#crispywrites

As the weeks had passed and you'd gotten to know him, opened your heart toward him, deepened your trust and eventually fell madly, completely, utterly in love with him—every little detail about the wonderful wizard was revealed to you and to your surprise, you fall impossibly deeper for him with every passing day.

Now, as you sit lounging across the worn old bench on the balcony outside your shared home in Waterdeep, legs sprawled over his knees, you've completely forgotten whatever ancient tome it is Professor Dekarios has asked you to look over in favour of admiring the way the late afternoon sun falls upon his face.

He's gotten softer now—the months of sleeping in comfortable beds and eating balanced meals treating him much kinder than the roughness of the time spent travelling to Baldur's Gate, and he's told you he wasn't much better before, when he'd spent so long worried over his potential to bring an end to an entire city. Your eyes linger on the shapely curve of his neck, the strength of his jaw, the wisdom of the creases and lines on his face—his eyebrows are furrowed as he reads, his growing hair half swept back into a knot behind his head, warm sunlight catching in his eyelashes and making him appear almost ethereal.

"I know you're staring." Gale breaks the comfortable silence, turning his head just slightly toward you and tapping his glasses up his nose. The spectacles are a welcome addition, you think, adding to both your devilish fantasies and the overwhelming love toward him. "You're supposed to be helping me decipher that. I've got exams to prepare."

"How am I to focus on translating Infernal when you're sitting here looking the way you do?" You bite back, nothing but adoration in your tone.

"Looking like what?" He turns his head to you fully now, strands of hair falling about his lovely tanned skin, the deep chocolatey brown catching the sun just as his lashes had, lighting it golden.

"Gods, I don't know if there's a word that would suffice—an angel, perhaps?" You hum and close the book you were supposed to be reading.

He'd told you once that with you he forgets his goddess. With him you forget every other divine being in all of the realm's histories.

Gale flushes a delightful shade of red, tutting his tongue to his teeth and shaking his head slightly. "You and your ridiculous..." He trails off, "you haven't happened upon another mindflayer tadpole by chance?"

"Disgusting, and no, I assure you these thoughts are entirely my own." You grin, shuddering at the phantom feeling of something wriggling about inside your head. "What? I can't compliment you now without you doubting me?"

"Your compliments I can handle." Gale chuckles as he turns his attention back to his book, his eyelashes lighting up gold once more. "Your flattery—though once I thoroughly enjoyed—I now find myself unable to accept."

You almost pout at that, but knowing where the professor's proud nature had come from and all the years of trying to live up to—what were by all intents and purposes—unreasonable expectations, you swallow it down and instead swing your legs around and scoot closer to your beloved's warm body, the navy silk shirt he wears loose on his body, the buttons popped open lower than he'd allow under any other circumstances, and you take the opportunity to slip your hand inside and rest your palm over the steady beat of his heart. It stutters when your proximity increases and Gale releases a sigh that begins confident but loses strength somewhere in the middle.

"Darling, I'm busy." His voice wavers. You smile and nudge your nose against the softness of his hair, right by his ear.

"Ignore me." You whisper, delighted at the way the wizard shivers in response, your thumb rubbing lazy half-moons on his chest, your other arm going around his neck until your hand finds purchase on his shoulder, squeezing at the tension in his muscles. "Relax. Pretend I'm not even here."

"By the Weave—"

You smile and begin to kiss across his temple, stretching your neck up as your nose presses into his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and worn book pages, plain soap and the underlying crisp smell of magic that tickles your nose as you press your lips to his skin. Both your arms go around his neck and you cup the opposite side of his face in your hand, trying not to disturb his spectacles too much as you adorn his soft cheeks with sweet smooches, humming happily as he tries his very best to continue to focus but still leans into your touch.

"My love..." Gale gives another sigh, this one sounding almost defeated as he turns his head and allows you to trail your pathway of kisses toward his lips. "You're being rather unfair."

"Unfair?" Your smile only grows as you tangle your fingers into your lover's hair and tease his mouth with your own, your lips barely brushing his. "It's not my fault you're unable to resist me."

He keens into your feather-light kisses, his mouth parting as he breathes you in, eyelids fluttering closed and his book almost forgotten—his determination so quickly abandoned now you've got him twisted around your fingertips. You hum softly and gently comb your fingers through Gale's hair, dodging his neediness to nuzzle your way back up the side of his face, your nose skimming his glasses as you press a kiss between his creased brows.

"My sweet girl..." You shuffle closer, expertly maneuvering into a kneeling position, vaguely aware of the professor finally placing his book down on the small table beside the bench before his curious hands come over to slide up your thighs and hips. "Love of my life—closer please, please—"

You smile wide at the endearment, carefully slipping your leg over the wizard's and sitting down, comfortably straddling his thighs. "I thought I was a distraction?" You gently untie the knot in his hair and let the soft strands fall free about your beloved's face before you comb your fingers through it slowly, stretching forward to press gentle kisses in his hairline every time you see a grey hair—so you end up kissing him a lot.

"Oh, you most certainly are." Gale closes his eyes as you shower him with affection, your nails lightly scratching at his scalp, his arms looping around your waist as you lean your weight into his solid body. "But a welcome one nonetheless."

