homecoming
tangerine x fem!reader
3.5k words
rated E, nsfw, no minors y’all
thanks to @basichextechml and northerngalxy for being my beta readers!
this was supposed to be a short, silly little fic about having a “good time'' with Tangerine and how he keeps getting interrupted by Lemon constantly calling his phone. it is now 3.5k words. i also ended up tying in some small details from the book. this is my first time writing smut in a while so enjoy!
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Tangerine has been away so long, the longest you two have been apart since you started seeing each other.
Lemon had driven him to your apartment from the airport without Tangerine even telling him that this was the only place he wanted to go. This last job had a high reward, but it was one of the more brutal jobs he’d ever done. It had involved weeks of surveillance, an agonizing stint undercover, and one of the most vicious fights of his life. And every night, often under a cold shower watching someone else’s blood circle the drain, he'd think of you. He knocks at your door, but waits a total of five seconds before kicking it open.
You were standing at your kitchen sink, hands submerged in soapy dishwater. The knocking makes you stop, and you listen closely until the door is kicked in. You grab a knife from the drying rack and step into the hall, terrified that it’s some enemy coming to collect. Instead, it’s a very disheveled Tangerine.
You come to an abrupt halt, knife hand dropping limply to your side as he stomps into the entryway. Upon looking up and seeing you, he slows, his arms also falling to his sides, dropping his coat and bag. “Fucking hell, have I missed you, love,” he says.There’s a deep cut across his eyebrow, and he’s got a split bottom lip. Dressed in well-tailored but wrinkled black suit pants, his white shirt is equally wrinkled and smeared with dirt all over, and what could be a little blood at the collar. The shirt is hanging open, and his gold medallion glistens in the afternoon light around him.
He starts toward you, but you hold up the knife, pointing it at him.
“You said you’d call every other day, or text, or something to let me know you’re still alive,” you say in a low, angry voice, emphasizing each mode of communication with a stab of the blade. It had been a week since you’d had word from him. For a while you had forced yourself to be calm, patient, but seeing him now, alive and well, releases a dam of pent up feelings. You’re fighting dueling urges to cry and scream at him.
He holds his hands up, his gold chain bracelet sliding down his muscled forearm. “I tried, I swear. There was no helping it.” He gives you a tired, defeated look. “Things went tits up, the phone was used as an incendiary device, and we had to lay very low. I stowed away on a goddamn plane to get here!”
He steps closer, slowly reaching his hand toward the knife, but you quickly stick the point of it against the underside of his chin. Stupid of him to get that close to you when you’re this angry.
“I told myself I wasn’t going to make a big deal about it, be the cool girlfriend, but I was fucking worried, Tan.” The blade isn’t overly sharp, a well loved and well used chef’s knife, and you let it slowly drag down his throat, softly over his Adam's apple. It bobs as he swallows, and he starts to feel his energy coming back, or maybe it’s just his pants getting suddenly tight. The tip of the knife comes to rest at the hollow of his throat.
“Fucking hell, I still think you’re ‘the cool girlfriend,’ whatever the fuck that means. Darling, I missed you so goddamn much.” He moves a little closer despite the knife digging in a little bit more, his hands moving up to cup your face. “Can you put the knife down now so I can bend you over the dining room table?”
He’s never been a very proper gentleman, but the request is so vulgar that you let out a small laugh despite yourself. Carefully, you set the knife on a nearby table in the entryway. In the next instant his lips are against yours in a heated, breathless kiss. After a second, you start to taste copper from his bleeding lip. His mustache is coarse against your skin, but you only kiss him harder. His hands move from your face, running down your arms to rest at your hips, pulling your body flush against his. Your hands slide into his hair, tangling in his messy curls. You grab a fistful of hair and tug, and he groans into your mouth. His hands leave your hips to squeeze your ass, barely covered by cotton pajama shorts. You can feel him inching his fingers up and underneath the fabric of your shorts and panties
He breaks the kiss, pressing his lips along your cheek and jawline, up to your earlobe. Taking it between his teeth, he alternates between biting and licking. His tongue feels like it’s a thousand degrees against your skin, and the chill of his breath on the trails of saliva makes you tremble against him.
