working with me to get my own charity off the ground!” He says.

William’s hand comes up to rest over yours on his arm, giving it the slightest squeeze. Tangerine’s eyes follow the movement with laser precision. He clears his throat and looks back up at William, the posh professional gent plastered on his face in full force. “Anna. Well. She’s always been a very hard worker. You couldn’t be in better hands.” 

If you didn’t know any better, you would think he winks at you. 

William misses the gesture, as he had taken the pause in conversation to check his watch, and tap it thoughtfully. He taps your hand, as well, a reminder. 

“Anna - we have the…other engagement.” He says to you quietly. 

You nod, nearly delirious in relief for the excuse to get away from Tangerine. The sooner you could get this job done and get as far away from here as possible, the better. 

“Yes, of course - I’m so sorry, Percy, we actually have to be going. But, it was so lovely to see you, and please give my love to Thomas!” 

“Hold on a moment-” Tangerine raises his eyebrows, more knowingly than you like, and lifts his own wrist to check his watch, as well. He chuckles and glances at William, fishing two fingers into his vest pocket and pulling out a familiar red keycard. 

You recall William handing you an identical keycard while in the limo on the way here. It will allow you access to the sprawling complex below your feet, where the real party is taking place tonight. 

William’s hosting your benefit, sure, but only as the cover to auction off some priceless piece of art recently plundered from its indigenous home. The bidding is closed, the sealed envelopes from all bidders due by 10:15 pm, precisely. 

It turned out that your Foundation’s benefit served as a lovely cover for William to host a large number of auspicious attendees and for those attendees to drop large sums of money without raising any suspicions. William had been quick to accept your invitation to work together, thinking he was using you.

The mark you’re after happens to be a black market dealer that runs in the same circles as Stanton, so the obvious way in was to make the connection with the Duke. You were able to provide him a perfect cover for his auction and wiggle into his inner circle over the last few weeks. And if he happened to be pursuing you beyond a professional capacity, then it was useful to you as an option to exploit if necessary. Just being on the arm of the Duke would open every door in this place without having to worry about security at all, and that really was priceless. 

And yet. Here you are watching your perfectly laid plans unravel before your eyes. This was supposed to be a quick and easy job, with the benefits of a luxurious date with a rich and handsome Duke. It was all set up to be a cakewalk with the Duke as your unwitting skeleton key. The Twins being here was making things decidedly more complex.

Your eyes widen as you see Tangerine with the keycard, and you glance at William. The two men look each other over, doing one last size up of the other, trying to discern if they were both ‘in’ on the secret. You see William break into a knowing grin, matched by Percy, and you barely suppress a groan. 

“Downstairs?” William questions, knowingly. 

“I guess we do have an appointment.” The delight dripping off Tangerine’s words was sickly sweet. The two men chuckle together conspiratorially and you start thinking of ways to get rid of Tangerine. Get rid of William. Get them away from each other, get Tangerine away from you - you were scrambling to come up with contingencies.  

You softly clear your throat, patting William’s hand over your own. “The bids are due any minute…” You diligently avoid Tangerine’s gaze as you play the part of the simpering date. If his eyes are lit up with mockery, you don’t care to see it. 

William nods with finality, and he reaches out for a last handshake with Tangerine. “Knew you were a good sort, Percy, old chap. Find me after, we’ll have a drink.” 

You notice the sharp smile from Tangerine and tense - you’re never quite sure what he’s going to do next, and you know that crazed look in his eyes. It never means anything good. 

Tangerine returns the forceful handshake, his smile dripping sarcasm as he catches your eye and holds your gaze while he speaks. “I’d love that.” 

When he saunters away, towards the sweeping staircases that lead to the private elevators, you let out a long and slow breath. You keep your eye on him long enough to note that no Lemon appears out of the crowd to join him before he disappears down the stairs. 

William is chatting benignly with you about the auction as he steers you towards the same staircases and you make blithe responses, only half-listening. 

The two of you descend the grand staircase, the exquisitely appointed decor of the glittering ballroom melting away and revealing the practical concrete and plexiglass of the complex hidden below. The clip of your heels change timbre from light and staccato on imported marble to loud and echoing off of cold concrete. 

There are a few other couples and groups milling around as the auction deadline approaches, waiting to get to the party. But, all you really notice is that Tangerine is nowhere to be seen. 

Is he already downstairs?