💫

"Oak Father's great bushy beard—" You drop your knife and the aloe leaf you'd half-peeled onto your workstation table and swerve around your furniture to get to the druid, grabbing his bloodied face in your hands and dragging his head down to eye-level, inspecting the dirty, jagged wound. "What have you done to yourself now?"

There's four distinct scratches across the left side of his forehead, three of the nasty streaks ripping through his thick eyebrow. They're deep—not at all evenly spaced enough to have come from any kind of weapon you're familiar with.

"Gods, woman, be careful." Halsin winces as you just about dig your thumb into the smallest, leftmost slice, inspecting the wound as best you can what with so much blood seeping out and obscuring it. His large fingers wrap gingerly around your wrists and he pulls your hands away before he straightens up. "Let me get inside first."

You suck your teeth and step back out of your entryway, throwing a now very red hand toward the inside of your humble little home, flicking blood everywhere and sighing. "By all means, invade my space." You huff down at the crimson smattered on your floor and then look back up as the large elf shoulders his way past you, your eyes narrowing and tone sharpening as you watch him head right for your bed. "Don't you even think about it, Halsin. Sit at the table."

The druid tips his head back, his eyes rolling as he lets out a dramatic groan, but he complies with your command—steering himself away at the last possible moment from your clean blankets and taking a seat at your small dinner table instead. It's quite comical—how big Halsin is sitting on one of the regular sized wooden chairs, looking part giant with his knees tucked up and his shoulders hunched over as he faces you. You kick your front door closed and detour to your workstation, collecting a pitcher of clean water, an unused bowl and rag on your way to the dining table.

Halsin watches you silently. His green eyes are inquisitive as he observes you pour the water into the bowl and dip the rag into it, blinking at you as you stand as close as you can without getting too much into his space, gently picking the leaves and hair from the wounds so you can begin to clean it.

He's been like this since the day you met him all those decades ago, still just a boy. Cheeky, too curious, mischievous, always disappearing into the most treacherous parts of the forest far from the Grove and coming back hours, days, even weeks later covered in gore and filth, some kind of trophy in hand and a pleased smile plastered on his face. There's always been discussion about him, disapproving eyes shooting glares his way, coupled with years of rebuke—the elders say he's cocky, reckless, unaware, that he'll never grow out of it—despite him still being so young, despite his uncomparible strength, despite being the most powerful healer the druids have seen in centuries. But these things only seem to cause him to be all the more rebellious, something you're rather fond of deep down, his friendship and reliance on you never once tiresome or draining. You've had him sitting at your table countless times, much as he is now, while you stitched split skin back together as he complained, or had him delirious with poison-fever in your bed, sputtering nonsense as you spoon-fed him and nursed him back to full health again.

"Why do you never simply cast a healing spell?" Halsin says—as has become his routine.

You tut your tongue and sweep his hair back again, brushing the long russet tresses over his broad shoulders and hopefully well out of your way. "My skill lies in practical healing, Halsin." You try not to crowd him too much, but you're bent at a rather uncomfortable angle like this, dipping the dirtied cloth back into the water as you clean him up, "something you well know as we've had this conversation near a hundred times. You're the most talented healer I know, why not just cast a spell on yourself and save all the trouble? It'd certainly save you all the fuss of having me clean you up." 

The druid huffs and hunches forward, his large body closer now and a modicum easier to reach. "Isefa likes to remind me of how I am not to rely entirely on my magic." Your Grove's First Druid is perhaps the only other creature that sees Halsin in a positive light—sees the great potential in him. "Potions and poultices and what have you are just as important. Which I will never understand." He rolls his eyes and gives a slight shake of his head. "You wouldn't have the time to whip out a vial and drink in the heat of battle—it's not as if the enemy will patiently wait their turn to strike."

"And what if you've been silenced? A potion would do you a great deal of good then." You're stepping into the space between his parted knees before you can really think too hard about it, thumb and forefinger on his chin as you tip his head back toward the sunlight still thankfully streaming in through your kitchen window, set to work on cleaning the actual cuts themselves now. "Or perhaps you're travelling with a non-magic user? If you were to fall in a fight, how could they possibly heal you?"

You brush the cloth over the first of the gnarled splits in his skin, and Halsin's eyes are angry as he looks up at you, clearly frustrated by the topic he's chosen to speak on. "And if I were alone and subdued? Restrained? What good are moss concoctions for my injuries then?"

"Halsin." You immediately pause in cleaning him, placing the cloth back down into the water bowl and your other hand gently on his shoulder. "You talk as if you must choose either magic or medicine—you know it's not my intention to speak greater of one over the other, rather that we learn both so that we may use the best of both."

The handsome, irresponsible druid stares up at you, the stubborn set of his jaw clenching twice before he the fire in his green eyes ceases. You pick up your cloth and find yourself cradling his face in one hand as you work carefully over the second gash. "I apologise." He mumbles, pursing his lips in a silly pout you've seen a million times.

"It's fine." You brush your thumb over his cheekbone, flashing him a soft smile. "Though perhaps you shouldn't choose to speak about things you know will make you angry."

It's quiet a moment, the druid allowing you to work in peace, wincing every now and then when it gets a little too sensitive. You're as careful as you can be—gods know you've been much rougher with him on more than one occasion in the past.

"It was a bear." He says suddenly, softly, chuckling to himself. "I was in wildshape."

