Work Text:
Realization arrived like a stray cat scratching at a door. He would sense it, sink down in his mind to investigate, throw open the portals of thought to peer into the darkness of his psyche, and find nothing but the fleeting forms of an idea run off before it could be examined. Frustrating, rotten luck. Next time, Tangerine. If only you could leave food out for an idea.
He did have a suspicion that this idea concerned Lemon. Dearest Lemon, his brother, twin in all ways except blood and for the better. Had they been real brothers, perhaps then they would not have crashed together in quite the same way.
It required catastrophically embarassing confessions and nearly breaking a bed in Stockholm, for Tangerine to say with confidence that all uncertainties in their relationship were behind them. Yet, there it was again, a unique discomfort when in Lemon’s presence that made him squirm.
“You’re staring,” Lemon says. He pauses in the midst of bringing a stacked burger up to his mouth.
Tangerine waves his hand. “Just thinking. Don’t let my wandering eyes stop you from shoveling all that in.”
“Didn’t intend to, mate.”
Lemon is larger than he and with an appetite to match. As children they’d been the same size, back to back, throwing fists in the schoolyard. Lemon’s hair was longer then, scratching the back of his Tangerine’s neck, a constant grounding presence in the face of a volley of childhood adversaries. Then, with the onset of adolescence, Tangerine had gained height first, an over eager eruption like his body yearned to match his own ambitions. Lemon’s body, like the man himself, was less inclined to rush for the sake of appearances, no matter how Tangerine ribbed him about it. Until, suddenly Tangerine had to crane his neck just those extra few inches, because in one tumultuous two year span his friend’s body sprang upwards like a shoot in spring.
Height did not immediately come with girth, their bodies ravaged by the particularities of a post adolescent poverty. Tangerine’s father disappeared (died or simply abandoned them, who could say) and they were left with nothing except their wits and a feral need to survive. When they slept Lemon rested his hand in the concave space of Tangerine’s waist and in the moonlight Tangerine in turn counted each of Lemon’s visible ribs as if they were sheep. Their anatomy lessons came not from books, but from observation of each other and therein reflected the constant reminders of the fragility of the body.
Life got better. Minimum wage jobs. Petty crime. The hollows of their cheeks disappeared, the gaps between their bones filled with firm, strong flesh. People started to look at them with interest rather than disgust or derision. Sometimes, those people wanted things from them. They grew muscles to back up their punches. They learned that their hands were designed to hold a firearm and that there were myriad ways to rip a man’s body open. Their anatomy lessons continued, this time marked with glistening viscera and snapped bone and corpses sprawled out on the pavement.
That won’t be us. We’re stronger than that..
It was a reckless profession. Tangerine knew they had to take as many precautions as possible, prepare for any eventuality, and part of that was keeping their bodies in top shape. So when they ate, he would always leave part of his plate untouched, silently slide it over to Lemon as he instructed him on the details of their next job. He would always be rewarded with a surge of satisfaction in his breast as Lemon finished off his food.
Tangerine is glad they no longer live off beans and rice. Not that this burger is much higher up the ladder of food sophistication, but neither of them can cook for shit so being able to get takeout for most meals is an unexpected benefit of their job. Tangerine remembers the twinge in his shoulders, the pressure of Lemon’s shoes when Tangerine hoisted him up on his shoulders to try and fish out the boxes of old bread the bakers couldn’t sell.
Tangerine is committed to this cycle, collecting as many jobs as possible to fatten his bill folds and their bank accounts to ensure Lemon would never go hungry. Lemon made this an easy task, when properly fortified by a good meal he was accomplished and rigorous in his violence, and so their reputation as assassins grew exponentially.
It was around the age of twenty five that their paths started to diverge. Lemon’s body spread, his hips widening, his chest expanding to obscure all bone structure in favor of plump, healthy flesh. Tangerine counted scars now, ripples of puckered skin stretched over the curve of the man’s pectorals and his distended belly. If Lemon was asleep, truly asleep, Tangerine might chance letting his fingers trace the seam between the top of Lemon’s boxers and the overhang of his stomach. It was a wonder to him, this new shape, wrapped in all these reminders that Lemon was still alive despite it all. They’d made it, in the end. This was the evidence of his, of their, success.