Your anxiety ratchets up a notch. You won’t be able to get the mark alone for a little while, yet. If Tangerine’s “plan” is to burst in guns blazing, you’re fucked. 

You approach an elevator bank, and William leads you to one off to the side. “This is my private elevator - even your card won’t work here.” He presses a thumb into the sensor, calling the elevator as he leans against it. He obviously thinks this is incredibly swoon worthy. 

Obliging, you look appropriately awestruck, and slip the keycard back into your clutch. 

“Will this take us to the party?” You ask, using your real nerves to lend credibility to your character. 

You might be terrified that an unhinged wildcard is roaming around unchecked and very likely to ruin your plans - but Anna is very nervous about breaking the law, but she’s just so excited to be here with the dashing Duke that she would do anything he asked. 

“I have business to attend to, first,” He reminds you, ushering you into the elevator after it opens. It’s as opulent as the ballroom above, completely out of place within these sterile concrete halls. 

You pout up at him, and he chuckles, caressing your cheek and using his finger to push your chin up to hold your gaze. 

“Don’t fret. You can go on ahead without me and start…enjoying. I’ll find you once I’m done with all the tedious paperwork.” 

You simper appropriately, averting your gaze as if you were just too overwhelmed by his attention. Everything was going according to plan. The original plan, anyway. He should be occupied with the auction long enough for you to set up the next pieces of Plan A and perhaps prep some backup contingencies for when things inevitably go off the rails. 

The elevator dings: a muted, polite sound, and you are let out into what looks like an identical set of concrete hallways. William gestures to a tuxedo-clad brick shithouse of a man to escort you. You certainly wouldn’t want to run into this guard if you were down here alone.

“This way to the party, ma’m.” The guard grunts at you after William takes his leave. 

You follow his hulking form through the complex, taking careful note of each turn and distance traveled. Plan A does involve calmly coming back the way you came, and you diligently note the route, but…part of you has a sinking feeling you’ll end up needing some other exit strategy.

It doesn’t take long to reach a door that looks different than all the others. Its large, double doors are a tufted black leather that reminds you of an upscale strip club. The guard opens one of the doors for you, and you step into the dimly lit space, hesitantly. 

Despite your meticulous planning, you weren’t sure exactly what to expect here. William had been cagey with the details, wanting to surprise you, he said. Test you, you thought. 

You only knew for certain what you’d been able to glean from his hacked financials. You’d found receipts for imported liquors and cigars, a DJ, and an entirely unique staff from the benefit. But there were plenty more cash payouts you couldn’t trace. You imagined most of that cash had gone to sex workers and drugs, but you still didn’t know what the Duke might be capable of. God knows you’d seen much worse than strippers and coke before. Ultimately, you were prepared for any number of debauched possibilities. 

Entering the lounge, you find that your suspicions were only mostly right. Strippers are spotlighted on small, raised daises with crowds grouped around them. You see several card tables set up, with what looks like professional dealers manning them. The seating is plush and abundant, with long couches and tucked away booths encouraging attendees to cuddle up and get comfortable. You see people - both subtly and not - kissing, touching, sucking, even fucking.

You quickly avert your gaze from flashes of naked bodies only partially obscured by tasteful velvet curtains, feeling your face heat up. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, but not quite what you had expected. It seemed the Duke’s well of possible depravity ran deeper than you had given him credit for.

The lighting is politely dim, allowing the partygoers the illusion of anonymity and privacy. You take advantage, keeping your face in shadow as you step through the lounge and head for the bar. It gives you a moment to compose yourself, and to scan your surroundings.

Naked and nearly naked women walk around distributing refreshments. You can see the bar now, it’s classic mahogany, a Victorian marvel nestled in the back of the large room. It isn’t very crowded, you note as you approach, with most couples enjoying themselves elsewhere. 

Before you get there, a topless blonde walks up to you with a tray filled with long, white lines. You give her a shy smile, and reach into your clutch. You pull out fifty quid and lay it on her tray, shaking your head as she presents the tray to you. 

“No, thanks, just - can you tell Natasha to find me at the bar? Tell her Anna’s here, please.” 

The woman just shrugs, pocketing the money in a small pouch around her waist. “Whatever you want, sugar.” She says easily, turning and moving back through the crowd. 

Your shoulders hunch with tension as you find a barstool to perch on and wait. You go over and over what needs to happen next in your head, running it like a drill, again and again. The time is limited and there are wildcards at play, and you will not be able to relax until you regain some semblance of control over this fucking situation. 

