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hederasgarden · 2 years

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Safe With Me

Summary: Six is a hard man to read up until the moment he isn’t.

Paring: Sierra Six (Court Gentry) x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Rating: Mature, 18+ only. AU, violence, blood, angst, whumpage, death and some sexual content.

A/N: If this gets a good response I will write a sequel that takes place during the movie. Please note the reader has been Claire’s caretaker since her first surgery and is in her early 30s. The story is based on this ask. Thank you N and a @a-reader-and-a-writer for beta'ing and @skvatnavle for the title.

When Six comes into your lives, you’re not sure what to make of him. He’s clearly CIA-adjacent like Fitz – or some other alphabet agency– though he has none of the easy warmth of Claire's uncle. Just his quick sense of humor, but even that comes out sparingly, often startling a laugh from you. Claire takes to him quickly, poking and prodding at his cool exterior until you begin to see little cracks in it. Small glimpses of the man beneath the protector.

Once you notice the little tells, it becomes easier to catch them. Like the soft way he looks at Claire when she’s singing along to a record or the way his lips twitch up into a brief smile every time you remember his favorite pastry from the bakery. It’s apparent in the way his hand always rests at the small of your back when you’re out in public together, guiding you along as Claire tugs excitedly at your arm. You see it in the way he keeps himself as a buffer between the two of you and other people.

It’s how you know his nightly check-in at bedtime isn't just about following security protocol. Seeing you both safely tucked into bed for the night seems to ease some of the tension he carries. Most times the two of you don’t speak, he just pokes his head in and nods, giving you that awkward little grimace he probably thinks is a smile. Claire is another story, you can normally hear her excited little voice asking Six a hundred different questions that he patiently answers.

Tonight you’re in bed early, a warm cup of tea and a book in your hand. You thumb through the pages while you wait for him to come say good night, unable to rest until this part of your routine is complete. The clock on your bedside ticks steadily forward until it’s 9:05. Six is always prompt and when he doesn't show you grow concerned, venturing out to find him. You don’t make it far before a gloved hand covers your mouth and an arm snakes around your stomach. You’re pulled back against a solid wall of muscle.

“Tell us where the girl is,” comes the gravelly demand.

In your panicked state you thrash around, jerking your head back. Pain explodes along your skull and the man groans, releasing you. When you look back, you see blood pouring from his broken nose. You scramble away from him and scream for Six but the man catches you quickly. He forces you on your back and your head snaps to the side with the force of the first blow. You lay there stunned, with the taste of pennies in your mouth. You've never been hit before or purposely hurt like this and the ugly surprise of it is almost worse than the pain.

Tears well up and you breathe in wetly, blood escaping from your split lip down your chin. The man stares at you and even though the mask hides most of his face the anger in his gaze is unmistakable. Before you can recover he hauls you to your feet and throws you roughly against the wall, demanding you take him to Claire.

"No," you croak. He strikes you a second time and you flinch. God you hope Claire made it to the panic room. The thought of this man touching her makes your stomach roll. You close your eyes when he asks you again, waiting for another blow to come but nothing happens. When you hear the audible click of a gun’s safety your eyes shoot open. The man in front of you freezes.

He’s quick to recover, turning around and bringing you in front of him as a shield. You blink rapidly to clear your tears, relief surging through your body at the sight of Six. He looks a little worse for wear, a wound on his arm bleeding sluggishly and a gash on his side. To your surprise, he doesn’t address the man but looks right at you.

“You alright?” He asks.

You're not, but you nod anyway.

“Where’s the girl? Take me to her or I’ll kill this one,” the man demands, pressing a knife to your throat.

You whimper and Six’s lips thin, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Still, he doesn’t look at the man, speaking to you again. “Did he do that to you?” Six asks, motioning to your face.

“Yes.”

“Take me to the girl,” the man growls.

You jerk in his arms when you feel the blade split the skin of your throat. Six takes a step forward but stills, watching you for a long moment before he shifts his attention to the man behind you.

“I want you to know. I was going to leave one of you alive. The CIA loves to interrogate you assholes… but you touched her. That was a mistake,” he says, his voice cold and even. When he speaks again he’s still watching the man though you know he’s addressing you. “Close your eyes.”

You squeeze them shut, holding your breath. There’s no hiding what Six means to do and even though you know it’s coming you still flinch at the sound of the gun and the hollow thump of the man’s body hitting the floor behind you. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you feel Six’s touch on the side of your neck.

At his coaxing, your eyes flutter open, and you stare at his bloodied face. You can’t stop your hands from shaking and when your lips part no sound comes out. Some part of you knows you’re in shock, but you can’t make your body cooperate. It’s a struggle to breathe.

