#minefic

[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.

#tangerine #tangerine bullet train #bullet train #bullet train tangerine #bullet train 2022 #tangerine fic #tangerine x reader #tangerine x fem!reader #mine #killshot #mineWriting #I hope you guys like it!!! Let me know if you think I could do a whole story in this verse! #mineTangerine #mineFic

[nicolos]

stew

The sad part of it is really that it takes Nile two months to realise she’s never seen Andy cook.

“Wait,” she says, “what do you mean she’s not allowed to cook?”

Andy just shrugs, perfectly unhelpful as she loves to be. The Andy sitting across the kitchen table from Nile is a far cry from the woman who shot her in Afghanistan, and not just because she’s now mortal and prone to problems like hangovers that last and back pain. More importantly: she looks less tired, somehow, hasn’t made fun of Nile about her Cross again, and gets a sick sort of satisfaction from watching Nile flounder over the important things, like which famous historical figures her new friends-slash-family-slash-anti-dying-club had slept with or the weird set of unspoken rules and laws and tripwires they all have built in that everyone else can see and Nile can’t. Yet.

“It means Andromache has been banned from our kitchens,” Nicky says coolly. Joe raises his brows, probably at the full name, but he’s grinning.

Nile ignores him, because he’s an instigator, and says, “Why not? Andy, what’d you do?”

“Who said I did anything?”

Nile narrows her eyes at her. That tone of voice elicits many things: trust is not one of them. Joe outright snickers.

Nicky says, voice low, “You know what you did.”

Joe mouths, “She does,” and then says out loud, “It’s not so bad, Nile. Nicky’s banned from football. And I’m not allowed to do any plumbing.” He says this like it’s a bad thing.

Nile suspects that they’ve also put an unspoken ban up against her audiobooks. Every time she puts one on doing her laundry, somebody comes up to speak with her, until she’s forgotten all about it. She also keeps losing the old iPod she found with the books on it, and whenever she finds it, it needs to be charged.

It’s ridiculous is what it is. She says so. “Andy is four thousand years old.” Andy raises her brows but doesn't comment one way or the other. Joe makes a so-so face, which really just means Nile’s wrong. She soldiers on. “I don’t care how bad she is, she should be able to cook!”

Andy shrugs around her bowl. “I can cook.”

“We’re all adults. We should have a roster. It’s not fair that it’s just Joe and Nicky.” Of them, Nile herself is probably the weakest: she can make a few comfort foods, but she’s never mastered the art. She’d like to, though. Part of it is wanting to hold onto the food she remembers before she can’t get it anymore and she’s forgotten, and part of it is that it’s just practical. But left to her own devices, she just eats whatever’s there. A roster will help.

And it wouldn’t feel right to leave Andy off it. Nile tells herself this is about fairness and house chores and not about the strange panic that takes over her whenever she imagines never eating her mom’s good again and then remembers that (a) Andy looks like she's maybe five years younger than her mom, and (b) she, too, is mortal. Which is dumb. It’s not like she thinks of Andy as anything like her mother. If anything she’s the bad influence friend everyone’s mom warns them about, but who everyone wants to—

Anyway.

“I don’t mind,” Andy says. Nile turns to Nicky.

Nicky says, “If you wish,” and then looks at Joe like he’s expecting Joe to speak up on his behalf.

Joe grins. “I have no objections.”

Andy’s turn on the roster comes up two days later. She spends the morning out of the house and comes back with two bags full of groceries. When Nile goes to help her with it, bewildered, it turns out one of the bags is half filled with low shelf life candy, and that Andy doesn’t need help, though she looks amused that Nile would offer.

Then she gets to it. She’s not what Nile was expecting, which was someone a little unsure of herself in the kitchen. She chops fluidly and fast, as good with a knife on meat and veg as she would be with it as a weapon, and she moves like she knows what she's doing.

But what she’s doing is—strange. At first glance, the dish is beef, with thick chunks of meat cooking in enough oil to thrill her grandma. But then she throws chunks of apple in alongside the potato. As it cooks, she starts rolling out some dough, with more eggs than make sense. Pie, Nile thinks, even if it's not a pie she knows of, but she rolls it out by hand into sheets of pasta, all while stirring the beef concoction. A bar of the dark chocolate she's munching on goes into the pot, followed by a concerning quantity of nuts. When she grabs an orange, Nile thinks it's for a snack, but she peels the whole rind into a neat spiral and tosses the rind into the pot before offering Nile a slice. When the pasta is cut, she just—starts flipping the sheets into the pot.