"I hope you're not about to tell me you've been in bear-form for the entirety of the three months you've been gone." You hum, totally anticipating him to say how he's been doing just that, but nonetheless still shocked by the expected confession.

"It was necessary. And don't chastise me for it—I heed the warnings. Usually." He doesn't.

"I would very much like to lecture you, but since you're bleeding I'll put it in my back pocket for now." You shake your head, "at least it explains why you're so grumpy today." At mid-wipe you pause, your gaze lifting to the window across from you as the reality of what Halsin has just said dawns on you. "Wait... Isn't it mating season?" You glance down at the tall druid and he looks amused, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"She was quite offended by my rejection." He's grinning now—ear to ear, totally pleased with himself.

Your mouth falls open around a breathy laugh of disbelief and you lower the cloth from the elf's face, completely gobsmacked as you thwack your free hand against his chest. "You did not go wandering about in the forest in the middle of godsdamned mating season!" Halsin catches your wrist before you can bat at him a second time, holding your palm flat against his chest as he laughs, his head tilting back in delight, obviously pleased by your reaction to his reckless behaviour. "Silvanus help us all—you stupid fool, what were you thinking?"

"Not about female bears or the rut, I assure you." There's something about the way that the word 'rut' sounds rolling off of Halsin's tongue that sends a fizzle of heat down your spine. "There's... strange things happening in the village. At Moonrise. A camp of goblins came through, stayed in the outskirts and used spells to hide—Thaniel is worried."

You hear the strain in his voice. "Regardless, what you did was foolish." You've gotten closer to the druid amidst the laughter, and when you lift the cloth back up to his face, Halsin has to tip his head backward completely. "Did Isefa send you?"

He shakes his head just slightly. "They camped far too close to the Grove. I could sense them, I'm sure Isefa could too, but I had to investigate. They clearly weren't here for us, but even that knowledge didn't cool my blood." You feel one of his strong hands on the back of your calf and your body hums with sudden warmth at the proximity. His face is level with your chest, almost resting upon it, and you wet your bottom lip before you find you instinctually raise your hand to slip it around the back of his neck, holding him tenderly as you continue to clean his wound. "I tracked them across the forest, spent three weeks on the borderline of Moonrise Towers. The guards were shockingly ignorant of the presence of a huge beast."

"You could've gotten hurt." You blink slowly, realising what you've said and scowling at the smile slowly spreading across his face. "Oh, shut up. You know what I mean. It's not an easy punishment for tresspass—Ketheric seems a kind man, but you can never be too sure."

"They didn't know." Halsin protests gently and you feel his arm snake further around your legs and it forces you even closer, your body pressed right up against his. "In any case, the bear was surely far more frightening."

"I'm not sure... This feels... significant." You take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the rapid beating of your heart. Since when did this man have this kind of effect on you? It must be the information he's told you. Nobody likes goblins. "Are you planning on telling anyone about this?"

"Isefa, yes. The elders? Absolutely not." Halsin replies indignantly. "You know they wouldn't listen to me."

There's a brief moment of silence, the depths of his injuries much clearer now they're cleaner. You sigh softly and feel the imposing elf thumb rubbing absent half-moons at your leg. "Calypsa was rather put out when you didn't show face at her nameday celebration. I wonder what she'll think when she sees what you've gotten yourself into this time?" 

Halsin groans, the weight of his head dropping back further into your hand, your nails scratching at the back of his skull as you smile. "Gods, don't even start."

"Her mother is quite determined to see the two of you together, it seems." You tease, dipping the cloth once more into the muddied red water. "Says it'd calm you down to take a good, level-headed druid by your side."

"Is that so?" You feel Halsin's large fingers squeeze at your calf, the touch burning even through your trousers. "Most of the mothers here gossip like old crones. Though I suppose matchmaking their children makes them happy, since druid's are famously noncommittal."

"Yes, well, they must keep occupied somehow." You have to focus harder on the task at hand to stop from reacting to the low rumble of his voice, cleaning the last little bit of the wound, the skin raised, raw and pink under your careful touch. "I can't really imagine you ever settling down anyway."

The elf smiles, raising his injured eyebrow as he looks up at you. "Ah? Why not?"

"You'd be a pain, for one." You swat the dirty cloth at him playfully before you drop it into the water bowl, then raising your hand to inspect the gash, blood seeping much slower now. "All the druids here are far to soft for you. You're a tad rebellious—I don't know if anyone's told you that before."

"Hmm..." Halsin's grin grows as you tease him, his chin still tilted back, head sitting heavy against your palm that continues to rest on the back of his neck. "Only a tad?"

"Maybe a little more." You smile back at him, then sigh deeply, your eyes flitting between the unwavering focus of the large druid's own and the fresh scratches carving up his face. "It's nasty. You may as well heal yourself, you know." You say softly. "I have herbal remedies, but they—"

"I want you to do it." Halsin interrupts, his palm is up around the back of your thigh now, trying to draw you closer. He's almost unblinking, his eyes clearer green than you've ever seen them. "You have to teach me your natural remedies, remember? Like you do every time."

"I don't—" You falter, "—it's not going to be enough. It'll scar. Badly." By Silvanus's hand, how much blood did he lose? What's with all this brewing tension?