“It’s alright, take a breath,” Six instructs, cradling the uninjured side of your face in his hand. You inhale through your nose as he continues to watch you, nodding encouragingly until you're breathing normally.

"Six," you whisper, grasping his shirt.

“How are you doing, hen?” He questions, the use of his terrible nickname for you startling a laugh from you. Mother hen. For the way you tended to follow Claire around the house, fussing over her even when she tried to wave you off. “Should we go check on our little chick?” He asks.

“Where is she? Did they-” you start.

Six is quick to reassure you. “She went straight to the safe room just like I taught her. She’s okay,” he promises.

He offers you his hand and you take it, letting him fold you into his side. The smell of blood and cordite burns your nose but underneath is the familiar scent of Six’s cologne. It helps calm you, grounding you to him until you turn the corner.

“Don’t look,” he instructs, a hand on the back of your head urging you to press your face into his chest.

You only catch the briefest look at the carnage in the living room, thankful for the way Six shields you from it. He guides you along the hallway and you don’t open your eyes until he tells you to. The thick door to the safe room slides open and you smile in relief at the sight of Claire, lamp raised and a fierce expression on her face.

As soon as she sees you, she drops it and rushes into your arms. She touches your face so gently and cries, turning even more upset when she sees the state of Six. It takes both of you nearly an hour to get her calm enough to sleep. Even then you can tell it’s a fitful slumber, her little face scrunched up in concern. You stay with her, stroking her back while Six leaves to deal with whoever he called to clean up the mess in the living room.

You’re thankful nothing happened to her but it scares you how close those men got. If they’d gotten their hands on her… You shake your head, not wanting to think about that.

“Hen.”

You turn around at the sound of Six’s soft voice, finding him leaning against the doorframe. Even though he’s cleaned the blood from his face you can still see the gray shirt clinging to his side.

“We should get you cleaned up,” you say concerned.

“That’s my line,” he tells you, brow raised. “Come on, she’ll be safe. I got three guys in the house and another four outside. No one is getting in.”

You follow him into the hall, letting him lead you to the spare bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and you turn towards the sink, flinching at the state of your face. You raise a trembling hand to your lip. Six stops you with a gentle grip on your wrist.

“Did he get you anywhere else?” He asks, looking you over critically.

“Just the face.”

“So nowhere important, huh?” He questions, making you laugh and then wince when the action tugs on your split lip. “Hop up,” he directs, tapping the counter.

When you struggle to do as he asks, a disconnect between your mind and body still, Six helps you. He grasps your hips and hefts you up with a surprising amount of gentleness. You look up, your face close to his. He squeezes your hips and steps away, bending down to take out supplies from a little bin under the sink you never realized was there.

You clear your throat and curl your fingers into the fabric of your PJs. Now that things have calmed, pain filters in through your scattered nerves.

“You a doctor now?” You ask.

“No but I play one on TV,” he replies without missing a beat, rising back to his full height.

He stands between your legs and pulls on a pair of gloves. His touch is gentle as he slowly cleans your face and treats the wound on your neck. Your eyes fall closed at the feel of his fingers tracing the cut on your throat, spreading a cool, numbing cream over the angry line. He does the same to your lip and it helps take the sting out of it. After he removes the gloves, he runs his fingers over the rest of your face, applying gentle pressure at different points. You know he’s looking for fractures or breaks. Outside of the underside of your jaw being tender to the touch, you’re mostly okay.

“It’s not a lollipop,” he warns, dropping two little pills into your hand, “but they’ll help with the pain.”

“What about you?” You question.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re still bleeding.”

“It’s not my blood,” he tells you.

“Oh.” You fall quiet and look up at him.

He turns away from you, listening to something outside the door and you look at his face in profile. You can see the faint beginnings of bruises on his cheek and jaw and there’s a patch of dried blood at his temple. Your eyes wander down his chest, cataloging what looks like a knife wound on his right pec and another down his left side. Hesitantly, you reach out and touch him.

Six grunts, eyes closing briefly. “Well, maybe a little bit is mine,” he admits.

“Let me help you.”

“Not to sound dramatic but it’s not the first time I’ve stitched myself up,” he tells you.

“Please, I…” You trail off, close to tears again.

“What’s wrong?” He asks quietly.

You don’t know how to explain that even though he may trust the men outside, you only trust him. You don’t want to be alone. He makes you feel safe, his presence the only thing keeping you from unraveling. It was easy to hold it together for Claire but now that it’s just the two of you there’s nothing to distract from how close those men got to her or what they did to you.