Nicky looks into the kitchen as he passes by and starts muttering to himself in Italian. When he opens his mouth, Andy only says, “If you’d rather do it yourself,” and Nicky walks away.

Oh, Nile thinks. “You won’t get out of the roster just by making bad food, you know,” she says, though she suspects she probably will. If it's terrible, she figures she’ll get takeout. She already saw Joe surreptitiously hide a bag of something in the back of the fridge. She hopes he got enough for her.

Andy only winks at her. Nile sits down.

In go raisins, cashew nuts, sticks of cinnamon, the stalk of some plant she doesn't even recognise, more garlic than even Nicky uses, and a whole tablespoon of turmeric. Then come the chillies: long, with the heads sliced off, thrown in whole. When the room starts smelling like heat, she cools it with cups of milk. More vegetables follow: large chunks of carrot and beet, strips of cabbage and slices of—ugh—eggplant go in along with a store-bought sauce she can't read the label of, spoons of cream, a quarter of a bottle of alcohol she's pretty sure isn't meant to be used to cook with, and—somehow—even more chocolate, and some of her favourite morning cereal.

This is the point at which Nile decides to stop watching. It feels a little like tearing herself away from a car crash, but she makes herself go look for her iPod. She finds it between two cushions of the sofa twenty minutes later, at 3%.

Andy calls Nile in to help carry the food out when she's done, half an hour later. Nile’s a little bit afraid of the monster she's created as she looks into the pot. It looks less than appetising, a deep brown that looks thick and has things floating in it and cheese melting on top. On the sides of the pot, she can see bright red oil floating in place.

When she carries it out, her iPod is already gone from where it was charging by the kitchen table. Nile glares at Joe and Nicky, who look back innocently (Joe) and distractedly upset (Nicky). It has to be Joe, she figures.

Andy serves them the frankenstew in deep bowls with toasted slices of Nicky’s last sourdough next to it. With no ceremony at all, she grins and says, “Dig in.”

Then, without waiting for the rest of them, she starts eating.

A little relieved that Andy isn’t going to leave them to eat it alone, Nile takes a small, tentative bite.

The dish is—not bad. She takes another bite, and then another.

The stew is delicious. Nile can feel her arteries clogging with every bite, immortality or no immortality, but she thinks she doesn't even care. It's hot enough to leave her tongue prickling after just a couple of bites, but she wants to keep eating it. It's sweet and salty and sour; the meat falls apart in her mouth but the nuts crunch. The pasta is not really pasta at all, thicker and softer and melting in her mouth like soft bread. The broth is creamy and thick, and none of the vegetables are too mushy or draw too much attention to themselves. It's the best thing she's ever eaten, she thinks. She never wants to eat anything else again.

When she looks up, she must look a little guilty, because Joe pats her arm comfortingly. “I know,” he says.

Andy hums around a mouthful and says, slowly, “It’s not as good as I remember it.”

Nicky looks despairing. He’s staring into the bowl like it insulted his mother. Maybe it has. “That’s what you said last time,” he says.

Nile considers things like nostalgia and pride and cholesterol and having more of the pot for herself, and slides Andy’s half-full bowl towards herself. “You’re off the roster, Andy. And you’re banned from cooking again,” she says authoritatively.

“I thought making bad food wouldn’t get me off the roster?”

Nile nods. This is worse.

Joe grins, ducks into the kitchen, and comes back with the box he had hidden in the fridge, which now that Nile looks closely says Andy Dinner. Andy laughs at her as she eats it.

Nile decides to stop looking for her iPod.

#the old guard #tog fanfiction #mine. #minefic #nile freeman #andromache #i like this one. idk if the characters feel Quite right. but this particular evening i dont care if they dont

[catoscloves]

young gods by catoscloves/enobarias

it was determined, long before they ever even met each other, that they would become both partners and enemies. cato and clove, each single-minded and driven mad with the desire to win, spent much of their time together before the games imagining the other's screams, looking forward to the honor of fighting side by side and then fighting amongst themselves for the honor of being labelled victor. however, this year's games don't follow their best laid plans. with these unpredictable changes, they'll have to adapt, and find that this world of beauty and slaughter dressed in glamor and championship is not so glorious as it seems.

cato and clove's path to becoming young gods, and, in a surprising twist of events, falling in love. (AU: 74th games, clato win, guaranteed happy ending. title and fic inspired by halsey's "young god.")