No such changes happened to Tangerine. No matter how invested in his own fitness regiment Tangerine was, packing on muscle, he stayed trim. It didn’t change anything. They were still The Twins. Always that twitch of confusion when others met them for the first time, but they would soon come to understand. We’re the Twins and don’t you forget it.
“If you had to give up one thing,” Tangerine asks, “what would it be? The house, the clothes, the food . . .”
Lemon’s chewing slows as he thinks, the mouthful causing his cheeks to puff out a bit more, and he swallows deliberately. Tangerine watches the convulsion of his throat. He has a sudden urge to reach out and slide his hand around Lemon’s neck, feeling the trunk-like thickness that even two handed he can’t get a full grip around. Sturdy muscles there. Tangerine has snapped a few necks in his time, but anyone would be barking up the wrong tree trying to get at Lemon that way. He bets even a bullet would bounce off his neck.
“Bad selection of answers,” Lemon replies, “if you want my real answer I’d say I’d keep the football season tickets. Keeps you occupied so you don’t go blowing holes in the wall again.”
“It was an accident, I told you.”
“Sure, babe, an accident. And I’m the only one who won’t believe that, because I know better.”
“Sir Big Man here knows better oh happy-fucking-day. You know what? You’re lucky I don’t get riled easily. I’d be halfway to Calcutta for the way you treat me.”
“I’d come find you and carry you back on my shoulders.”
The light catches in a glint of juice from the meat on Lemon’s lips, spread in an emboldened smile. It slips down over the curve of his chin and Lemon blots it away with a napkin. There’s a carefree decadence to them sitting here together, eating without a thought to the menu. He’d made a promise long ago, that no matter what Lemon would not want for anything. He kept that promise. When Tangerine sees the swell of Lemon spilling out over his belt, there is that idea again scratching at his brain. Sitting down now, Lemon is larger than the tiny metal chair, exceeding its boundaries with his indomitable presence. It would be absolutely no effort for him to haul Tangerine up in his arms.
Tangerine shifts slightly, suddenly conscious of the constricting fabric of his clothes, crossed and uncrossing his legs in a vain bid for comfort. Lemon looks at him, puts on that quizzical expression where the tips of his eyebrows perk up like little puppies begging for food. He can always tell when Tangerine is in a form of distress.
Tangerine does not offer any explanation, all he says is: “Finish up, love.”
The air on the walk home is brisk, but not uncomfortable. It is just cold enough to allow for a full coat, but with no need to button it tight. Tangerine lets himself indulge in a bit of swagger as they go, stepping with one foot in front of the other to allow for his hips and the tails of his coat to sway. In their line of work, confidence is as essential a tool as a gun. Lemon falls slightly behind him, no doubt loath to push himself to Tangerine’s pace and upset his stomach.
“It’s not a runway,” Lemon grumbles.
“You never complained about the view before.”
Tangerine swings to face Lemon, hand on his hip, saucy retort primed on his tongue. Except Lemon’s hair shines in the fluorescent lights, a sudden dazzling spectacle that makes Tangerine’s breath catch. It is either this distraction or the fact he is facing away from the road or both that keeps him from noticing the sudden careening motorcycle until there’s a roar swinging past his ear, the sudden nauseating smell of exhaust, and Lemon’s panicked shout. Then, the painful impact of his back against a brick wall and the considerably less painful sensation of Lemon’s body covering him, shielding him from the maniac that had nearly hit him.
“Watch where you’re fucking going, you prick!” he howls in the darkness.
“The hell is wrong with some people,” Lemon huffs. “You alright?”
“Yeah.”
Certain his partner is unharmed, Lemon makes to pull away:
“Wait-” Tangerine snatches at the air in front of him, missing the edge of Lemon’s collar, leaving his fingers hovering awkward and expectant, twitching like they do right when he’s about to steal something. Never predetermined, instinct flaring in his brain, action carried out without even thinking. Lemon knows Tangerine better than anyone, as well as he knows himself, and his eyes widen as he gazes down at Tangerine, clearly catching onto the sudden want radiating off him. Lemon pauses, hand still resting against the stone of the wall beside Tangerine’s head.
“What is it?”
Tangerine makes contact this time, palms clapping around Lemon’s jaw as he drags him down for a kiss. It’s easy, with Lemon’s small gasp his lips part providing just the space for Tangerine to slot his lips against his, insistently biting and tugging.