Six says nothing but he doesn’t have to, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around your shoulders carefully. You sob when he hugs you close, twisting the fabric of his shirt in your finger as your body shakes. He rests his chin on your head and drags his hand up and down your back soothingly. The tears don’t last long, not with him holding and comforting you.

A small part of you thinks Six needs it too. You hear him breathe out and some of the tension leaves his body. He cares a lot for you and Claire. It’s why the two of you make an effort in your own ways to make him feel a part of your little family and cared for. To know he’s worthy of that affection. Eventually, Six pulls away, smoothing a large hand over the back of your head and down to your shoulder, squeezing it.

“Alright, your turn to play doctor,” he says, reaching back to tug his shirt off.

You can’t help the small sound that escapes your mouth at the sight of his scarred body. He doesn’t react to your response, staring steadily at a point beyond your head. His right arm is the worst, deep scars mangling his tan skin but it seems like everywhere you look there’s more damage to find. Underneath your concern is another feeling, one you try to ignore because now is not the time for your body to recognize just how good he looks without a shirt.

“None of these look too deep,” you say, taking the pair of gloves he hands you and getting to work cleaning and bandaging his wounds.

You carefully avoid the gun on his hip, looking up every so often to see his face. His expression is blank, and he doesn’t react to your touch even though you know it must be painful. You want to ask him what really happened tonight, but you know he’d only give you a glib answer. After you’re finished Six inspects your work. He gives you a thumbs up and smiles.

“Not half bad, doc.”

You grin back and stare up at him, breath catching when his eyes dip to your lips momentarily. The expression on his face is uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable. You feel an answer tug in your own heart and slowly reach to touch the side of his face. Even though he’s still a mystery to you in a lot of ways you know him well enough to understand he would never make the first move. Too driven by some internal moral compass.

“Six,” you whisper, tilting your head up to invite him in.

There’s only a flicker of hesitation before he’s kissing you, a hand on your hip drawing you close to his body. He groans and you respond with a little gasp of your own when he pushes you back, your head bumping against the cold mirror. Your lips part for his tongue, a brief flare of pain from the cut there but it fades quickly when his hands cup your face. His scent and taste surround you and your body responds.

You grab his shoulder, wanting him closer and he grunts, pulling away. Pain clouds his eyes and your brows raise in concern.

“Six…”

He shakes his head and steps back, rolling his shoulder with a grimace. The air between you shifts, whatever softness he allowed to the surface dissolving as he steps away.

“You should go check on Claire,” he says.

“Alright,” you agree, letting him help you down from the counter. His hand lingers only for a moment.

He follows you down the hall to Claire’s room, hovering in the doorway as you climb carefully into bed with her. She stirs, blinking sleepily and reaching for you. When she says your name softly you assure her everything is ok, curling your body around her smaller one. She grasps your hand tightly against her chest and sighs, falling still. Six turns to leave and you call out to him quietly.

"Stay. Claire will feel better if you're close by," you lie. "She'll want to see you when she wakes up."

He nods and takes up a vigil in the brightly colored chair in the corner of her room. You lay your head on the pillow, the back of Claire’s head obscuring his figure from you. You don’t need to see him to feel safe. You know Six will always protect you and Claire.

Taglist: @wildbornsiren, @a-reader-and-a-writer and @blue-aconite.

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#sierra six x you #sierra six x reader #court gentry imagine #the gray man #court gentry x you #court gentry x reader #the gray man fanfiction #the gray man fic

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dindjiarin · 2 years

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Six Days, Part II - (Sierra Six x F!Reader)

I wrote this because ✨️Six deserves a lil more than a kiss✨️ 😌 I read the first The Gray Man book, and some characterization is based on it, but mostly this is movie-based. Let's pretend Lloyd Hansen survived his ordeal, shall we?

A/N: I had not yet read Ballistic (Book 3 of The Gray Man series) before writing this so the unintended similarity between Ch 36 and my work here was unintentional. I'm gratified to know Court Gentry so well lmfao. 💀 My bad, Mr. Greaney.

Lil Spotify playlist I listened to while feverishly typing. (Wipe Your Eyes is a Sierra Six song, I said what I said.)

Beginning / Ending / Prequel

TAGS: Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Six x F!Reader

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI 18+, sexual content, mention of rape (rape is not threatened nor occurs), drugging, blood/wounds/death.

WORD COUNT: 8.6k (yeah, I'm REALLY sorry)

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IIII

The room is dim when you wake. It can’t be later than six o’clock, but the bed is empty, cold where he should be. The bedsheets rustle as you twist to read the green-lit clock on the bookshelf. Your face ticks in confusion at the numbers spelling out 9:09 a.m.

Must be a cloudy morning. Too bad I can’t see out this fucking frosted window, you grumble internally.