#minefic #**mine #clatoedit #clato #thgedit #thg #the hunger games #cato x clove #clove x cato #cato thg #clove thg #cato hadley #clove kentwell #mineaesthetic

[jmflowers]

Still taking prompts? Carina feeling emotional over Maya learning/knowing Italian.

You got it, dude. Canon-compliant for your reading pleasure.

~~~

Ding!

Carina smiles as she steps through the front door, the smell of dinner on the stove wafting down the hallway to greet her.

They’ve been in their new home all of three weeks and already they’ve fallen into a symbiotic routine – one she finds herself endlessly enamoured by. A warm meal waiting for whoever’s last to arrive home, a load of laundry in the dryer before bed each night, swapping shifts to rise when Liam cries out at 2am to be fed.

There’s balance forming, now that they’re here. Balance and love and support that seemed so far away, so farfetched, just a year ago.

“I’m back!” she calls out as she wanders into the kitchen, heavy grocery bags dangling from her hands. She can’t wait until they renovate this space; can’t wait until there’s more room on the counters and in the pantry for all the things she has to keep slipping out to buy.

Mela, a slightly robotic voice says.

Carina frowns, turning towards the sound, groceries piled half on the counter and half in the sink. She lets them tumble from her grasp, traipsing down the hallway after yet another Ding! echoes from the nursery.

Arancia, the robotic voice says.

“Arancia,” Maya repeats, her voice so whisper soft Carina barely hears it. “That’s an orange.”

Ding!

She’s leaned back in the plush rocking chair they’d settled on for the nursery, Liam curled in her lap with his eyelids fluttering as he tries desperately to pay attention to the phone she holds in front of them.

Elefante, the robotic voice inside the screen says next.

“Elefante,” Maya replicates, lips pressed to the side of Liam’s cap-covered head. “You know elephant.”

Ding! the phone chirps.

“Oh, you know this one, too,” Maya whispers, smiling softly. “Mamma says buona notte every night before we go to sleep.”

“Sì,” Carina murmurs, stumbling into the gravity that’s dragging her across the room towards them. “Buona notte means good night.”

Maya nods, turning just enough for Liam and his heavy eyelids to catch a glimpse of Carina as she leans over the arm of the chair to kiss his cheeks. “And ciao is hello.”

His little face splits into a grin, reaching for his mamma even as he fights a losing battle with sleep. “Ah,” he chirps.

“I got a few lessons ahead of him,” Maya explains, setting her phone aside on the dresser. She tips Liam backwards in her arms, laying his head in the crook of her elbow with a practiced ease. He gazes up at her with a toothless smile, nearly giving in to the weight of his eyelids. “So, we had to go back and review what he missed.”

“Ah,” Liam repeats.

“Sì,” Maya nods, looking down at their baby boy with a ferocity of love that causes a clench of something deep and primal and unquantifiable in Carina’s chest. “Apple is mela. That’s your favourite, I know.”

One of those tiny, perfect fists finds its way into Liam’s mouth and then, finally, he loses the fight. Finally, his eyes close and he tumbles into sleep.

And that feeling in Carina’s chest seems to explode.

She leans forward, reaching for Maya with a desperation she can’t quite explain. Tugging, needy, until their lips connect. Until she can try to convey with her body what she doesn’t have English words for.

Ti amo. Ho bisogno di te. Sono così perdutamente innamorato di te.

Maya won’t understand them all – not yet.

But she will. One day, she will.

#purposely did not translate that last bit #maya x duolingo #maya x carina fic #minefic #tumblr prompt party #prompt party #station 19 fic #does horny/enamoured count as emotional? #for the record: the stove is OFF with the food on it but I couldn't find a clear spot to write that in #we all know Maya Bishop would NEVER leave the room with the stove on #mustbebunnys #thanks for asking for this one friend

[joanna-lannister]

from all of the tears you have shed

sibling incest | childbirth | married jc | joanna lannister lives | one-shot

