#tangerime fanfic

[growup-thatbeautiful]

Pleasure + Pain | Tangerine

Warnings: sexual content, blood, injuries, cursing

Tangerine masterlist

Word Count: 2.3k

You’ve been through hell. Even if he hadn’t been there to see you fight your way through men twice your size, taking your punches and leaving only ghosts in your wake, he would be able to tell from the way you move around your kitchen. There’s a tenderness in your movements, like you’re taking care to make your movements smooth and fluid. 

The shirt you’re wearing has to be his; it falls halfway down your thighs, covering enough of your to appear modest. You both know modesty isn’t something you’re concerned about at this point (he’s bandaged you up enough times to see almost all of you), but it drives him insane to think of you going through your closet and picking something of his so blatantly. Your hair, speckled with dried blood both yours and other, falls loosely from the bun you put it in, locks escaping and framing the bruiseson your face perfectly. There’s a natural life to your cheeks from your recent job well done, and you’re itching around the kitchen, keeping your ink-coverd hands busy. Some part of him wonders if you’d ever be willing to get a tattoo with him. His brain helpfully supplies images of his name sprawled across your heart, there for all of your victims to see. 

In his twisted mind, he’s come to accept you as some sort of angel, claiming your souls and floating through your own life beautifully, a glowing essence around you. 

As he watches you move around and pour yourself and him a cup of tea, he revels in your presence. 

It’s not something he lets himself do often. There’s the chance that you’ll can’t help his stare and figure out that it’s more than partnership behind his gaze. 

Without asking him, you add a dash of honey to his tea and place the flowered mug on the counter. He knows you got it at some sort of market, but he had zoned out when you told him the story. Knowing you, he thinks, it’s stolen. 

A girl after his own heart. 

When you lean over the counter on the other side of him, the fresh cut across your brow leaks an angry drop of blood to trace a tear’s path down your face. 

He sees the way you lean into it- the pain. He sees how you favor the leg that took a knife deep into its flesh. How you pick at your nails until they bleed and absentmindedly trace your scars, pressing on them to search for that dull ache. 

He sees it and he has no idea why it makes him feel the way that he feels. Of course, he’s not the most emotionally available person most of the time, and he isn’t always aware of his feelings. 

He doesn’t know why it makes him picture you underneath him, your head tossed back into creamy white pillows, tears leaking from your eyes as he asks you for more. He sees marks- ones he left- on your wrists and lining your hips, a checkerboard of him on your thighs. 

You’re staring at him now. You’ve probably asked him something, and all he can think about is how pretty your lips look when you say his name. 

“Tan?” you ask, your voice on the edge of soft and deceptive in its quietness. He’s seen you with blood dripping from your hands, but the only word he can think of right now is pure. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, love. It’s nothing,” he assures you. You keep looking at him skeptically, your eyes filled with doubt, a half-grin on your face. 

You must find something in his gaze you don’t like, because you look down into your mug, your red-painted fingernail twirling the tea’s string in between your fingers. 

He can’t stand the silence, so he says, “You did good today.” You deserve to know that, even if it’s from him. 

“Tan,” you state, edge to your tone, a familiar blaze in your eyes, “What are you playing at?” 

“I’m not,” he defends. “I’m just telling you that you properly dealt with those fucking pricks.” 

“I always do.” You take a sip of your tea and settle yourself on top of the countertop, sliding to where you’re across from him. He leans forward in response, taking in the overwhelming scent of you that fills the minimum space left between you. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “How’s your leg?” It’s not because he’s worried that he asks; he’s seen you take worse. If he can remind you of the pain, he can keep you leaning into the comfortable atmosphere you’ve created. 

It’s like you’ve forgotten about the pain until he brings it up. He sees the moment you remember, though, because animation fills your face. You look excited, like he’s brought up a wedding ring instead of the stab wound on your thigh. 

“S’fine,” you whisper. You’re smart enough to recognize the trap he’s setting for you. You wouldn’t allow for him to run his hand along the bandages on your thigh if you didn’t want it. 

You could kill him if you wanted. But you don’t; you let him press down against the growing red stain, a gasp lodged in your throat, your hand grasping the wrist that’s sliding across your neck. 

It’s obscene, the way your eyes flutter shut when you lean into his touch, like this is normal. Like anything about this isn’t totally fucked. 

“Tan,” you warn lowly, but it’s an empty threat and you both know it. There’s nothing to ruin here, no invisible line to cross. He always knew it would lead to this, and so did you. 

He presses until blood drips down your leg, slow and beaded, the bandage angry and full. Every muscle in your body is tense- he can feel it underneath his hands that search and tease and discover. The scar on your shoulder, the burn on your ribs, the raised tissue of the newly etched tattoo along your spine. All of it, together, has you going boneless against him, your weight leaning against his broad shoulders, your head finding a place in the crook of his neck, your shaky breaths wet against the undone collar of his shirt. 

He doesn’t know if you’re aware of the sounds you’re making, whining noises in the back of your throat, fucking unbearable for him to listen to and not address. 

“What do you need, love?” He has so many ideas of what you could say. His fingers, his mouth, his cock. Any of it he’s willing to give; he burns with the thought of giving any of it to you. “I swear to God, I’ll fucking give you whatever you ask for.” 

When you don’t answer, he grabs your chin between two fingers tipped with blood and brings your face out from his neck. 