The bartender nodding at you is a welcome intrusion, and you at least have the clarity of mind to ask for two glasses of champagne. It isn’t long before another woman sidles up behind you, quietly making her presence known. 

“Natasha,” You greet her with a nod, which she returns. 

She forgoes a greeting, and speaks directly, her Russian accent making her words sound clipped and harsh. “Your man will be in third room down the private hallway. One hour. He ask for me - a blonde.” 

She looks you up and down, in your high-necked gold ballgown with your long, brown hair tumbling down your shoulder. You chuckle at her expression, well aware of how you look next to Natasha, clad in nothing but a lacy, black thong and a sheer bra. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe braid. The two of you hardly look alike.

“Is that all?” She questions, suspicion lacing her words. She likely still couldn’t believe how this incredibly simple sharing of information had netted her such a large cash advance from you. 

“That’s it,” You reassured her with a smile, pulling out your phone and swiping through to send the final half of her payment. “The rest is in your account, now. Just give me the signal when the dressing room is empty and leave the room key in your locker. Do not acknowledge me from this point forward.” 

Natasha nodded, looking mildly intimidated by your sudden shift in demeanor, but ultimately cool and collected. She gave you another long look, and then turned to head back into the crowd. That was one piece slotted into place, you thought, letting out a long breath. 

You stare out across the lounge for a moment longer, cataloging your surroundings. You determine that you have at least a minute or two to yourself, and you slump in your seat. Two glasses of champagne sit at your elbow, having been silently delivered while you were speaking with Natasha. 

With smooth, practiced movements, you slip a small dropper bottle out of your clutch and quickly dispense four drops of clear liquid into one of the champagne glasses. You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip and smear it on the bottom edge of the dosed glass. The glass is gently set on a cocktail napkin just slightly to the left of your elbow and your clutch is snapped closed with the dropper inside when you feel a hand on your arm behind you. 

Your sultry smile is fixed in place as you turn, expecting the Duke back slightly earlier than planned. 

Of course, it’s Tangerine. 

Your expression deadens as you realize your mistake, then hardens as your pulse quickens anxiously. Tangerine only smirks at you, one hand in his pocket with a casual lean as he stands in front of you. 

His swagger emanates off of him - it’s dreadful. He thinks he’s “got” you and he’s so goddamned smug about it. 

It’s cute. 

He runs his hand up your arm and skims it just over your shoulder and skates his fingers across the back of your neck, eliciting a trail of goosebumps in his wake. You sit still, breath held tightly in your chest. You’re trapped in between the desire to lean into the touch or run for your life. 

It takes you a beat too long to realize he was reaching around you to grab your champagne glass. Cheeky bastard. 

You strike out with a sharp pinch to the nerves in his wrist, sending a buzzing pain through his arm. He winces mockingly, pulling his hand back as he slides into the empty barstool beside you. 

You keep a haughty expression on your face, deliberately lifting and replacing the champagne flutes in front of you. You are looking straight ahead, knowing that if you pretend to ignore him it’ll only piss him off more. Your lips twitch with amusement, feeling his glare burn holes in the side of your head. 

It feels gleeful to see him squirm, and so you make an elaborate meal out of taking a drink of your champagne. You swirl the golden liquid, observe the bubbles, and savor your long, slow sip. After you gently set the glass back down, you use a cocktail napkin to pat your lips dry. You open your clutch to pull out a compact mirror and lipstick, when Tangerine exclaims- 

“All right-”

He leans in close to you and slides his hand under the bar top, pressing a blade to your side, tucked into you and facing the bar - from behind anyone would think you’re just having an intimate conversation. You freeze in place, hardly daring to breathe.

“I don’t appreciate you taking the piss, love.” He says, voice rumbling, low and mean. He digs the blade in, making sure you feel it through the thick boning of your dress’ corset. You can’t help the shiver that runs through you; a potent mix of fear and headiness at being this close to him after so long. 

“But, it’s so easy to work you up. And you’re so cute when you’re pissy.” You match his volume, keeping yourself as still as you can while you smirk up at his furious glare. 

You haven't got a fucking clue where you stand with Tangerine, and it makes you feel like you’re playing with a live wire. As far as you know, he’s only just found out you aren’t dead. As far as you know, the last time you saw him, he'd just sold you out and left you for dead. He’s unpredictable in the best of circumstances and you have no idea what he’ll do. 