While the Seven Kingdoms had been pulled apart, each Lord claiming back the crown they had long lost during Aegon's Conquest, Joanna had found out about the affair between her children. She had pulled the right strings and urged a marriage between them, and now, as the Realm licks its wounds, Jaime and Cersei are ready to welcome their first child.

"Breathe, Princess," the midwife, who was dabbing her forehead with a wet cloth, insisted. Cersei tried to do as she was told. Breathing through the pain, as she had been doing for the past, long hours, but a strangled cry ripped her throat instead, and she squeezed Jaime's hand until the burning ache dwindled. "Breathe." "I'm breathing, you cunt!" Cersei yelled. Blood rushed to the girl's cheeks, and she moved away while by her other side, a laugh erupted from her brother before he began to pepper kisses on her face. "You're doing great," he whispered. The gesture and the words allowed her to relax a bit, but her body was still riddled with pain, each new contraction being more arduous to endure than the previous one. The effort ahead of her felt unending and perilous. Discouraged, Cersei fell back on the pillows of the birthing bed, skin coated with sweat as her nightgown clung to her body and her braided hair damp. She glanced at Jaime, her husband, the prince of the Westerlands. He hadn't left her side and had been nothing else but supportive since the pain had started in the middle of the night. He had been the one telling the guards to fetch the midwives, and the one telling the maester to back off when he had wanted to put his old, dirty hands on her. She knew she couldn't do it without him yet, someone was amiss in this room.

read more on ao3

#jaime x cersei #cersei lannister #jaime lannister #mine* #minegot #minejc #minefic #otp : a dynasty for us

[ladyhaesoo]

OMG THE FIC IS SO GOOD. you evil genius you. I just love the overall atmosphere of it if it makes sense? I would die for a sneak peek pls ;-; - math anon

hi math anon!! i assume you mean... yo fic? like i really hope so hahah; thank you so much and I'm SO glad you liked it!!!

I will absolutely give you a sneak peak of it, but I would also like to say, if you want to approach ne off anon I will fully link you to the entire google doc where everything I've written sits, waiting for me to write more! im very nice! i don't bite

for now, though! something that i hope isn't up anywhere yet:

You met the prince and Consort Park at the courtyard of your pavillion, pausing to greet them. The prince looked at you with an eyebrow raised as you got there, as did Consort Park, and you frowned before you realised—the prince was wearing robes of dark plum, cut through with patterns in gold, and a band in a lighter peach. Your own dress, the colour of the chrysanthemums that grew in your home at this time of year, had shimmering flower patterns in plum, and gilt accents.

You looked—entirely without intention—like a matched set.

The prince turned his head sharply away a few seconds later, irritation sparking in his expression, and you gathered that he wasn't going to say anything. Why would he?

#answered #anonymous #minefic #yofic

[cloudiza]

چلے بھی آؤ کہ گلشن کا کاروبار چلے

#flowers #roses #lotus #water #beautiful #aesthetic #faiz #faiz ahmed faiz #poetry #shayari #urdu #mine #minef

[sublinemusic]

Minefate

#minefate #spotify #artists on tumblr #ludwig london #sublinemusic #stranger things #das heimdall projekt. #ludwig thomajun

[rr-sheep]

-_Corrupted and MineF×cked_-

🌹(Amy Rose) Mc.paint🌹 ◀- this is just my interpretation of what I thought a Amy.exe would/will be like-▶ Sonic.T.Hh 🔪

#my art shit #microsoft paint #my artwork #amy rose #fanart #my art #corruption #my artwrok #sonic the hedgehog fanart #sonic the hedgehog #sonic fandom #amy.exe #exe art #creepypasta #sonic fanart #sonic the hedghog fandom #sonic the hedghog fanart #sonic amy #amy fanart #amy sonic the hedgehog

[toxinoire]

Just something I thought of.

~~~~~~~

The Government Officials are roaming an open area with the intention of building something there. The people living there are all currently protesting that idea, due to the fact that the area is one of their town's sources of materials. But...

Of course, they don't care.

"Careful not to step foot on the minefield."

"Got it."

"Gosh, will those townsfolk shut up?"

Danny Alforth, the lead official, scoffed. "They're being dramatic." He said as he leaned on a tree.

"Sir the minefield-"

"I know, I'm not gonna step on a mine."