“Tell me how much you need this,” he says into your ear, nipping at the lobe one last time before dropping kisses and bites along your neck again.
Just as you’re about to respond, a tinny electronic song starts playing. Tangerine freezes as if he’s been shot, and you feel something vibrating in his pocket. Before he can pull away, you reach into his pants and pull out a silver flip phone.
“You fucking bastard,” you say, voice back to its quiet angry tone. The caller ID flashes LEMON in the tiny pixel screen. “You’ve had a phone this whole time, and couldn’t be fucked to give me a ring?” Your voice is rising, but Tangerine is stunned silent.
“Listen, really listen to me,” he pleads, reaching for the tiny phone. “I have no fucking idea how I have that.” It was true. He’d been dog tired by the time the plane had landed, jostled repeatedly in a storage area that definitely wasn’t meant to transport people. Lemon had slept the entire time, squeezed shoulder to shoulder with his brother in the tiny compartment. When they’d landed and successfully dodged all airport staff and security, Lemon had said something about getting a car and wandered off. But wait. Had he also said something about grabbing phones? As soon as Lemon pulled a car around to the pick up area, Tangerine folded himself into the passenger seat and fell into a deep sleep. He’d only just woken up right before he kicked in your door. Had Lemon slipped him the phone while he was out?
Good ol’ Lemon was actually being a “useful train” for once, but of course it would backfire magnificently for Tangerine.
You throw the phone at him, and it bounces hard off his chest, but he manages to catch it. While he flips it open and greets Lemon, you storm away back to the kitchen. Tangerine tries to reach after you, grab you before you get away, but he fails and nearly falls flat on his face.
“Fuck!” he yells, frustrated in more ways than one.
“You good, bruv?” Lemon asks. “Little early to be upset after a successful gig, yeah?”
Tangerine stares after you, raking a hand through his hair. The memory of you pulling it seconds ago makes his cock twitch.
“Not our most successful. What’d you need?” Tangerine tersely asks, tonguing the cut on his lip. He can taste blood.
“What’s got you irritated? You’re back for two seconds and you’re already fighting with her? Must be a personal best for you,” Lemon says. “Or personal worst, I s’pose.” Before Tangerine can rip him a new one, Lemon continues, “I checked on the rest of our pay. It’s all been deposited into the account.” He pauses, takes a breath. Tangerine clears his throat, impatient. “And, alright, I took a little bit. Thought I might treat myself to a very nice dinner.”
“That’s great, Lemon. I hope you fucking choke on it.” Tangerine can hear you resuming your dish washing, the soft sounds of running water and clinking glass floating into the hallway.
Lemon clicks his tongue. “Take a breath. Christ. While I was checking on the money, Momo sent a message. Tip for another job, but she only said that we could find the full details in a ‘chartreuse tome’ in the historical society’s archives,” he says, making his accent more posh when he mentions the book. He’s actually being incredibly productive for once. Tangerine’s impressed, but also too tired and hard to appreciate it.
“Again, fantastic, Lemon. Get the fucking book and don’t call again until you have it.” Tangerine hangs up before he can respond, sliding the phone back into his pocket. He’s confident that Lemon can handle finding a book on his own. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out in one long exhale before heading to the kitchen.
It’s an open concept with the dining room just on the other side of the counter from where you’re currently occupied. He comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his head on your shoulder. You try to ignore him, focusing on the task in front of you. He sighs loudly and dramatically, clearly seeking your attention.
“How’s Lemon?” You finally ask after the longest minute. You’re still angry, but it feels so nice to have him wrapped around you like this that the rage starts to fade.
“Fine, oblivious, annoying. Same as always,” he grumbles into your shoulder, kissing his way up your neck to your jaw. “I swear I didn’t know about the phone until it started ringing.” Judging from how flustered he was, you’re inclined to believe him. You let the bowl you were washing slip from your hands back into the water. Leaning into him, he turns your head just enough so that he can kiss you, his lips soft and gentle, lingering against yours. He peppers you with kisses, dipping his head to yours over and over. He only kisses you like this when he thinks he’s fucked up, and it melts your heart every time. You take your dripping, soapy hands out of the water and turn to face him. They’re overly warm, and when you bring one up to his face he leans into it, closing his eyes. He’s so obviously torn between falling asleep and fucking you senseless. Your other hand starts working on the buttons of his shirt, making the choice for him.