He exhales through his nose loudly, and the muscles in his neck all clench - he’s utterly enraged, and you know you’re poking the bear. You know. But you want to push him to his limit, fuck up his night and his money as thoroughly as you can - you want to rattle him.

You can’t help it, watching him try to reign in his rage is just too fucking funny and your smirk widens into a grin, taunting. 

You’re reaching out for the livewire even as it sparks.

Lightning fast, Tangerine moves his free hand from the small of your back to the back of your neck. Before you can react, his fingers thread through your curls to lock onto the roots at the base of your scalp and he pulls - hard. 

You gasp in pain and surprise, tears springing into your eyes at the sharp pain. He holds you in place like this, and he’s still subtle enough that from behind he just looks like your lover caressing your neck and playing with your hair. 

“Cunt,” You hiss out, trapped between his unyielding grip and a knife at your belly. You see the way his mustache twitches at that - he likes to see you squirm, too. 

You look down at the hand pressing a knife into you and glance at the the ostentatious gold watch on its wrist. It confirms your hunch - time’s just about up, and you really need to wrap this shit up. You cut to the chase. 

“What do you want, Tangerine? How much do I have to pay you to fuck off?” You say, grinding out the demand as he keeps the iron grip on the back of your head. 

He grins, and you catch a wolfish glint of white as a strobe light flashes past. His grip relaxes just slightly, enough to pass as pleasurable in different circumstances. 

Not helpful.

“Ooh, that’s right. Wouldn’t want poncy Percy to come back and see us, would we?” Tangerine gives an experimental tug on your hair, and you just fucking know his narrowed eyes catch the way your eyelids flutter before you wince. 

“You’re poncy Percy, you twat. He’s William.” You ignore his chuckle, ignoring the way the warm sound vibrates in your chest with want and settling on being fucking annoyed. “So, yes, would you mind, please, pissing the hell off?” 

Something in the air between you has lightened, and you finally let yourself relax - you don't think he actually wants to kill you. At least not right now.

You test the waters by moving to pull your head slightly forward out of his grip. He tightens his hold for a moment, and then he lets you go entirely, dropping his hand. You note that he keeps the knife at your side - no trust amongst killers, you suppose. 

“Are you still with the Firm?” He asks. 

Your eyebrows raise, unable to hide your surprise at the question. This question is loaded, and you swallow hard - throat suddenly dry. 

“Yes.” You nod once, forcing yourself to keep his eye contact. 

Now Tangerine knows that the Firm knows you’re alive. And, of course, they handled your faked death. He knows you didn’t do it to get away and start a new life, like you always said. He knows what you’ve done. 

He watches you with sharp focus and he asks you-

“Drop the contract.”

You’re unafraid of the knife at your side, but terrified of the piercing blue eyes holding you in place. 

“You know I can’t.” Your voice is quiet, but you can hear the plea in your own words. He knows now you’re still at the Firm - he knows you complete your assignments. There is no other option. 

You see the slightest softening in his body language, so you decide to push your luck. 

“You owe me, one, anyway. For Joburg.” You say. 

His nostrils flare and his mustache twitches in a way that lets you know he thinks you’re dead wrong and you fix him with a hateful glare. 

“After Joburg?” You press, finally leaning into him and slipping your hand down to where his is holding the blade. 

You know you’re running out of time, and you feel as breathless as if you had just fought him to the death. His hand is clenched hard around the handle of the knife, and he feels as unyielding as stone. His hands are as achingly warm as you remember, practically radiating heat under your own hand. 

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can feel the muscles in his arm flex and unflex. He's arguing with himself, you know, and you can only hope that he lands on ‘letting you live’ in his deliberation. 

You let out a long breath of held tension as he pulls his hand away and tucks the blade in his waistcoat. Before you can open your mouth to say another word, he’s standing and straightening his jacket. 

He’s fiddling with his cufflinks and staring off into the middle distance. You feel a wistful pang, watching him - closer than you ever thought you would get again, but he's still a million miles away.

You would give anything to be able to read his thoughts in this moment. 

He finally looks at you, and you catch the same hardening of his demeanor as he turns to business. Your chest feels cold, you know he's shut you out - maybe for good now. 

But, he's Tangerine. So he's unpredictable. Adaptable.