The townsfolk continued to yell, protesting the mere idea of these people to strip off their main and only source of materials for some building.

"They're not gonna listen to us." Said Heather Chandler.

"We still have to try!" Said Heather McNamara.

"The whole town is yelling already! They're still ignoring us." Said Heather Duke.

"Ugh!" Heather McNamara groaned.

"Okay, calm down. I'm sure this situation will be resolved soon." Said Lyvara Diorre, a fellow townsfolk.

"Hope so." Said Heather Duke.

Danny groaned. "Assholes. HEY! I'm doing your town a favor!"

"How the hell is getting rid of our only source of materials a favor!?"

"Yeah! It's not like you give an actual shit about lower class citizens!"

"I'M ABOVE YOU UNDERSTAND?! Know your place, you low life cows!" Danny yelled.

"Sir, you're way too close to the minef-"

"YOU SWINES SHOULD LEARN TO RESPECT ME!"

"I need some water." Said Lyvara as she stepped away. She then contacted...a certain person. "Yo Cami, how you holding up?"

Camille Agerton, from the side with the officials, answered. "He's getting agitated right on time and on position."

"Cool, I'll let her know." Said Lyvara as she opened another contact. "Everything's in place."

Veronica grinned. "Perfect." She went to her balcony and signalled someone sitting on the roof next to the balcony.

Betty nodded and aimed.

She shot a landmine in the minefield with a very silent gun.

Causing the explosion, eventually killing Danny.

"Gotta hand it to you Ronnie, this gun is crazy silent." Said Betty.

"Using air pressure instead gun powder is what did that." Answered Veronica.

Betty chuckled. "Still, this was clean. All that will be released is that he got so agitated that he accidentally stepped on a landmine."

"Exactly. And without him, they can't really proceed with this building idea. As this was simply a decoy inspection."

"Huh?"

"Why do you think we had to get rid of him? From investigation, I found out a lot of things."

"Which are?"

"Danny Alforth. A very self-serving man who burnt down his own home, killing his wife and employees in it. All for insurance money. Of course, no one actually knows that. And now, he plans to strip that town of their only source of materials." Veronica chuckled. "Our friend from the government 'approved' this inspection. It's why we were able to pull this one off."

Betty nodded. "I see."

Veronica smirked.