Sitting up, you pull the sheet a little tighter to your naked chest and squint at the bathroom door, bringing it into focus despite your sleep-laden eyes. It seems completely closed, but if Six is in there, he’s unusually quiet.

You drop the sheet and leave the bed, looking for your clothes on the floor. On Six’s chair, a pile of material catches your eye. Your hand trails across the folded, new clothing; you pick up the top item, the tags still attached. A smile splits your face in two. He’d laid out a pair of plain white underwear, denim shorts, and a green t-shirt. You quickly locate your old bra and underwear and throw away the bottoms. You’re too uncomfortable without the support of a bra, so you put it back on despite its desperate need of a wash.

Once clothed, you knock on the bathroom door but it swings open with the contact. It’s dark and unoccupied. A sudden wave of fear hits you and you take a step back.

Where's Six?

Irrationally, your mind taunts you: Did he leave me? Get what he wanted and cut his losses? A small sound escapes you at the intrusive thought, but you remember the way he had held you all night, the gentle yearning of his touch, the devotion in his sapphire eyes. You silence the unhelpful worries. No way. That’s not him.

Shit, shit, did something happen? Oh, my god, I hope he’s okay. The fears cycle through your mind. He’d never left without telling you before. Not back at the original safe house, not here, not ever. Unease settles in your chest like a virus.

It was evident he had left and come back this morning to bring you new clothing, but where was he now? You move into the bathroom, quickly flipping on the light to try to dispel some of the dread. You drop to your knees and begin feeling around the floor as grime and dirt pile along your fingertips.

Oh, god, I bet it’s under this disgusting-ass flooring.

You lean left to grip the rough edge of the linoleum where it lies underneath the sink. Pulling at the aged material, it comes up easily enough, and you’re rewarded by a discolored section of hardwood floor. The linoleum slips from your dirty fingers, and as you reach to grab it again, a loud crash booms behind you.

The front door bangs open. You spin around, knocking yourself on your ass. Your heart fears it’s an intruder, but your brain expects it to be Six, mad at you for not hearing his knock.

As the door swings wide, you’re faced with an unfamiliar man, clad in a blue patterned shirt and slacks, standing with a firearm in his right hand. It’s the first thing you see, but it’s not pointed at you. The man looks relaxed - happy, you notice.

“Hey, doll. Been lookin’ everywhere for ya.” His voice is upbeat yet menacing.

“Whatcha doin’ to that floor?” He marches over to you, roughly grabbing your upper arm.

As his fingers dig into your flesh, you stare at the stumps where his little and ring fingers should be. He hoists you to your feet. You don’t even struggle as your brain tries to play catch-up.

“Who- the fuck are you?” Your voice trembles despite your efforts to the contrary. Your heart is throbbing, painful aching in your veins; your worst nightmare is coming true.

“You haven’t heard of me?” He sounds surprised. “Well, isn’t that hilarious. Mr. Moral Compass has been keeping secrets from you.” He makes a mockingly sympathetic face.

“Where is he?” Your voice cracks and pain pricks in your eyes, your vision watering. You’re petrified of this man’s answer.

To your great discomfort, the man laughs. It’s a terrifying laugh: somehow, all of his features seem warmed by his mirth, like he’s energized by your distress.

“That's supposed to be my line, buttercup.”

He makes a condescending gesture, “Someone saw you clomping around this hallway out here. Not very smart, are we? And wherever you are, Six is sure to be trailing like a sad puppy. But I’m not too worried about where he is right now; he’ll follow us, and that saves me quite a bit of effort. Not to mention bullets and bruises.”

It takes a second for his words to find you through the panic, but when they do, you’re nearly lightheaded with relief. You’d thought you managed and processed that first night well. It had given you confidence in your ability to persevere. But standing here, face-to-face with a man who seemed to know things you didn’t, who exuded the dangerous energy of a wild animal, you were frozen in fear. However, if Six was still out there, still okay, you had some hope. You had every hope in the world, in fact.

Six. Six, please. Please walk through that door. All your wits could offer was to repeat his name like a prayer.

“Let’s head on out, shall we? Car’s waiting.”

His grip on your arm tightens painfully, and you still don’t fight him. He steps toward the bed and, with a flourish, places a piece of paper on top of your pillow.

“MapQuest for 007,” he explains without explaining.

You know you can’t win a physical fight with this much-larger, armed man, but the dam in you breaks as he pulls you toward the exterior hallway. You’re already leaning forward from the way he’s holding you, so you aim at your closest target. Your right fist slams just below the zipper on his slacks and he exhales with a yelp, doubling over. He recovers too quickly, though, and whirls you around, leveraging your throat with his forearm. He squeezes and wins a pained, high-pitched rasp from you.