“In the middle of the street? Really?” Lemon whispers, when Tangerine finally takes a moment to breathe. Tangerine’s brain frantically scrambles for an excuse or reason for his actions, but he finds it hard to think with Lemon’s body pressing into him. The width of Lemon’ hips forces Tangerine to spread his thighs until they ache, tendons gloriously stretched by Lemon’s bulk, pain triangulated right up to his cock which twitches in interest and he can only groan.
“Now he’s speechless. So, what’s got you all hot and bothered all of a sudden. I would love to find out.” Lemon likes to tease this way, push Tangerine’s buttons until he either shoves Lemon onto his back and rides him senseless or Tangerine is reduced into a whiny puddle of want begging to be used. Tangerine has a distinct feeling tonight leans towards the former. Lemon bumps his hips forward with an upward tilt, full weight catching Tangerine right in the middle, and the force of it even pushes Tangerine off the soles of his feet. The tips of his Italian leather shoes scrape the pavement, as Lemon holds him up against the wall entirely by the strength and bulk of his body.
“ Shit .”
“This what you’re angling for? Looking to get your pretty little brains fucked out?” Lemon says cheerily, nipping at Tangerine’s jaw.
“Not in the fucking street we’re not animals.” Tangerine snarls back, marshaling the last vestiges of shame and dignity even as they seek to abandon him. He refuses, not because he doesn’t want to rut right there until they both come in their pants, but because that would be fucking waste, when they have a room with a large and expansive bed.
They are on the eighth floor of the hotel. The building is older, perhaps pre-war, so the lift has brass metal buttons and a grate that slides shut. The space is smaller, meant to only accommodate a few people, but Lemon fills it well with his prodigious form, so their hips bump as the old lift jerks back and forth in its journey. The sound of fabric rustling fills the air between them, like secrets whispered at night. They ride without speaking, both facing forward, but they keep sneaking sideways glances at each other. Lemon has dark brown eyes, almost black from far away, although Tangerine knows his irises have glistening lighter flecks in their depths. It occurs to Tangerine he may be the only person who knows this, the only one ever allowed close enough to notice these magical little details. Lemon’s gaze is curious and playful, and his ever expressive eyebrows make promises even better than if he were a loquacious man. Tangerine can’t help responding to these tacit overtures; they trade tiny smiles, although there is no one else there to interrupt.
They enter the hotel room cool as anything. Tangerine takes both their coats and hangs them in the closet all careful, and is smoothing down the arms when he hears a sharp snapping sound and a muttered curse.
“That better not be what I think it is.” Eyes narrow as he swivels on the heel of his shoe to face his partner.
“That depends. If you think I just tore one of the buttons on my shirt, then yes. If you think a bunch of thugs just crashed through the window, then no.” Lemon looks forlornly down where the offending article of clothing gapes open around his midsection. Tangerine had not noticed before, but the other buttons look just as precarious, the holes in the fabric stretched beyond normal. Lemon’s body strains to escape its constraints, creating little bubbles pushing past the shirt in the open space in between.
There is a sudden jolt in Tangerine’s body, without conscious decision he strides over to where Lemon sits on the bed and straddles his lap.
“You should have told me,” he snaps, “I’ll get you new shirts in a larger size later. For now, just be more fucking careful. I’ll do it.” He swats Lemon’s hands away, so Lemon lets them land on Tangerine’s thighs, out of the way of Tangerine’s whipping hands making quick work of the other buttons. Once this is done Tangerine’s fingers skate underneath the fabric, pulling it apart like a curtain. But there is the undershirt, in the damned way. He growls in frustration.
“Off. Now.”
“Mm, tit for tat, babe. You too.”
“Fine.”
Shirts are removed with swift impatience and then Lemon is back to stroking Tangerine’s thighs again, unhurried as he usually is. When Tangerine replays these encounters in his head, he stops the film on these moments, sifting to find evidence through a reticence in Lemon’s expression or a beleaguered capitulation to their lovemaking. If he was honest, Lemon’s indisputable ambivalence towards sex as a concept was a significant part of how it had taken so long to confess anything to the man. Tangerine is aware of his own appearance and that he is attractive in a general sense, enough to sweet talk someone for information or catch a target off guard so he can lure them to a place where he can dispose of them, but Lemon was never the type to have his head turned by a pretty face, boys or girls or anyone. The idea of Lemon wanting him in any capacity had seemed impossible.