They've done it again.

~~~~~

Whatcha guys think?

#veronica sawyer #heathers the musical #heathers the movie #heather chandler #chansaw #heather duke #heather mcnamara #dukesaw #mcnamawyer #mcduke #chandlamara #chanduke #poly!heathersxveronica

[scribedhorror]

@rachalcx​ || starter

“It’s tense and it’s c-cold and it’s d-dangerous. It feels luh-like defusing a bomb in-in a huh-haunted house buh-b-built on a minef-field. And there are b-bears everywhere. And the buh-bears have knives.”

#rachalcx #v: [ you don't like my endings? ] #[ the losers are arguing lmao ]

[megplant]

Killshot Pt. 2

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? 

#tangerine #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x reader #mine #mineFic #killshot #tangerine x you #tangerine x y/n #tangerine fic #mineTangerine

[nicolos]

Rate of Interest

The final day of festivities met Yusuf, somewhat unsurprisingly, with far more business than pleasure. One after the other Shamsaddin introduced him to various moneylenders and tradesmen and scribes and academics and politicians, including a handful from faraway countries there for the Ascension and the fair surrounding it.

Despite himself, Yusuf found himself hoping to catch the man with the arresting eyes and sharp tongue somewhere within the crowds, though between the press of the day and the dexterity with which Shamsaddin manoeuvred him from introduction to introduction, it seemed a hint unlikely. The unlikelihood only grew over the course of the morning, as the Doge’s parade came and went, a dazzling spectacle of ships so grand and well-decked they set even Yusuf’s—lavish, he would admit—sensibilities alight.

Even his uncle’s beleaguered secretary had to stop and watch that: stopping his diatribe on Signor Faccioli’s profligate habits to watch the procession with a rapt smile, before then announcing it was not so great as the year before.

“Shamsaddin,” he found himself asking, as they took towards the palace for the evening's celebrations, “how long do the pilgrims remain after the Ascension, customarily?”

Shamsaddin said, “Not long at all, thanking the Merciful. They will be here another week, but the city will be back to its ordinary state in no time.”

Yusuf considered that he had asked the wrong person.

It did not signify, in truth: he had allowed himself much of this week of festivities with a freedom he would not have with their end, and there could be no time spent waiting near the piazza or in the churches or palaces the guides would be taking pilgrims. The next day he was speaking to the customs officials from further west than he, and the day after that mediating and acting a signatory. That he was not looking forward to.

So he had all but forgotten about the handsome stranger he would never see again when Shamsaddin said, well into the evening, “Yusuf—there is the Consul of Genoa.”

It was a close thing that he did not twist his mouth like a child.

The Consul of Genoa was the reason Yusuf would be spending the next week mired in paperwork and struggling to make matters agreeable to all of the lesser merchants who depended upon his uncle’s—and now his—place in this city. He had never before been so given to dislike a man he had never met, but every tale from every man who had run into financial trouble or debts because of the Genoese traders in Venice had made him more and more irritated with his very mention.

“Introduce me,” he said, as befit his position. It would be better to come to know the man he would be spending much of the next week negotiating with. Even Shamsaddin looked unhappy with this, but he did, nonetheless, approaching a tall man draped in the bright red of his city, and clearing his throat.

“Consul di Genova.”

“Signor Al-Wahid,” the Consul said, turning around. He looked up, first at Shamsaddin, and then at Yusuf, his mouth opening just a hint with surprise.

Yusuf’s gut fell towards his feet. He clamped his mouth shut so he would not say something like you! It would, he thought, sound more accusatory than he intended it… and how could it not?

Shamsaddin raised a sharp brow, but said only, “This is Signor Al-Kaysani, the previous Signore’s nephew.”

“Nicolò of Genoa at your service,” he said, nodding politely. “I hope your uncle is well?”

“Yes,” Yusuf said. “Quite well.” He opened his mouth to say and yours, and then realised that was entirely nonsensical, and closed it.

“Signor Al-Kaysani will be acting as witness for the contracts with Signor Faccioli,” Shamsaddin informed him.

Nicolò said, “We will be working together often, then.”

Yusuf forced a smile.

When his uncle had decided that he would make a good replacement in Venice, he had been pleased—but that was before he realised the state of things in the city. Most of the men whose support he would wish to have had little hope in him—and yet he was one of the few who had the weight of their trade behind him enough to negotiate contracts with somebody like Signor Faccioli, and the well-esteemed Consul of Genoa.

“It seems we will,” he said.

Shamsaddin excused himself, clearly sighting somebody else he must speak to. Yusuf stayed in place, twisting the ring around his thumb.

Nicolò said, lightly, “You are a lot less cheerful today than when we first met.”

Don’t, Yusuf told himself. Just because you shared half an hour’s pleasant acquaintance before you discovered who he was does not mean you know him or can speak to him this way.

He opened his mouth and said, “I wonder why that might be.”

Nicolò frowned, and Yusuf found himself regretting it instantly. “Have I done something to offend you?”

The truth was, the man he had met a week ago could have done little that would offend Yusuf. They had met at the piazza on the first day of the fair. Shamsaddin had just given Yusuf a scolding for wearing the Venetian fashion, and Yusuf had responded with some quotation—which had, of course, missed its mark entirely.

“We are not in Milan,” he had said, “we are in Venice.”

Yusuf shook his head. “It is a—oh, nevermind. Look, somebody is calling you!”

And then somebody behind him had said, in Venetian, “They do not fast here on Saturdays.”

Yusuf’s conversation had been primarily in Arabic. Curiosity and a flush of pleasure that somebody had appreciated his joke had him speaking to the man, and they had spent the morning out of the way of the pilgrims and politicians that had flooded the city for the fair, speaking—primarily in riddles and quips. Work—or his uncle’s secretary—had eventually pulled Yusuf away, and it was only afterwards that he realised he knew nothing of the man, not his name nor where he was from… only that it was not Venice.