“Do it again and I’ll leave your dead body for him to find instead of that paper,” he says through gritted teeth.

You shiver and try to swallow, panicking when you can’t. He loosens his grip enough for you to shuffle along, and when he tries to walk you both through the door a second time, you let him.

You were right, the sky outside was blanketed by wooly clouds threatening to let loose a deluge. The old city you’d holed up in was quiet for the time of day, and no one saw the well-dressed man toss you into a waiting black SUV. Your cheek smacks the faux-leather gray seat, and you push your arms underneath your body to reorient yourself.

The air inside the vehicle is artificially cold and smells new. The pleather squeaks as the two armed men who had been waiting outside your room seat themselves on either side of you. You hadn’t seen them until the well-dressed man had dragged you from your shelter out into the sterile-looking hallway. It seemed to you that they were reasonably sure you were alone. There was no way he wouldn't have sent an entire team in if he’d thought the two of you were together, right? This man didn’t dress like it, but maybe he didn’t have the funds for a whole team. Six had mentioned to you once how expensive one mercenary could be, and the going rate for a whole group could feed a small country for a week.

A thumb and forefinger pinch your nose, and your mouth drops open automatically. Your hands shoot upward to fight off whatever assault is beginning, but then the agent to your left pops something small into the back of your throat. You try to choke it out, but he had thrown it skillfully, and you accidentally swallow. You lurch forward violently as the driver accelerates.

You gag but nothing comes up. Coughing, you ask, “What'd you give me?”

The kidnapper’s smooth voice answers you from the passenger seat, “The ineloquent call it the ‘date-rape drug’.”

Utter fear shocks through your body at his blunt words. You’re a chemist, you know exactly what it is he gave you.

He turns a little to face you, “Sugar, you look nervous. Don’t worry,” his voice is jovial, “This is a date, not a rape.”

You shrink into your seat as best you can, trying to protect yourself. City blocks quickly turn into dilapidated housing, then farmland since Six’s safe house was close to the outer edge. You don’t know anything about the country you’re in, so memorizing the now-green scenery would be useless. Instead, you decide to evaluate and catalog the men next to you.

The man on your right is tall and tan. With his ironically trustworthy face, you would’ve never given him a second glance if you passed by him on the street. He’s holding what you believe to be a submachine gun, and a pistol butt pokes out of his waistband.

Your friend on the left is his friend’s polar opposite. This man makes you feel like the kidnapper does, and your hands shake just by looking at him out of your peripheral vision. His sharp, pale features keep anger at the forefront. His dark eyes, though rarely on you, twitch with menace. He’s carrying the same weapons as his partner, but you see an added hunting knife hanging from his black cargo pants. Unconsciously, your weight shifts to your right side, trying to put as much distance as you can, though, of course, you know the other man is truly no better.

Heavy exhaustion suddenly falls on you like an anvil. Lethargy places immense pressure on your limbs. Your world goes startlingly black for a second, then you realize you’ve closed your eyelids. You try to lift them, but it’s so difficult. Straining, you see a sliver of blurry light, but your eyes return to darkness. It feels like a weight is pressing on your chest - like Six did last night. Delirious, you half-smile at the recollection. Your head drops to the side with its own weight, and your final conscious thought is that you hope you fell to the right.

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Feeling more peaceful than he ever had in his life, Six had woken that morning on his side with your head on his right bicep. You were asleep facing him, your right calf sandwiched between his thighs, your hand curled on his chest. If he didn’t include every other time he looked at you, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Six felt a sense of possessiveness surge through him; he was never going to let anything take you from him. If you wanted him, he would be there.

Six had never told a woman that he loved her. Certainly not romantically. He wasn’t completely confident in how it all worked, but he no longer wondered what it felt like. Six knew by the way he wanted to care for you as you did him. It was evident in the way he found himself pulling your favorite mug from the cabinet each morning before you’d even woken; it was evident in the way his body thrilled as he counted your not-so-sneaky glances at him. Six knew how powerful love was because he felt all other aspects of his life drop in priority to you. He didn't pretend to be good at it, but he couldn't stop himself from trying.

In a matter of excellent timing, you rolled away, tucking your head down and off his arm. He extricated himself from the bed, intending on performing a quick errand. He was incredibly energized; after yesterday’s long-awaited activities and then the full night’s sleep he’d gotten, he felt sure he could do anything.

After showering, he located an old, plain black tracksuit set that he’d hidden years ago in the bathroom closet. It wasn’t exactly clean after all this time, but it wasn’t the disgusting shirt and pants from the past few days which was all he cared about.