He knows better now, for all the times Lemon has made him swear and shake, but still doubts bubble forward when he is left in his own head for too long. It is for the good of their relationship that they engage in these activities with frequency. When Tangerine actually sees his partner before him, Lemon with his yellow hair, his own halo, laid bare in all his glory there is no doub. Lemon is an angel given to Tangerine to dispel all those insidious thoughts of inadequacy and uncertainty.
Lemon’s patience does have the benefit of allowing Tangerine to savor his partner’s body. The landscape of skin has both shining golden highlights and enticing shadows in equal measure. Tangerine’s tongue is frozen in indecision, he wants to shove his open mouth against the insistence of Lemon’s stomach, bite and drool against it like a ripe fruit. He wants to dip his nose into the forbidden crevices beneath the folds of Lemon’s underarms. He wants to scrape his teeth underneath the overhanging of his breasts and make him gasp as he twists the little barbells that pierce his nipples. All for him, for as long as he wants. For all he will teasingly call Lemon a glutton, in truth he is the one more attuned to this sin.
There is time for all of that, later. To start Tangerine goes slow and deliberate, and places both palms right above Lemon’s navel. He spreads his fingers as wide as he can, marveling at how the tips of his nails don’t even reach Lemon’s ribs; there’s so much of him. Then, his hands squeeze, constricting like furnace’s bellows setting fire to his own arousal. Lemon groans and in an instant feedback loop, Tangerine instinctively bucks his hips up. He’s already hard now, poking up against Lemon’s belly, with only his briefs between them, now gripping Lemon tight as he begins to rut. It’s a bit unconventional, but Tangerine is too lust-addled to bother questioning it, far more favorable towards grinding against the soft fat of his partner.
“You like all that?” It’s a rhetorical question. Lemon’s got one hand cupped around the side of Tangerine’s face so he can rest his head in his wide palm and be held as pleasure overtakes him. Lemon uses the other to move Tangerine’s hand to his side, so he can get a full grip on the fat there, to give him better leverage as he writhes. All this bulk on his partners’ hips, Tangerine thinks, it’s like Lemon is designed perfectly for him to hold, to rub himself against, to be overwhelmed by the size and power of him. Perhaps the years of waiting weren’t all wasted, years of hiding from himself, or hiding from Lemon. They were destined to only end up here once Lemon had blossomed into this perfect, magnificent being.
“Fucking fantastic you are. Gorgeous -fuck- “
He’s so close, all his nerves like live wires, but Lemon interrupts this plan by seizing him and raising Tangerine up so he can flip him onto his back on the bed. He’s about to let out a bitchy comment at such treatment, except as soon as Lemon covers his body with his own all he can do is let out an undignified moan.
“This what you wanted, baby?”
Tangerine doesn’t respond, in his frantic attempt to shove his briefs off completely, right before Lemon fully descends upon him so they’re completely pressed together top to bottom. Not enough to hurt, never that, but enough to squeeze his lungs until he sees spots. The itch in his mind vanishes in favor of a soothing, steady arousal. Nothing’s ever felt better in the whole fucking world. And like Lemon can read his mind, Tangerine finds his slack jawed mouth being kissed by a warm and thorough pair of lips.
Tangerine raises his arms to reach around, as if he could pull Lemon even closer, but his arm can only reach far enough to grasp Lemon’s shoulder blades. When they were younger they used to wrestle, building up strength and stamina, Lemon’s broad chest pinning him to the mat just like this. Tangerine had gotten hard then too, thankfully Lemon wouldn’t say anything, and let him run off silently to the shower to take care of himself in abject desperation. If Lemon had asked then, he would have said it didn’t mean anything, just a natural reaction to physical activity. Tangerine can’t remember if he used to sincerely believe this to be true, it seems so incomprehensible. Now, alll his senses and all his thoughts are consumed by the size of the man before him and all the food Tangerine has fed him to bring him to this point. Stir fries, slabs of meat, curries, burgers, noodles, cake and doughnuts, not marrow sucked out of bones, but all manner of extravagant delicacies and treats, real food converted into healthy muscle and fat and and energy that currently drives the voracious tongue kissing him like they are the last two people on earth. Like Lemon would eat him as well, he offered himself.
“So fucking perfect,” he gasps out when Lemon frees his mouth to nip and sucks in the hollow right behind his ear.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get something out of me with all this flattery.”
Tangerine lets out a tiny grunt of offense. “Gut a man for being nice. You’ll not hear another peep out of me.”