He had spent the rest of the week motivating himself with the flutter his stomach gave every time he considered once more running into whom he had begun to think of as his stranger.

And now—here he was.

“Of course not, Consul di Genova.”

Nicolò raised one acerbic brow. “Do you give so much credit to old rivalries?”

“You can hardly call a contract we will sign next week cause of an old rivalry,” Yusuf said, twisting his ring.

Nicolò propped his hands on his hips. He was dressed far better for the palace than he had the other day at the piazza—in brocade and a fur-lined cape. When he shifted his hands, his signet ring glinted. “I had not expected you to be so unhappy about an arrangement Signor Al-Wahid and your uncle have spent so long making possible.”

“Not that it exists, certainly, but you must admit the arrangement could be a fairer one.”

Nicolò’s lips pursed. “By my account, when the risk is considered to the bearers of the vessels, it is certainly fair.”

“Is that the rate of interest you call fair, Signor?” Yusuf asked, upset despite himself at Nicolò’s cavalier attitude, though it was precisely what he had expected to see in the Consul of Genoa when he finally met him. “Our merchants must sign away near all of the profits they may make at this rate.”

“We must be speaking of two different things,” he said. “I would not call a sale issued as such a meagre sum as—”

Yusuf named the sum, incredulous at it being named meagre, and Nicolò, abruptly, closed his mouth. His jaw worked furiously for a moment, before he said, stiffly, “It appears I have been misinformed.”

“Misinformed?” Yusuf asked, unimpressed.

Nicolò looked up, eyes sharp. “When I was last involved in the negotiation—when your uncle was still here—we were speaking in entirely different terms. It seems something has changed in between, and Signor Faccioli has neglected to inform me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe this. Pardon me, but this will save me a great deal of trouble.”

Yusuf narrowed his eyes. “Will it?” he asked.

Nicolò looked back at him, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I am not entirely ignorant to Signor Faccioli’s wrongdoings, though I did not believe they extended this far.”

“Is that so?”

Nicolò nodded, solemn. “I have heard complaints from some of the smaller merchants who ship to Genoa aboard his vessels of the rates he taxes. And there is the matter of loans to a handful of Venetian officers, who know better than to deal with him without me. They are nowhere near what you say, but I had every intention of looking into the matter once I had something supportable.”

It was almost too good to be true. He shook his head. “And this is supportable? Pardon me if I cannot be certain of your words, Nicolò. I have heard a great deal about your reputation in this city. And Signor Faccioli’s.”

He looked back at Yusuf, considering. “My pardons, Signor Al-Kaysani. I can only imagine the sort of trouble dealing with this as you have just arrived in the city must have been.”

Yusuf rubbed at his beard, hesitant in the face of the unexpected apology. “I—no. You did not know.”

Nicolò said, “And now I do, and will amend this at once.”

He sounded serious and genuine enough that Yusuf bit his tongue, told himself to stay alert, and promptly forgave him. “Everybody I have spoken to regarding the matter tells me that you are Faccioli’s man. His in-law, in fact.”

Nicolò hummed. “My niece’s husband is a man of God… which is why he does not speak to his father. Whom have you spoken to about me?”

“I did not know it was about you,” Yusuf said. He had been speaking of the Consul of Genoa, a figure entirely unlike the one Nicolò had—until minutes ago—cut. He bit his tongue, then said, honestly, “But a number of men. The opinion, I must say, was not a very satisfactory one.”

“I suppose I should not be offended, as it was not me, only my signet you spoke of.”

“Perhaps only a little,” Yusuf allowed, thinking back to the day they had met. Nicolò remembered, it seemed; his eyes flashed with good humour. “I do not intend to offend. The venial sin is common in all manners of men. And rings.”

Nicolò raised a brow. “As are mortal ones.”

For the first time since the morning, Yusuf smiled. “I must say, this is not how I expected it, but I... was hoping I would meet you again. I thought you a pilgrim.”

Nicolò’s answering smile was small, but pleased. “I did not think you a pilgrim, but—somebody I would not find again here, at least. I find I am glad I did… for more than one reason.”

Yusuf said, tentatively, “If you mean what you say…”

“I most certainly do.”

“Then…” he paused, looking over Nicolò’s shoulder, as Shamsaddin’s orange robes appeared in his line of sight. “I suspect I am about to be summoned away rather quickly, and I would rather not have to discuss this with my uncle’s secretary before I know more.” The last thing he wanted to do was get ahead of himself and disappoint him about something that had weighed upon them both for the entirety of Yusuf’s time here.

Nicolò’s mouth quirked. “Are you asking me for hiding places?”

Yusuf said, “Better. Can you talk as you dance, Consul di Genova?”

“Only if my partner is cheerful enough for it,” Nicolò said.

Yusuf raised a hand in offer.

#the old guard #tog fanfiction #kaysanova #joe x nicky #mine. #minefic #mineart

[catoscloves]

you could try and take us, but we're the gladiators by catoscloves (enobarias on ao3)

thg | clato (cato x clove) | series

strangers, enemies, friends, allies. maybe even more, or nothing at all. so much exists between the tributes of district two, and for as much as they will deny it, they know it goes beyond a partnership based on mutual benefit and killing their competitors. (oneshots designed to explore the relationship between cato and clove. set in canon 74th hunger games, with mild alterations.)

#the hunger games #clato #cato x clove #clove x cato #thg fanfiction #clato fanfiction #cato #clove #thg #thgedit #clatoedit #thehungergamesedit #**mine #mineaesthetic #minefic

[jmflowers]

I’d like 100 words on Maya, Carina and kitchen renovations please!

I couldn't keep it to 100, so here's 343 instead. Canon, of course, because we all want to overhaul that house. In another version of this, I'd be arming them with sledgehammers.