He thought about leaving a note, but it was so dark outside that he knew you’d still be asleep when he returned. And also, he had no pen. Nimbly, he moved to your side of the bed where he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his feather-light touch never waking you. You sighed into his hand as it curved down your cheek, and he felt himself twitch at the familiarity. He quickly decided that he’d be keeping you in bed today; his high energy would be put to good use.

Six casually moved out onto the streets of the old world city. It was just past eight-thirty. The air was nice: warm and breezy, hinting at the coming storm. It wasn’t a bustling locale, but its population was large enough to provide some cover. Six’s furtive yet discreet searches around the area told him that all was well, so he trekked through the city to a store he knew supplied women’s clothing. He figured your old clothes were no longer suitable - he himself had torn them off in more ways than one - and he had nothing in his cache that would be practical for a woman. He was still cautious, still calculated. If he needed you to run, you couldn’t be tripping around in too-long pants.

The brightly lit store didn’t have much, so he purchased the first items he saw that best fit the summer weather, making no guesses as to your size since it was something he’d memorized for this exact situation. He thanked the shop clerk in his native tongue, then took a shortcut back to the room.

He returned as the green numbers glowed exactly 9:00 a.m. to find you still sleeping as he had suspected. He laid the pieces on the chair and then moved to the kitchenette. His jaw set as he realized the food was entirely gone; there wasn’t any substantial meal to be eaten, and canned peaches weren’t going to satisfy the both of you. Grumbling, he took another survey to confirm your slumber, then exited once again, locking the door as he left.

On his ten-minute jaunt to the corner store, Six felt uneasy. Now he believed the electricity in the air had nothing to do with the impending thunderstorm. He felt the breeze rustle through his blonde locks and tried to relax a little. He had a few - well, he couldn’t call them friends - in this general part of Europe, but only one lived in this area. He hoped the man hadn’t seen him; or you, considering the man might know about the situation.

He’d run out of cash, and his nearest stash was about a four-hour drive away in Latvia, so he was forced to steal a loaf of bread and two chunks of meat. Six left his not-inexpensive watch as payment, but he regretted being forced to this level. He’d never stolen anything in his life (except the odd vehicle, those almost couldn’t be helped) and he hated it. He was paid well for his services; he never needed to steal. Every bit of decency he could afford, he performed. If you hadn’t been waiting, he would’ve contented himself with the peaches for the next few hours, but you were injured, and moving on to Latvia could wait one more night.

His walk back from the store was circuitous by habit. He took two extra turns and an alleyway before opening the glass-paned door to the building. The room you two had been sharing was the very first on the ground floor, and something was horribly wrong.

Groceries fell to the floor, replaced instantly by his gun. He swept into the room, then the bathroom, already knowing you weren’t there. A sharp intake of breath sounded as he realized the linoleum had been disrupted.

Thank God, you’d gotten into the safe room.

He grunted as he pried open the heavy trapdoor, already beginning to tell you everything was okay, when the dusty hole gaped empty beneath him. The breath heaved out of him. He cursed loudly and slammed the door shut with such force that it reverberated throughout the lower floor. He spun around and his eyes snagged on the paper positioned on the pillow you’d occupied only moments earlier. He snatched it up.

- Do you miss her like I miss my fingers? -

Below the handwritten taunt was an address. Six needed no further information - he sprinted out of the building and up the street.

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Groggy and unsteady, your left eye opens a little before your right. Warm light streams from a small round window at the other end of the room. It’s dusty, and motes float about in the beams. Your hands chafe at the handcuffs, but the most uncomfortable aspect is the rickety chair you’re roped into. Your shoulders ache and your neck is pained at the position you’d been unconscious in.

Fear rises in your throat, bubbling like lava in your chest. But it’s mutating with another emotion you’re not sure of just yet. You rock forward violently and shift the old chair forward a little, trying to move toward the window. The impact of your weight rattles the rafters, and you realize that endeavor is hopeless if you want to remain alone. You try to scoot, using your untied feet to pull you along, but the chair catches on a warped floorboard, and you’re left stuck.

Panting from the claustrophobic panic and the exertion, you begin taking some calming breaths you’d read about once for test anxiety. It helps, but then you hear the creaking of hinges as a trapdoor falls away a few feet from you. The ladder slides down smoothly, and moments later the head of a man appears. His fit, sweater-wearing body follows. He glares at you.

“You got bits of ceiling plaster on my sweater.”

“What’s going on? What do you want me for?”

You expect him to say something about your job, to demand access to the research, to complete some of it yourself; maybe he wants you to oversee a project of their own. You have no idea and you’re not prepared for what he answers.