"I'm not afraid of having scars. As you well know." The elf whispers and tips his head slightly to one side to show the one across his chin, but it forces your gaze to his and your breath catches, eyebrows furrowing as you try to convince yourself there's about a thousand reasons not to cross this line. He's your friend—you're friends. "I want it to scar." His voice is softer than the brush of wind over flower petals, expression sweeter than the wild honey he loves so much. "Then every time I see it, every time someone asks me of it, I'll think of you."

*~*~*

In truth, you really should have known better than to take a rogue mission. You're hardly a rookie, and as if it couldn't have gotten any more obvious that something extremely fucking suspicious was going on, you'd fallen into a seat beside a guy bleeding from his eyeballs about fifteen minutes ago—icing on the cake, really—and found yourself running to an isolated seat in the back of the last (gratefully empty) carriage to hyperventilate.

"Perfect. Fucking perfect." You mutter to yourself, chewing at your fingernail and bouncing your knee in time with the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Why can't you ever let whispers just stay whispers? Why not just get off at the next stop and save yourself all this trouble? Why do anything remotely sensible at all?

You're almost too lost in your own spiralling thoughts to notice, but the familiar swagger and the arse on the man who walks past you catch your eye and your mouth opens in tandem with the drop of your heart. You speak his name before you can catch yourself, tilting half your body into the aisle and almost tipping yourself out of your seat in the process.

The last time you saw Tangerine was at the Bartok party when he fucked you over a desk and left you both extremely satisfied and deeply confused. He was soft then—he tapped your cheek and kissed you soundly, only texting you once after to tell you he'd wired over half of his earnings for those documents you were supposed to collect. As he turns to look at you now, he's unlike you've ever seen him—red in the face, spattered with blood and bruises, glistening with sweat and tension. Shit.

"You're fucking kidding me." He says, sniffing and wiping his palm across his mouth and chin, eyes fixated on you.

"What happened to you?" You ask, your voice so much softer than you mean it to be.

"Missed the train."

You frown. "You're... on the train."

"Made it back on, didn't I?" Tangerine doesn't come any closer to you, just stands there in his blue suit slowly clenching and relaxing his right hand. He's wound so tight you can see all the veins in his neck and forehead pulsing under his blood speckled skin. "What're you doing here?"

"Came for the case." You answer honestly. No point in hiding it—you knew you wouldn't be the only one.

"Shit out of luck there, love." He shakes his head, sucking his teeth. There's blood in his moustache—dried, like someone hit him a while ago and he tried to wipe it off as best he could but it's stuck in that thick thatch of hair above his lip. "Case is gone. White Death's waitin' in Kyoto. You're fucked if you stay."

Hold up. "The White Death?" Your heart kicks into overdrive and you stand up, holding a finger in the air. "The fucking White Death? What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Lemon and I—we took a job, deliver his son and the money." Tangerine sniffs again. His blue eyes are bloodshot and wet, but he's fully focused as he stares down at you. His jaw flexes as you get into his space, shifting a little to rest a hand on the back of the seat closest to him. "Like I said, case is gone, the kid's dead. Bleedin' from his fucking eye sockets."

"Oh, shit, I saw him." You shake your head, chewing at the inside of your cheek. "You should get off the train, Tange. It's not worth fucking about with the White Death, you know better than that."

His fingers curl into the cushion of the seat and he exhales sharp through his nose. "Can't get off without Lemon, can I?"

You step a bit closer, gently touching your fingertips to his chest as you mean to nudge him back on his way down the length of the train, but the second you make contact with him his hand flies from the seat to curve around the back of yours. You startle slightly, flushing hot at the sudden contact. He's so high-strung, you can feel the stress radiating off him. "You look like shit." You whisper, staring up at him.

"You look beautiful." Tangerine tilts his head down so he can continue to look at you, his messy curls falling into his face as he does. "I'll hurt you."

You bite your lip and take a deep breath, drawn in to him by some unseen force that just keeps pushing you closer—daring you to test, to touch, to take. "I like a bit of pain." You say, hand sliding out from underneath his.

Your fingers are on his belt before he's even thought to move, but his hands come up to grip your face in an instant. He drags your mouth to his and kisses you hard, rings digging into your jaw as he holds tight, his blood metallic on your tongue as you open up for him.

🍊

Clotheslined

It's always by accident.

You're barreling down some skinny alleyway in the middle of Chefchaounen Morocco—the most beautiful little town you've seen yet, by the way, at least your mark had some sense to die in such a pretty tourist destination—barely grazing the soft blue walls as you attempt to outrun three extremely pissed off bodyguards, when an arm shoots out and your momentum refuses to allow any room for slowing down, so you end up flat on your back with the wind knocked out of you.

"Jeeeee—Jesus fuck!" You wheeze, clutching your middle as you attempt a ragged breath, eyes rolling back to the sky.

You wonder how one of the guards managed to outrun you with your head start—or if perhaps there were four instead of three and one's been parkouring the rooftops in order to cut you off as you wind down the narrow streets, but one glance up into the face of a very surprised looking man tells you this happened to be coincidence and also definitely not what either of you were expecting.

"Oh, shit!" The man above you curses, one large hand covering his agape mouth while the other reaches down for you. "Shit, that's completely on me, love, didn't mean that one at all. Thought you was—ah, wait, I do know you."