~~~

“Okay, but are you really sure about this tile?”

Carina huffs, passing her credit card across the counter to the cashier. “If I wasn’t sure, we would not be buying it, Maya.”

Maya nods, eyes darting to the stack of boxes piled high in the shopping cart. Liam giggles happily on her hip, hands flapping with excitement as the woman behind them in line waves at him again.

“It’s just so expensive,” Maya mumbles, accepting the receipt when Carina hands it to her. She tries not to balk at the price her wife has just dropped on a backsplash. They don’t even technically own their house yet.

Carina hums, quietly restraining her own frustration as she lifts Liam from Maya’s arms and gestures to the loaded shopping cart for her wife to push. “We compromised,” Carina reminds her, wiping gently at the drool dribbling down Liam’s chin. She tosses a smile at the woman behind them in the line, raising Liam’s hand to wave goodbye as their little family makes its way towards the exit doors.

“To save money,” Maya refutes, half-heartedly.

Liam chooses that precise moment to blow a raspberry, a clean arc of his spit flying through the air to land on Maya’s cheek. He shrieks loudly, delighted with himself as Carina tucks her face into his neck, trying to hide her own laughter.

Maya sighs, wiping at the wetness on her cheek as Carina’s chuckles finally burst free. “Fine,” she groans, trying desperately to pretend like she’s offended.

She isn’t, though; not really. Because their little boy is brilliant and her wife is gorgeous and the two of them are so happy, so ridiculous in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“I’m never going to win a single argument with you two, am I?” she mutters, leaning forward to smother Liam’s face with kisses. He squeals with delight at the attention, tangling his chubby little fingers in her hair.

“No,” Carina agrees, her smile so wide and so radiant it makes the breath catch in Maya’s throat. “Not ever, bambina.”

#prompt party #tumblr prompt party #minefic #maya x carina fic #carina x maya fic #station 19 fic #canon compliant #englishstrawbie #janelle's asks #thanks friend! I would love to play with this more

[joanna-lannister]

JAIME AND CERSEI WEEK 2023: Day 4 - October 31th: Spell

i wanna do bad things with you

sibling incest | alternate universe - modern au | smut | vampire au

Jaime and Cersei have been turned into vampires by a spell over thousand years ago.

The sound of her high heels echoed through the walls of the manor as Cersei walked down the large staircase leading to the hallway. Upon reaching the last three steps, she paused, and watched Jaime make his entrance, quickly followed by the two innocent lambs he brought for them for dinner tonight. Two girls no older than twenty-five, a doe-eyed brunette with loose curls and smudged eyeliner, and a short haired platinum blonde with lips as crimson as blood, both giggling as if tonight the world belonged to them, the horrors of the world unknown to them. Horrors. That's what she and Jaime were, forever frozen in bodies that wouldn't age. Over the centuries, they had been called by many names; creatures of the night, monsters, demons, bloodsuckers… Each folklore had its own definition and name for what they were, but contemporaries would often call them by one and unique name; vampires. They were shadows in the dark, something people didn't believe in until it was too late, just like those two poor souls.

read more on ao3

#jaime x cersei #cersei lannister #jaime lannister #mine* #minegot #minejc #minefic #otp : a dynasty for us #jcweek #jcweek2023