“Let’s try this again,” you quietly tell him, pulling his shirt up and out of his pants, the white linen hanging open on his shoulders. There’s a little dark smudge of something across his collarbone, but your eyes are drawn to the chiseled expanse of his abdomen. Your still damp hands run over his skin, combing through the soft auburn hair on his chest. When he opens his eyes there’s a heat in them that makes you weak in the knees.
He takes your hand in his, leading you over to the dining room table. “It wasn’t jokes earlier. I fully intended to bend you over this table.” It’s sturdy, solid oak with a rustic look but polished to a mirror shine. It was a gift from him when he couldn’t stand your old wobbly table any longer. He leads you to stand against the edge of it, facing away from him, your hands pressed against its surface. Lips on your neck again, his tongue drags a slow trail to the back of your ear. His hands move to your breasts, kneading them gently over the soft fabric of your old t-shirt. One of his hands slips under your shirt, ghosting over your belly and up to your nipples, taking one between two fingers and giving it the slightest squeezes.
His other hand moves south, slipping under the waistbands of your shorts, cupping your warm, damp pussy over your panties. Breathless, you say his code name, the only name you’ve ever gotten out of him.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he says in your ear, one of his fingers curling up against the fabric, applying a tiny bit of pressure. You give a little moan, and he pushes around them, dragging a finger against your wet curls.
“I want your fingers inside of me,” you quietly plead to him, grinding back against his cock. “Please.”
Tangerine lets out a small chuckle before he gently presses your body down against the table. “That all?” He slaps your ass, playful but hard enough to sting a little. “Just my fingers? Nothing else?” He pulls your shorts and underwear down in one agonizingly slow motion, you lift up one foot and then the other to step out of them.
“Spread those legs just a little bit more for me, love,” he instructs you, quiet but straining. You do as you’re told, aching for him to touch you. He doesn’t leave you waiting long, falling to his knees, pulling your cheeks apart. After a brief moment, he drags his tongue from your cunt to your asshole.
“Jesus Christ, Tan,” you gasp. The fingers of one hand slide against your wet slit, pushing against your entrance.
He presses one finger into you slowly, and you moan, biting your fist. His tongue is working against your ass, circling it over and over, occasionally trying to push itself in. The combined sensation of his tongue and an added finger in your pussy has you wiggling, pushing yourself against his face. This display of wanton need makes him moan, the vibration adding another level of pleasure. His mustache is chafing against the soft skin of your bottom, but you can’t ask him to stop.
“Holy shit,” you mumble against your hand. His fingers have developed a steady rhythm, hitting in just the right spot. You wish you could watch him, see the depraved look in his eyes as he takes you apart. But there’s something to be said about blindly letting him have his way with you.
He stops for just a moment to ask, his voice gravelly, “Do you forgive me yet?” His mouth is back on your ass before you can answer.
The cell phone begins to ring again, playing a lively little tune. Tangerine continues his important work, pushing his tongue past your tight little ring of muscle, making you gasp. The phone rings on and on, stopping for maybe ten seconds before starting again.
“Fucking hell!” Tangerine stands up, tearing the phone from his pocket. You sag against the table, flushed and a little deflated.
“Lemon, what the fuck can I do for you now?” he answers.
You try to stand up, but Tangerine bends you back down, his free hand moving from your back to between your legs, his fingers sliding into your wetness. You turn your head as much as you can to see him, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head and pressing his lips together. Don’t say a word, darling.
“Don’t hang up on me again, you bastard,” Lemon says on the other end. “I’m at the place, but I don’t know what color chartreuse is!”
Tangerine takes in a slow deep breath, transfixed by his fingers and the wet sounds they make as they move into you. He’s wearing his typical large signet rings, and he gets an immense amount of satisfaction watching them disappear inside of you. Goddamnit, he will not let Lemon distract him from this. He’s waited too long. You’re doing your best to fight the noises rising from your throat as he fingers you while on the phone.