Lemon, unfazed, kisses him delicately on the cheek. “Don’t believe that for a second. Think I’ll have you saying all sorts of things, actually. I’ll demonstrate: oh, you’re so big and strong, put your cock in me or I’ll wither and die. Something like that about right?”
“Jesus Christ, shut up and fuck me already .”
Lemon laughs up against his skin and Tangerine wishes for a second he could see his face, because when Lemon smiles his teeth gleam in stunning winsomeness.
“Going to turn you over, all right?” Lemon asks.
Lemon’s sex talk is usually this, always questions. Not because he is a tentative lover, quite the opposite, Lemon is certain in his actions here the same way he fires a gun, he’s always been the better of the two of them at on the spot thinking, adjusting a physical response to situational changes. Here he asks because he wants permission, he wants confirmation that they’re in this together, like they are in everything. They’re called the Twins, because they are inseparable and entwined in every way, although no one else knows the full extent of the metaphor. Tangerine will always trust his partner to take control and lead them both to the culmination of this closeness.
Tangerine nods, so Lemon carefully respositions them. Tangerine turns his head to lean his cheek against the pillow and so he can crack an eye to gaze at Lemon as he gets lube on his hand. Lemon’s got wonderful fingers, blessed with both extraordinary thickness and length, and Tangerine could easily come on them alone, except for the fact that isn’t what he wants this time and Lemon knows it.
Lemon is large in other areas as well and when he pushes into Tangerine, although he is slow and considerate, it stretches him so he is almost at that point pleasure would cascade into pain. But Lemon won’t go that far, aware of every twitch and tell of Tangerine’s body, he keeps him delirious on the precipice. Once he’s fully inside, and performed a few testing thrusts, Lemon presses his full weight against Tangerine again, so the bed creaks and dips with their combined weight. His gut fits perfectly into the concavity of Tangerine’s back, like an extension of how he’s got his cock stuffed into him completely, all of Lemon designed to fill all the empty spaces in Tangerine’s body. It is natural for Tangerine to incline his head upward, so Lemon can wrap a wide arm around his throat, holding him tight so he can fuck him properly. Lemon moves his hips with deep, focused rolls that use all his strength to shove himself as far inside as he can and Tangerine lets himself be gloriously subdued, unable to do anything with the onslaught except squirm against the sheets and stutter out exaltations to Lemon’s body, Lemon’s cock, how well Lemon fucks him. Lemon is less vocal, but he still gasps at the effort, hot against Tangerine’s skin.
The friction of Tangerine’s cock against the bedsheets grows in intensity until finally he comes with ragged breaths. Lemon kisses his sweat soaked temple and lets himself finish with only a few more pumps, still keeping his hold on Tangerine tight until he’s poured himself fully into him.
They collapse in a sweaty and muddled heap of limbs, Lemon slightly off to the side, but with an arm and a leg still hooked around Tangerine and his wet, slowly softening cock against his hip. Surfacing from the daze of his own lust, Tangerine luxuriates in pride at his own power. Here is the proof of Lemon’s desire for him, writ clear in white. He’ll never tire of him.
“I’m going to suck you off,” he says cheerily.
“Now?” Lemon’s wince can be heard in his voice.
“No not now, you dunce,” he replies and shifts closer so Lemon can more fully hold him. “But I will just as soon as you can get it up again. I’m going to blow you hard enough you’ll forget the names of all your damned trains.”
Lemon’s eyelids sink closed in post orgasm laziness and he nuzzles like a dog against Tangerine’s forehead.
“You’re so good at threats, sweetheart, but I think it might be a little while before we can get to that.”
“What’s the problem? Don’t tell me you’re too old to go twice in one night. I had plans.”
“Not sure you did, considering about two hours ago you were almost ready to do it on a public street. Anyway, more than happy to give you what you want, just give a bloke a break. It just takes a lot of energy.”
Tangerine sucks on his teeth, annoyed and impatient. Then the idea arrives again, but this time, it blasts through the door of his mind, brilliant and sparkling in its sudden clarity.
“Want to order room service?”
Lemon inclines up on his elbow and bites his lower lip in contemplation of the idea as he runs a hand over his belly, before looking up into Tangerine’s eager face.
“Oh, I see,” he says, eyes widening in understanding. “Yeah, that might do.” And then he kisses him again.