You squint as you take the help he offers, almost instantly recognising the moustache and pinched eyebrows as a fellow man-for-hire, Tangerine, helps you get to your feet. "What... What the hell are you even doing here?" You splutter.

There's certainly no time to make small talk. Three separate pairs of footsteps are echoing around you, getting closer by the second, and you know if you dally a moment longer you're totally fucked—but your lungs are working against you—your chest burns from both the chase and the impromptu meeting with the hard stone ground and you know you're not going anywhere, at least for the next few minutes.

"So sorry, but can you hide me?" You can hear shouting. Shit. Shit. Shit. Not good.

Tangerine studies you a moment, sucking his teeth and frowning, then he looks about, seeming to only just notice the pounding of footsteps and the shouting in between that grow louder with every passing second. "Why?" He asks slowly, "They after you?"

God, you always forget how annoying this guy is.

"Hm. Yes, yes they are." You nod, gesturing to a cut out doorway that you could absolutely stand in unnoticed if Tangerine simply stood in front of you. He's much bigger, much broader, than you are. And he looks like a tourist in his pretty beige linen shirt and brown leather jacket. It's goddamn thirty degrees out. "Just for a minute, yeah? Real quick."

You're propping yourself up in the doorway before Tangerine even answers, one arm slung over your stomach as you finally start to be able to breathe normally again. The assassin shrugs and paces toward you, casually turning his back and leaning himself up against the stone frame jutting out from the door. Just as you suspected, you're completely covered by him, hidden well enough that the three guards will hopefully run right past the two of you without a second thought, and you're actually pretty surprised he even agreed to help you if you're being honest.

"Dunno why I'm doing this." Tangerine is right on the same page as you so it seems. He turns his head to one side right as the footsteps seem to turn down the street you're hiding in. "You're trouble. I've seen the shit you do. Always fucking things up for everyone else."

Well that's offensive.

"Excuse you. It's not my fault some fucking idiot decided to point me out as I was leaving. I didn't think anyone saw me." Your jobs are always simple, the targets always just unguarded enough to make the task deceptively easy, and by the time they're dead you're already out of sight—have already disappeared into the crowd or into another building and no one's any the wiser. "And what do you mean I fuck it up for everyone? It's not my fault people can't do their goddamn jobs properly. If I get there first I get there first. Nothing more to it."

The thundering footsteps are so loud now you know they're about to pass. You suck in what air you can and remain still, one hand slipping into your bag for a knife, back pressed against the cool stone of the wall behind you. Tangerine your saving grace, looks relaxed in front of you. His shoulders dropped, head cocked slightly to one side, like he's only admiring the sight of the magical blue alleyway you're in, not stowing away a fugitive... And the guards run right past.

One... Two... Three.

"Christ." You tip your head back, close your eyes and sigh, hand withdrawing from your bag. "Thank you."

"Any time, love." The man steps away from you, scrunches his nose and lifts one hand slightly, "Actually, no, not any time. Don't even know you, do I?"

"Know me enough to insult me, apparently." You roll your eyes, dusting off your trousers from where you got slammed into the dirt.

"Why're you on the run?" He asks.

"Why'd you clothesline me?" You retort.

"Fair enough."

🍊

Unnamed Fix-It Fic

You happen upon them by accident.

Well—they just about slam into you, completely unaware of their own surroundings as they wrestle each other.

"The fuck are you doing—you bellend!" One of them is shouting.

There's a short girl standing over on the opposite side of the pair and she's also yelling, her tears making her words indecipherable—there's so much going on all at once that it's only by complete chance you see the glint of the gun between them under the neon blue and pink lights of this particular carriage.

God, you just wanted to have a nice, peaceful solo trip through to Kyoto, no jobs, no distractions, and every goddamn lunatic this side of the world seems to be aboard this bloody train.

You give an exasperated sigh and eye the two men, perceiving neither to be a particular threat to the other because honestly—they both look ridiculously confused as to why they're grappling for control of the weapon in the first place, but it's clear someone's finger is going to slip and you're not all that keen on watching one of these two stranger's get their brains blown out right in front of you—much less in front of a little girl, so you time your next move to perfection.

It's probably an equally stupid idea to curl your fist directly over the shooty end of the gun, but the sheer gall of your action has the two men freezing in place, a sudden shocked, heavy silence falling over the entire carriage... Oh. Shit, you should probably say something.

"Violence is never the right choice, boys." Wow, very profound indeed. "Someone's going to get killed and that's just... not... not okay with me, alright?"

You can't even look at the two men in the eye but you can feel their confusion coming off them in waves. Your cheeks burn with embarassment—should've just let them fucking murder each other—and you choose to look up toward the small person standing in the aisle just a ways away instead, and the look she's giving you turns your blood to ice in your veins, even makes you retract your hand from the gun.

There's something sinister in her stare that stops you from looking away, but there's a weird pull on your skin and you feel something stuck in your palm, so your attention diverts. It's a sticker—a character from Thomas the Tank Engine, labelled across the bottom as Diesel.

"Diesel..." You say softly, peeling the sticker from your hand and holding it at the tip of your pointer finger, looking back up again and immediately noticing the absence of the glaring girl.

The two men are done being speechless now and the one with half a suit on points his handgun down in the direction you assume the girl disappeared in.