“Isn’t this a question better suited for the internet?” he says, incredulous.
“I’m also working off of a flip phone, prick, and trying to bring up the browser on this thing makes me want to pry my fingernails off,” Lemon complains in his usual flat tone.
“Where did you get these phones, a couple of pensioners? It’s a kind of fucking yellow, mate,” Tangerine tells him, and then hangs up the phone again.
You bark out a laugh, shocked that that’s all Tangerine gave him. “‘A kind of yellow’? He’ll definitely be calling you back.”
He puts the phone back in his pocket before undoing his belt and trousers. Palming his cock for just a moment, he frees it from his boxers, letting it rest against your ass.
“I’m not answering,” he stubbornly says, withdrawing his fingers from you. The sudden emptiness makes you whine softly, trying to push yourself back into him. “I’m a little busy at the moment,” he says, basking in the sight of you desperate for him.
You push yourself up to a standing position, and he lets out a noise of disapproval, but you turn to hop up on the table. He steps in between your legs, and he stops short, letting his cock linger just out of reach of your core. His hands come to rest on the soft skin of your thighs, squeezing.
“You’d better fuck me right now, before he calls back,” you tell him, your lips close enough to his that they brush against each other as you speak. You tilt your chin up, dragging your tongue over the cut on his lip. He kisses you fiercely, and you can feel his cock rubbing against your clit. You reach down between your bodies and guide him to you, feeling the tip push inside. His hips take it from there, sliding inch by inch until he’s fully inside of you. Your breath hitches at the wonderful sensation of him stretching you, gripping each side of his open shirt with white knuckles. No one has ever filled you like he has.
“Goddamn it, you feel so fucking good around my cock, darling,” he groans, rocking his hips back and forth, sliding out and back in. The intimacy of this is overwhelming, your foreheads pressed together, his half-lidded blue eyes staring into yours. He moves to the side of your head, saying directly into your ear, “You are all I’ve thought about for two straight months.” He pulls your shirt up, exposing your breasts. Leaning down he captures one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking, licking, and biting at the tender flesh. One of your hands goes to his hair, tangling in his curls. As you make a fist it pulls the hair taught, and he moans against your skin. In response he picks up speed. He pulls his lips from your breast and hooks his hands under your knees, pulling you into him with each thrust. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching this beautiful man fuck you.
You can barely form words, but you manage to say, “Yes, Tangerine, god yes.”
A wicked grin forms on his face and he maintains that speed. He loves hearing his code name in your gasping, barely audible voice. “Touch yourself for me,” he says, watching you like a starved man eyeing a buffet.
You obey, reaching between your legs and massaging your clit to match his strokes. You can feel the build up of your impending orgasm in your belly, warmth spreading through your hips and radiating out from your core. You clench around him as it washes over you, blood rushing to your face and chest, rubbing your clit through the waves of intense sensations. You cry out his code name, begging him not to stop, and he groans and bucks into you a little more forcefully.
Tangerine’s not long after you, burying himself up to the hilt and gripping your legs so hard you know you’ll find bruises there later. He stands like that for a moment, shuddering with his orgasm. The sight of you, flushed and panting, on the table he bought you makes his chest tight. Through every beating taken and every bullet fired, he only thought of you. The gentle touch of your hand, the sting of your nails and teeth. In every horrible moment, he was always looking forward to this reunion.
“Jesus,” he sighs, still inside you, not wanting to move. “That was… fuck.”
The phone begins to ring again, the song becoming a trigger of rage for Tangerine. You laugh at the absurdity of it, and after a beat he does too. Leaning over, he kisses you sweetly, lingering.
“I’m gonna shove this phone down his throat when I see him,” he growls against your lips. He stands, withdrawing from you and tucking himself back into his boxers. You can feel his come dripping down your thigh as you stand up, trying to right yourself as best you can. Shirt and pants wide open, Tangerine retrieves the phone from his pocket and answers the call.
“Lemon, if you don’t have that fucking book,” he starts, but Lemon is yelling over him before he can finish.
“I don’t know what color ‘chartreuse’ is! You say yellow but there’s only green books here!”