Oh, he thinks. He never should have let you hide away. There’s heat in your face, making you look healthy and happy and fucked out of your mind. He’s barely even touched you and your lips are swollen from biting them to keep quiet and from leaving marks along his throat. He files it away for later to make sure he hears you at full volume- no embarrassment to keep him from getting to experience you. Your eyes, so bright and full of fight usually, are still bright, but there’s a shine of tears in them. Whether it’s from the pain or the pleasure, he doesn’t know, but either way he takes it in with satisfaction. 

“Aren’t you fucking pretty?” he coos, more sincere than he means it to. All you can do is nod in response, your eyes glassy and your chest heaving. It occurs to him that you would agree with anything he said right now; it’s a dizzying thought, a grounding thought. “Can you answer me, love?” It comes out gentler than anything else he’s said tonight, and it must work because you manage to whisper a breathy “yes.” While a smile that’s probably too knifelike, he cups your face, reveling in the warmth of your skin. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks next. Your eyes go round and a frown finds its way to your face and, no, he can’t have that. With a kiss to your forehead, he smooths away the upset lines and hauls you closer to the edge of the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist easily. “I won’t stop unless you want me to, darling.” Fuck church bells- the relieved sigh that comes from your lips is all he wants to hear when he dies. 

“Right, then,” he mutters against the shell of your ear. “As much as I fucking love to see you in my shirt, this-” he pulls on the buttons holding your shirt together “-is going to have to go.” You try to help him with the buttons, but your shaking hands make it hard, and he gets four undone before you get one. When the shirt falls open to reveal your flimsy, last-resort bra, he lets out a low groan and pushes the rest of the fabric off your shoulders and onto the floor. You wait expectentaly while he undoes the metal clasp, your bra joining the shirt in a pile on the floor. The cool air pebbles your nipples, a shiver running down your spine. He sees it and does what he can to fix it; his hands cup you gently at first, then roughly, kneading and pinching until your legs are vicelike around his waist, begging for friction between your legs. When he’s had his fill with his hands, his mouth comes next, careful kisses and bites scattering the valley of your breasts as he runs his hands anywhere he can find. You’re rocking with him, his curls caught tight in his grip as you push him forward and pull him back, trying to escape and chase more. 

He didn’t expect it to be like this: you, following his lead, letting him take control for once. The fight in you, which he’s so used to, is gone, leaving you with puppy-dog eyes and red lips. It’s a heady thought to think he might be the only person you trust to see you like this. 

You start pleading with him, and he’s only human. He would prefer for his first time to fuck you not to be up against a counter, but he doesn’t think he can wait until he carries you to your bedroom.You would probably have some protests, too. 

He’s still a gentleman, though so he pulls away from you, despite your protests, to grab the clothes on the floor and shove them underneath your head as he splays you over the counter, your back hitting the cool marble. 

The thin material of your underwear slides down your blood-crusted thighs, and he tosses it somewhere behind him before he runs his hands up your legs, inching closer and closer to your heat. You’re quiet now, like if you make a noise he’ll stop, which he wouldn’t dream of. Until you ask him to, he’s going to treat you right. 

When he slides his first finger in, you take it like you’ve been waiting ages, ready for him. One quickly turns into two, which turns into three. He scissors you open, not going too fast but not taking his time with you anymore. Based on the increasing volume of your moans, you want it just as badly as he does. You’re taking him in greedily, your hands searching for purchase on the smooth countertop, your hips canting up to meet the curling of his fingers.

As soon as he deems you ready, he removes his fingers, licking them off with a hum while you whine unhappily underneath him. He quiets your complaints with a kiss while he searches for a condom in his back pocket, finding it and  rolling it over his length before notching himself at your entrance. He takes a moment to look at you, the clarity in your eyes, the plead on your lips. It’s enough to take a good man to his knees, and he’s no good man. 

His eyes meet yours and that’s all it takes for him to push his way in, a low, loud groan leaving escaping his throat when he feels the tight, slick heat of you take him. He knows he’s not going to last long with how pent up he’s been, but he can tell you aren’t either. The pace he sets is brutal and punishing, his hips snapping into yours, one hand gripping your hip and the other pressing circles on your clit. Your eyes are screwed tightly shut, noises bubbling from your throat as he fucks you harder, faster. His lips meet yours in a kiss when he feels you tightening around him, your cunt clenching down as your orgasm crashes into you, your body going tight, your back arching as you pull him in deeper. He follows you over the edge, his head buried in your hair, murmuring sweet nothings into your skin as you both come down from your highs. 

“Fuck,” you laugh, a smile finding its way to your face as you card your hands through his hair. “That was-” “Yeah,” he agrees. “It was.” Standing up straight, he pulls you with him, leading you to the bathroom where you’ll clean each other up like you have so many times in every other way but this.

You leave a trail of blood on the floors when you walk with him, leaning against him for support, his hand on the small of your back. The fight in your eyes is back, and he’s expecting hell from you about the bruises covering your body tomorrow. 

Maybe you’re not an angel, but he’s not convinced you aren’t some sort of avenginig devil, here to torture him with your smile and your laugh and your sex. He’ll follow you no matter what, though. Every part of you calls for him, and he’s more than willing to answer for anything you ask. 

First he has to clean you up and get you to bed. You’ll be a devil again tomorrow; right now, you’re his.