“I don’t want you at all, honey. Sorry, you’re not my type. I like women who don’t punch me in the dick.” He says testily. “No, I want your boy, and I want him to be sad. I had no idea you existed ‘til a friend snapped a few pictures of the two of you getting cozy.”

He unfolds three photos from his back pocket. The first is through the large glass backdoor in your original safe house, the telephoto lens capturing Six’s hand nearly touching your lower back, your head turned to smile at him. A second photo was taken from a distance through a window, and it shows Six sitting on the couch beside you, talking. The man holds up a third photo, this one of the two of you outside, Six’s face glows with that reluctant smile he favors, though it's much larger than usual; facing away from you, he looks downright joyous at something you must’ve said or done.

The emotion you’d had trouble naming finally identifies itself as you spit, “Fuck you.”

The man backhands you hard enough to split your lip, but he doesn’t knock you over. Tears spring to your eyes instantly, and you yelp. The moment this man had stepped through your door, you’d done your best to prepare yourself for physical pain. You were still surprised, still shocked by it.

The man crouches in front of you, his eyes level. Your upper lip curls into a snarl.

“I know Sierra Six. That man is a goody-two-shoes. Although, apparently he’s been lying to his lady love. See, I did do my homework: your employer’s security contract with Six ended a month ago. He’s been bunking with you because I sent him those photos the day before termination. If he stayed with you, I knew it was genuine.” He pauses, then jeers, “He doesn’t allow himself to get attached to people.” The man smiles, perfect teeth flashing behind pink lips as he waves the photographs, “But I found the one he has.”

Unable to fully comprehend what’s happening, you just stare. You’d been through quite a few emotions over the past twelve hours and the tumult in your head was raging. Your admittedly hands-off employers had never told you when the protection detail’s contract ended, they probably had just assumed Six would leave of his own accord. The house had been furnished with anything you would’ve needed so you’d kept on working, and your employers kept getting what they paid you for. As long as the status quo remained, no one would’ve questioned each other.

“So, you’ve got me here in this dry-ass attic because you don’t like Sierra Six?” Your confusion manifests with righteous anger. This man is using you, not for your brain, but to get to someone you care about.

He sharply raises his left hand as an example, “I fucking hate him, actually.

“Don’t your manicures cost less now?” You hiss venomously.

Your chair nearly tips when his hand connects once again with your face. You spit out blood, but you’re weak and it lands pitifully on your shirt.

Your mouth already open, you ask one last question, ”And when Six comes for me… you’ll kill him?” You are still angry, but your worry over Six causes your voice to break.

“All part of the show, babe. I’m not monologuing to you.” He shrugs, smiling as if he wasn’t just monologuing to you. He stands and jogs forward-facing down the ladder. You hear his rich voice say something about a knife, and your body goes rigid. More pain. Your heart rate skyrockets and traitorous tears fall.

Calm down, get calm, I can’t be calm, just be calm, this is insane, deep breaths, it won’t help, you’ll be fine, your thoughts race uncontrollably.

Stressed wood and hinges ring out from the ladder as he reappears with a switchblade. He squats and ties your ankles to the chair legs with little effort, despite your kicking. Then he pulls another chair from the far side of the attic to face you.

“Oh, I’m Lloyd, by the way.” He grins as he slices at your already-injured leg.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though he’d brought a comfortable chair, Lloyd didn’t stay long. He made a few cuts, watched you scream and squirm a little, but then his stomach had growled. He stood, wiped the bloody knife on your denim shorts, and folded the weapon as he left the attic. He made a little quip about letting bed bugs bite, and then the trapdoor squealed as it shut, as he left you in darkness.

The window across the room is dark blue, now. You beg your mind to relive the previous sunset, but the pain in your wrists and your leg are agonizing. Lloyd had cut a shape into your leg, and you didn’t want to see it. You’d not looked as he worked, and you were unable to do so now. Maybe it’ll be gone by morning, you childishly wish.

Again and again, your mind returns to Six. As much as you may have had a right to be, you didn’t have the capacity to be upset with him. Certainly not right this moment, as all you wanted was to be secure in his arms, and it was unlikely you’d be too pissed later, either. Six was your friend. Sure, he was generally reserved, closed off - but those were his natural defenses, and it was impossible not to feel his sincerity, his regard. Six had stayed on without payment for an entire month. He’d asked for extra men, probably calling in a favor instead of offering a reward. Just because he wanted to protect you. If he’d felt it was best to keep the truth hidden, then the truth was probably best kept hidden. After all, the man was the best tactician around; even you knew he had a near-mythological reputation.