"I was trying to fucking tell ya," He looks manic as he shouts at you in thick cockney, veins bulging at his temples, blood spattered across his face. Oh, fuck, he's gorgeous. "That little bitch killed Lemon, you prick. Only wanted her to pay for it."

"That girl? Killed your brother?" The other guy—American, older, more clothes on but far less expensive and covered in blood—pushes his hair from his face, shaking his head. "Not a chance. She's tiny!"

"She's the fucking Diesel!" The hot one almost roars, snatching the sticker off your finger with his free hand and shoving it into older guy's face. "They're crafty bastards, you dickhead. If you'd just listened to me—"

"You know," You interrupt, folding your arms across the chest, tone familiar as if you know what the fuck they're even actually arguing about, "I did get some bad vibes off her. Seems the manipulative type."

The two men are silent again, both staring at you. The older one looks slightly amused and the manic fella looks like he's about to tear you a new one.

"And who the fuck are you then?" Suit says, "What are you even doing in here?"

"Uh, I think I'm the person who just stopped someone accidentally getting shot." You huff, cocking your head to one side as you regard the blood-covered man. "I just wanted to see the whole sodding train, not my fault I ran into you two. Fighting like idiots."

"Ooh, harsh." The older guy winces, pressing a hand to his chest like he's been wounded by your fifth-grade slur. "I didn't even say anything."

"Clearly not since you were fighting instead of—" You throw a hand over your face, sighing as you remind yourself that you're on holiday, goddammit, be on holiday. "If we're done here, I'm going to continue exploring this lovely train and no one can stop me."

"Hold on a minute, love," Manic Man catches your arm as you push past him and the other dude, "Can't let you go wondering about alone. There's something nefarious going on on this here train, and I ain't about having some innocent civilian's blood on my hands, now am I?"

"Civilian?" You quirk a brow and look up at him, eyes darting between his blue eyes, the gash across his forehead, his weirdly attractive pornstache— "I'll have you know I'm fully capable of taking care of myself, sir. Is this because I'm a woman?"

"Well that's a little misogynistic buddy." The old guy chimes in, immediately taking your side for obviously no other reason apart from pissing this wanker off further.

"Jesus Christ." Suit releases your arm and uses the same hand to pinch the bridge of his nose instead. "You know what? I'm fucking done here. You're both doing my head in and can go fuck yourselves. How about that?"

You scoff and fully nudge past the pair, adjusting your jacket as you straighten and make storm your way down the aisle, kind of pissed because this carriage is clearly Momomon themed and it's super cute but these two wackos have completely ruined it for you.

... You still grab an abandoned plush from a seat on your way through though.

**

You just needed to pee.

Instead of finding an empty bathroom you open the door to find two men lying on the floor inside, both covered in blood, one writhing around while the other sits upright but slumped over. You wonder if it'd be possible for just one thing to go right tonight. Maybe you should just play the role of a civilian afterall? Make this whole scenario the train conductors' problem...

"You okay?" You push aside your better judgement and duck down in the doorway, ignoring the heebie-jeebies this presumably dead guy is giving you. "What happened to you?"

The man wriggling on the floor rolls his head around to look up at you, his face strained with obvious pain, hands clutched at his abdomen where most of the blood is concentrated. "He shot me."

"Who?" You gesture toward the slumped over fella with a thumb, "This guy?"

Shot guy nods, groaning as he pulls himself up to sit leaning against the wall of the small bathroom cubicle, right up next to the dead dude.

"Ooh, okay honey, watch yourself now—" You reach out toward the injured man but don't really move from your place squatting at the door, so your attempt at helping is pretty useless. "—How did you even get shut in here? You're lucky this one's dead or he might've tried to fini—"

You cut yourself off with a yelp and fall backward onto your ass as the dead guy gasps and stretches his jaw open in the longest, largest yawn you've ever seen in your life.

"Okay." You place a hand on your racing heart, eyes wide as you stare at the resurrected man. "Not dead."

He finishes his yawn and then shakes his head a little before he glances around, making eye contact with you and then with the man he shot, who looks equally as surprised as you are. "I'd ask if I was in hell, but I don't remember shooting you, darling."

With a shift of his shoulders he seems to recall that he's also in pain and winces, lifting large hands to his shirt where he pulls the buttons open. There's a smattering of glinting metal you recognise as bullet shards stuck on what you're guessing is a bulletproof vest.

"Fuck." He sighs, obviously relieved, "Fucking vest, man."

You don't really know what to do. You're just sitting there on the floor of the train wondering how you managed to catch the only ride tonight full of people with murderous intent, eyes stuck on the blood dappling the white shirt of the man before you.

He pulls said garment open wider and tugs out a pendant attached to a gold chain and pauses. You watch the relief drain from his face and in its place an expression of pure dread grows. He holds the pendant tight in hand and then looks up at you, his dark eyes penetrating your very soul. "Where's my brother?"

"Your... brother?" You blink, fretting your hands at the hem of your shirt. "I-I don't—" the intensity of the previously dead man's stare is making you extremely nervous. "May—maybe, I don't know, what's he look like?"

"Facial hair, tattoos, wears rings—" The man describes, still observing you with fierce dark eyes, but his face has softened some. Probably saw the anxiety on your face and felt bad. "—Walks around looking like he's pissed at the entire world—"

"Oh!" You stick out a hand, the tips of your fingers barely brushing at his knee. "The rude guy with the pornstache? I did see him, actually, he was fighting with this older gentleman—longer blond hair, weird—there was a girl there too, dressed in pink."

