Work Text:
tangerine
/tan(d)ʒəˈriːn/
1. a small citrus fruit consisting of hybrids of mandarin orange with some pomelo contribution.
2. a bold, saturated orange shade that marries the fierceness of red and the cheerfulness of yellow.
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Red heat fills your lungs, coats sticky skins grinding up against stickier skin in the damp Brazilian air. There’s sweat slicking up the back of your neck, matting baby hairs onto the wet skin, and you lean your head back onto the shoulder pressed up behind you and admire the flares of green and yellow and green.
Fingertips dig into your hips as your body is tugged back against a sweaty chest, hips slotting against hips gyrating to the bass pumping too low, reverberating in the air until it travels up from the ground beneath your feet and resonates tingles down your spine.
It stops between your legs, steady vibrations of need and desperation thrusted in between your spreading thighs as a tented cock is thrusted into your ass.
And then the hands start moving, dancing on your skin to the beat of the bass picking up, prickling sweat and goosebumps as it feathers over your bare waist and settles below your plump tits. A tentative squeeze has your eyes rolling back and catching on the fluff of orange looming over your body, and you wonder if it’s soft, it looks soft, feels soft tangling between your fingers.
He’s whispering something in your ear, innocent chuckling that you can’t make out above the speakers; can only feel the warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear, the too-close proximity drowning out your mind in waves of needy pleasure. So you push your hips back mindlessly, grinding into his cock straining against you and feel another warm breath moaning in your ear.
His fingers cup and knead at your tits over your flimsy shirt as you loop an arm behind his neck, pulling his body infinitely closer and closer until his lips are a breath away from yours and then they’re not— you’re breathing straight into his mouth, lips molding together and transferring red hot air between the enclosed orifice until you’re tangling your tongues in rhythm of your swaying bodies but half a beat faster, half a beat needier.
Tequila. His lips tastes like sharp tequila and tangy orange and you have half a mind to wonder if you’re going hazy from mixing liquor, but you’re not given time to linger on the citrus when your bodies are being shadowed by someone taller, lankier, all chestnut hair and gorgeous.
He smirks down at you, and you feel your brain going numb, going blank until the body behind you humps an insistent thrust into your ass and your mouth goes slack once again, fingernails burying past the orange mane and digging into his scalp.
When your eyes refocus again, you’re met with the chestnut tickling your cheeks as he whispers something to the man behind you, and you think you can make out the smell of mint, muddling your mind like the mojito spilling past your bodies.
And then your bodies are moving again, hips gyrating and sweaty skins painting each other with slick hues reflecting the green and yellow lights highlighting the club. When you lean your head back to relace your tongues together, his hand reaches down into your flimsy tank and stretches the neckline under the plump of your tits, letting your nipples kiss the hot Brazilian air.
You should protest in embarrassment, in efforts to preserve the last of your fading dignity, but his fingers find your pebbling nips and his mouth still tastes like oranges, and you can’t help but think it tastes so divine complimenting the vodka in your body. Through fluttering eyes you can make out the blurry figure of the tall man still standing in front of you, his own body swaying to the beat of the music and eyes fixed on yours.
He smirks, you moan, the man behind you finds the hem of your skirt. It’s an ode to the provocative city, a choreography only suitable for the City of Sin.
So you let his hands lift the hem of your skirt to expose you to the man in front, tracing a deft finger down your soaking slit and reemerge in front of your eyes coated in shiny slick different from the one covering the writhing bodies around you. Your ear is warmed by another breath, another comment drowned out by the music, but you let your jaw fall open and welcome his finger onto your tongue.
Tarty, salty like the sweat on his skin, but sweet like oranges still. And suddenly it’s not enough, suddenly you want more; want to be enveloped by the tangy fruitiness until you only know citrus.
You lift your skirt above your ass to press directly into his tenting erection before cupping it with your hands. A flurry of hands grope at your bodies, yours fiddling with his zipper while his cup your jaw with his fingers shoved down your throat.
The man in front doesn’t move, doesn’t touch, only watches through lidded eyes as his lips curl up in a teasing smirk.
The lights in the club flare orange and red as the beat pumps loudly in your eardrums; in a crescendo of movements his cock springs free, slapping at the bare flesh of your ass before he’s pulling the lace covering your sopping cunt aside and bottoming out in one thrust.
The moan comes ripping out your throat, fading into the beat pumping out like a shrill hi-hat, and the stretch is painful, so painful, but so sweet like tangerine; the man in front sways into you before leaning down.
“You’re being a lil too obvious.” It comes out a melody too sweet for the dirty sweaty bass, lilt floating up in the air and dangling above your heads in provocation.
You feel the cock inside you pull out entirely and you almost want to whine at the emptiness, hole fluttering in desperation, but then he’s burying it to hilt again, knocking you forward into your audience.
He touches you for the first time that night, long slender fingers wrapping around your forearms and tugging your cheek into his chest.
“Does it hurt?” You can hear him above the music, voice high, crisp, saccharine; you dip your head in a soft nod, wiping wet mascara into his clean white tee, and he laughs. “Is he too big?”
As if on cue your hips are bounced back onto his cock, sloppy thrusts in an offbeat rhythm that threaten to smush your face into the chest even more. You want to answer him, answer his question, but what was it again? What was he asking you?
Your mind’s drowning out in pleasure, core throbbing with every kiss of his cockhead to your cervix, and you’d feel bad for drooling over this man’s shirt if you hadn’t looked down to see his own tenting erection.
You’re not given time to reach down and help him out too; a large calloused hand wraps around your throat again to yank your body back into the thrusts with the other bruising your hips.
He bounces you on his cock, arching your back painfully as his grip on your neck bends you backwards into his kiss. It’s sloppy, messy, more tongue and spit and saliva and less finesse, but you can taste the tangy citrus again and it winds the coil up inside you impossibly tight— and then it snaps.
Your vision dances into your skull, blubbering out moans and cries you’re sure rings above the music but he doesn’t stop, hips jackhammering into yours at a bruising pace as you carve crescents into soft flesh.
You can feel your walls fluttering around him as he fucks you into the other man, can feel your mind blacking out and consciousness fading, can feel your second orgasm creeping up before you’ve even come down from the first— heat, blooming from the inside out in the shape of ropes after ropes of cum filling up your greedy hole.
The music slows down, bass fading into your skull as you pass out to the scent of oranges.