“Ten minutes lead, usual rules.” He speaks so casually, like he hasn’t invoked a shared past that you hadn’t dared acknowledge. Your mouth hangs open, shocked, and he smirks - happy to throw you off. 

“I imagine your Prince will be here any second. You’ll need the head start.” He’s as cocky a bastard as ever, you think. 

Tangerine glances in the mirrored wall behind the bar to smooth his mustache down and you catch his eye in the mirror. He stills his preening, meeting your stare. 

You feel the timid flame of hope spark to life behind your heart and you swear you see something besides hate in his eyes.

You barely dare to breathe, let alone move, lest you break the spell. 

“Why?” You croak out, tension making your voice rasp. 

Tangerine holds your gaze, and you see him soften - just for a moment, you see a flash of the man you used to know - and then he looks away, like he can’t look you in the eye and answer. 

“You don’t know everything.” 

He’s already halfway across the lounge, about to disappear into another room, before you can collect yourself. 

What the fuck does that mean? 

[megplant]

Help me, Tangerine writers - this is in my WIP’s and I like the vibes but I don’t really know what to do with it!! Help!

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He’s not quite a regular, not really. He’d have to come in regularly for that to be true. He always pops up at random, a few days in a row and then you don’t see him again for ages. Sometimes the absences are brief, a week or two, but sometimes long - 2, or 3 months. Once, nearly six months passed before he and his brother were back at your bar. 

Really, he didn’t need to be a regular visitor for you to have noticed and remembered him. He stands out. 

“Whiskey, rocks, love. Please.” 

The gold rings decorating his fingers catch the light prettily as he holds up a credit card between them. You blink, once, gaze held by the movement, before you recover and take the proffered credit card. 

“Run it, or you starting a tab?” You ask him, although you know the answer, same as always. 

“Just the one, thanks.” 

You smile in response, running through the motions to charge the drink to his credit card and bundle up the card and receipts in a slim leather checkbook to hand to him. 

“Let me know if you need anything else.” You give him another smile before turning to take care of other people waiting at the bar. 

“Sure thing, thanks, love.” He responds with a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, adjusting his cufflinks before picking up his glass. 

With a small sigh, you watch him walk away from the bar, moving for a high top he could sit at alone. You’ve had the exact same interaction, nearly line for line, every single time he had come in to your bar. You weren’t exactly keeping track, but it had to be dozens of times now that he’s come in, ordered a single glass of whiskey, sat alone for a while, and left. 

Sometimes, if it’s very busy and there’s no tables, he’ll sit at the bar. You’ve had a few small conversations from these occasions, but it’s too busy and you don’t have time to indulge your curiosity with all the questions you want to ask. 

There were a few occasions where he brought his brother, a much more talkative and friendly sort. Those visits stood out in your memory, as it was the only times either of you had deviated from your script. You’d found out he was much less formal than he appeared, bickering with his brother and cursing every other word. 

And sometimes, he stays all night, his usual one drink becoming bottomless. You’ve watched him stare into his glass, wondering what he had seen to produce a look of emptiness like that. 

On those nights, the brother swoops in for a last-call rescue, bundling him up and hustling him away with a fond irritability that makes you smile. 

Your partner on the bar tonight nudges your elbow, pulling you out of your reverie, as you both watch him meander around the crowded bar. It’s crowded tonight, the first warm evening in months, and everyone had the same idea to come out and enjoy the weather. The bars wide windows overlooking the Hudson are all thrown open, and the view and the breeze had lured an eager crowd here. There’s no free tables, only a few stools left scattered across the bar. “He’s coming back over here!” 

You pinch the arm that nudged you, shooting her an annoyed expression. “Go away!” You hiss, swatting her forward as she moves back down to her end of the bar. 

He sits down, shooting you an expressive look with his eyebrows raised high. “Busy tonight, I guess.” He offers as explanation for coming back, sitting in the raised plush barstool furthest from the other patrons. Somehow, he looks sheepish, which pulls your lips into an amused smile.

You’re holding about 7 beer bottles nestled between your arm and your stomach as you pop the bottle caps off, one by one, and set them in front of a group of younger guys waiting. “No kidding!” You shoot back with a wry smile before your attention is pulled in three separate directions and you can’t pay closer attention to your mystery man.

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Details….. 🤤

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Cleaning up more old Tang sketches - he’s hot when he’s deranged

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Tangerine 🍊