"He was with the fucking Diesel?"

"I—I don't—why does everyone keep talking about diesel?" You ask. And you're genuinely curious... Diesel fuel? Diesel engines? There was that sticker...

"Is he hurt?" The resurrected one interrupts your wondering thoughts and you bring your gaze back to him. He's leaning a little closer to you now, like he's really anticipating what you're going to say.

"Oh, no, not really. Had a few gashes on his face but nothing terrible." You say earnestly, somehow wanting to please this stranger for some unknown reason. "He could've been—I think I might have saved his life, actually. He didn't... didn't say thank you, though..." You trail off and glance down at your hands awkwardly.

"Thank Christ." He seems relieved at that, but his body stays tense. Then he seems to remember the guy bleeding from a bullet wound beside him and turns his attention there instead. "Sorry for shooting you, mate. Thought you was bad news. Should've known better there—I'm usually very good at reading people."

The injured man just waves a bloodied hand in dismissal and says something about only caring about his son's safety and you want to ask, really, really you do... but you know if you ask you'll just get involved and you're currently attempting to convince yourself that talking to these two doesn't qualify as doing just that—you're on holiday. No jobs allowed.

"Well," You grab hold of the wall beside you and haul yourself to your feet, tugging your phone out of your jacket pocket to check the time. "I'm happy you two have worked things out, and that you're alive and all, but I've got to get going."

"Getting off at the next stop?" The resurrected one asks, grunting with effort as he slowly stands up too.

"Oh, yeah, we all are aren't we? Next one's Kyoto—last stop." You gesture vaguely somewhere outside the windows, smiling up at the man—he's a lot taller than you thought.

His whole face drops at that and he sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Shit. Better be gettin' on then, I reckon."

"Right, yeah." You don't know why you agree in the tone you do, like you've got shit to do too. Find another toilet, maybe.

The big tall man shuffles toward you and you step back and aside to let him out, knocking into a solid body when you do. You turn your head to apologise and see Suit standing behind you, blue eyes wide and wet and whatever apology you had forming on your tongue dies in an instant.

"Lem?" The bloodied man breathes and you duck out of the way just in time to let these two—brothers, didn't he mention before—embrace each other in the most passionate, moving way you think you've ever seen outside of a movie. "You—you fucker!"

They pound each other on the back and the overwhelming manly affection between the pair is so overwhelming you begin to feel like you're intruding, so, you turn and slip away, praying as you walk back through the train that the next toilet you come across doesn't have a not-so-dead body inside it.

**

Mission Find Another Bathroom turned out to be a raging success, a success that came crashing down all too quickly the moment you tried to leave the little room.

"Oh, no, no, no, no!" You press the tiny touch screen by the door repeatedly but the door still won't open. "You've got to be fucking kidding me with this—"

You hesitate a moment before you decide to slam your shoulder up against the door a few times and it still doesn't budge. Fuck. This day couldn't possibly get any worse, could it?

You bang a palm against the solid door, screaming out your cries for help as loud as you possibly can, but you've been up and down the train a few times now—there's next to no bloody passengers aboard anymore. It'd be a miracle if someone were to find you now—

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" The door slams open and your blond-haired, shabbily dressed miracle bursts into the bathroom, his jacket wrapped around his arm as he screams and scrambles into the tiny space.

You barely have time to throw your body out of the way, watching with wide eyes as the man pushes past and goes straight for the toilet—his frantic movements allowing you to catch a glimpse of a little scaly friend wrapped around his forearm.

Oh, so now there's a snake on board too. That's cool. Totally cool.

"What the fuck are you still doing here—"

You're halfway through the next train car over before you're slamming into the two men from earlier, bloody suit and the resurrected one. You're shuddering, trying not to picture a snake with its fangs buried in old guy's arm.

"I'm getting off at Kyoto!" You practically whine, throwing a hand out in exasperation, staring hard at manic man.

"Have you not fucking noticed there's not a single other goddamned person left on this thing?" He looks so tired. Bless him.

"You're still here—" You argue anyway, gesturing wildly back in the direction you'd just fled from, "that American too, he's here, he had a fucking snake on his arm—"

"Look, love, there's some really bad shit about to go down on this train. You're not going to want to be here when it does."

Ah, naturally. Can't ever just be a nice vacation, can it? So much for tucking away the assassin for one bloody weekend.

"What's she gonna do, Tan? She's stuck in this shit with us now—ain't no where left to run." The taller, darker one says, placing a broad hand on his brother's (?) shoulder.

"I know that, don't I? I'm trying to figure out what to fuckin' do with her." Suit sighs, tucking both hands into his trouser pockets.

You huff. "Do I get any say in this at all?"

"No, you don't—" Bloody-face starts.

"We'll do what we can to keep you alive, darlin', but no promises." Risen-from-the-dead interrupts.

🍊

Stakeout - nsfw

"If you light one more godamm cigarette in this car I will cut every last one of your fingers off." You don't even need to look over at Tangerine to know he's got his fingers hooked around the box of ciggies in his jacket pocket.

He groans and tips his head back, the impact of it hitting the headrest behind him a dull thump. "Oh, fuck off. I'm bored, aren't I?"

You're in one of Lemon's nice cars on a stakeout. Rather—you're stuck with Tangerine in Lemon's nice car on a stakeout.

"You're bored?" You scoff, adjusting your position in the seat for the hundredth time. "Remind me again who's fault is it we're here in the first bloody place?"

The speed at which Tangerine whirls his head around is astounding. His neck definitely pops a couple times. "You're blaming me now?"

"Uh, yes, I am. I think it's pretty obvious that you're the one who put us both here, Tange." You turn your head to look at the man beside you, unsurprised by the classic look of irritation marring his handsome face. "Maybe if you'd stopped running that fucking mouth of yours Lemon would have offered to do this instead. But no, you just had to call him a—what was it again?"

Tangerine actually has the audacity to look pleased with himself. "Dick-train sucki—"

"Right—" You interrupt, "—dick-train sucking bastard. Real original too, Tange, since the trains on Thomas the Tank Engine aren't even phallic at all!"

He's completely silent for a beat, his angry blue eyes staring hard at your face as if he's trying to come up with something equally defensive and witty. "They kind of look like cocks—"

"No, they really don't, Tange. They're literal steam engine trains, for Christ's sake. Not remotely penis-like at all and you know it."

And again, silence. Slow, simmering silence. You can almost feel the air between you boiling with Tangerine's impending rage—and you feel a little smug to be honest, because it's not all that often you can get him riled up so quickly—but you turn anyway, despite your better judgement.

(started writing sex scene in the middle of attempting the pre-plot)

"Get your pussy out." He says and you blink, twisting your head around to look at him.

"Excuse me?" Your eyes widen as you stare, gaze flickering all around Tangerine's very serious expression.

"You heard me." He lifts a hand and gestures two ringed fingers toward your crotch. "Pussy. Now." A pause, and his moustache ticks up coyly. "Please."

"You cannot be serious right now." You cross your arms over your chest and press your thighs closer together. "Fuck right off."

Tangerine tuts, reaching over and resting one of his large hands on your knee. "You've been putting ideas in my head, love, ain't no stopping what you've started now, is there?" He gives a squeeze and you find yourself almost instinctively releasing the tension in your muscles, your legs parting just slightly to allow Tangerine's strong fingers a firmer grip.

"We're on a job, Tange." You mutter, shuffling down in your seat and unintentionally allowing Tangerine's hand to slide up further. "And I'm wearing trousers for Christ's sake—"

"I'll get done with you soon enough." You can hear the smirk in Tangerine's voice without looking at him. "Or, then again, maybe I won't."

"Yeah and Lemon will kill us if we don't get this goddamn photograph..." You sigh, lifting your own hand up to rub slowly at your temple.

"The bloody adulterers went into a fucking hotel, babe, they ain't coming out anytime soon." Your partner pats your thigh and leans into your space, his pointy nose digging into your cheek as he plants a kiss to your skin.

You wriggle again, eyes flickering to the empty streets surrounding your car for a moment before you slump further down in your seat and lift your hips. "Fucking unbelievable—"

Tangerine chuckles lowly beside you as you work your pants down your legs, stopping for a moment to get your shoes off so the garment can come all the way down. You scoot back in your seat when you're done, thankful that the tinted windows and the cover of the night sky will keep you mostly hidden from anyone who happens to go walking by. When you've settled you look over at Tangerine and he seems to have lost his sweater somewhere in the backseat, the swell of his biceps stretching the material of the white t-shirt he was wearing underneath. He looks so hot like that, just in his shirt and trousers, gold chains glimmering in the dim light from the streetlights outside.

"Oh, no, love." He shakes his head as he hooks a hand under your knee and tugs you off-kilter in your seat. "I said pussy."

You flush hot from your cheeks to your chest, biting your lip as you hesitantly reach down and hook your thumbs in the waistband of your panties, lifting your hips once more to get them off. Once they're in your hand you clutch them to your chest, face hot and knees pressed together again as you frantically look around outside the car. The streets are dead quiet. You're fine.

"You're fine." Tangerine's husky tone gives your thoughts a voice, and your eyes snap back to him the second you feel his fingers upon you again. He looks hungry. His blue eyes barely glimmering in the low light as he shifts himself and leans forward, his hand shoving between your knees and locking around your left leg, tugging hard enough to spin you a little bit in the seat. "Come on. Put your back up against the door and spread your legs for me, love."

Oh.

Your breath stutters as you move in the way he wants, back pressed a little uncomfortably at the driver's side door, but it gives you the space to push your legs apart and present to him. You clutch your panties tighter to your chest and watch Tangerine stretch himself across the centre console—it can't be at all comfortable and yet he continues, practically folding himself over the space between you until he's close enough. You expect him to kiss at your thighs—your muscles tensing pre-emptively because his moustache always, always tickles—but he goes straight for your innermost parts, his tongue dragging right up the split of you, and oh, holy fuck, it makes you spasm.

"T-Tange—!" You gasp, unsure whether you want to close your legs or spread them wider to let him have more.

The fucker actually laughs, his breath fanning over your rapidly dampening pussy and making you squirm, then he looks up at you and holds direct eye contact as he lowers his mouth over you again. You flush even hotter, feeling his lips part as he kisses your sex, slow, tongue pressing at your clit a few times before he flattens it and just holds it there, rubbing up and down.