Simply put, you trusted the man unequivocally. You just wished that he would both hurry and stay away. If this lunatic managed to kill Six by using you as bait, you weren’t sure you could live with the guilt. Six spent so much time walling himself off from everyone, and you’d purposefully broken down those defenses. Now you were both in danger. Six was all you had, all you’d wanted, and now that you had him you were about to lose him.

You sat there as time slipped by, in the dark, crying, until your body exhausted itself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

IIIII

A splitting headache wakes you. Your neck is screaming at the position it’s been in for hours, and you feel a little nauseous. The strong light from the round window allows you to clock the time at late afternoon, and you regret waking. Your body straightens when you realize that the sound of the trapdoor opening is what woke you. The sound sharpens and you tense, waiting for more pain.

As expected, Lloyd’s face beams at you. Immediately, you’re on edge: if Lloyd is happy, you shouldn’t be. He finishes climbing the ladder, and when he does, he motions to someone else to come up.

“Guess who,” he raises his eyebrows conspiratorially.

“No,” you plead. "No.”

“Mhm. ‘fraid so.” He couldn’t possibly smile wider.

A blonde head that you’d recognize anywhere materializes. He’s shoved by someone else you hate to see: the pale man on your left. The pale man looks terrible. His face is swollen and bloody. Since the ladder rises away from you, you don’t see the prisoner’s face until the pale man roughly turns him around, but you knew it would be Six. He’s slammed into his own rickety chair. His beard is sticky with blood, and a cut near his right eye oozes more blood. His black tracksuit is filthy and torn, and his hands are bound in front of him with zip ties. The instant he faces you, he holds your tearful gaze, and he winks. Your eyebrows constrict briefly in confusion, but you return to utter despair quickly. Lloyd was never going to let you go if he captured Six, and you’re pretty sure he never even offered that lie up to you. Now you were both going to watch each other die. Your chest heaves in sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is a hoarse whisper, but Six frowns and shakes his head. His attention is forced away from you, however, when Lloyd steps in front of him.

“Wow, Lloyd, you should’ve squeezed the CIA for a better patch job. You look like shit.”

Lloyd laughs, “Aw, don’t make me kill her already. I was just getting excited.”

“Did you do that to her face?” Six asks conversationally.

“It wasn’t the only thing I did,” Lloyd answers suggestively. And though you can’t see his face, he grins at Six who barely keeps a leash on himself. He files that comment away for later fuel.

Lloyd begins to speak, cajoling as Six flexes his jaw, his expressive eyes never leaving the threat. “The CIA didn’t ‘patch’ me up. They’ve pinned that whole … situation… on me. Rather unfairly, wouldn’t you say?” He doesn’t give Six time to answer before he continues, “I have other powerful friends who aren’t hunting me for war crimes. But they don’t matter. They support my little personal revenge mission, although they’re not funding it.” He holds up his hands, “Don’t be offended I didn’t send a whole squad after you, Six. I’m pretty depleted after all your shenanigans. But anyway!” He claps his hands, “Don’t you wanna know how I knew?” He sounds thrilled.

“A little birdy told you?”

“Your friend Denver. Now isn’t that just the worst? He sold you out. ‘Six has found himself a girl.’ His plan was to live that night, but hey, can’t win ‘em all, right?”

Lloyd moves to grab his chair, and you’re able to see Six’s reaction. His face doesn’t change, but you know those eyes. He’s not completely shocked, he can’t afford to be in his line of work, but you can see the betrayal, the sadness pooling there.

Since he has line of sight on you, again, he takes advantage and the corner of his mouth quirks up quickly. The smile is gone before you’re even sure it existed - but that’s the second time he’s signaled you. Trying to keep me from panicking, as always, you reason. You give him an answering smile, but it’s sad, and he grunts in frustration.

Lloyd has his chair in hand, and he looks animatedly between the two of you - back and forth, back and forth, as if trying to choose. The pale man, still standing next to Six, laughs. Your disgust evident on your face, Lloyd makes his choice and sits directly in front of you.

“Did you miss me, honey?” He purrs. You know from his tone that everything this man is about to do has one purpose: to twist a dagger into Six’s soul.

“Didn’t really get a chance, asshole,” you pour every bit of rage and hatred you can into your voice. This man might break your body, but you’re pretty sure this level of anger will protect your mind.

“Let me see that six.” He orders, which stops you right in your tracks.

“What?” You ask, perplexed.

“The six! The six I gave you.” His bottom lip pouts, “You didn’t even see what I gave you?” And he points at your thigh.

Amidst the blood, you finally see the pattern he had carved into your leg. He hadn’t cut as deeply as your other wound, just deep enough to ensure scarring.

“You said something about wanting a six, right?” He plays dumb. “If that one’s not big enough, here, I’ll do another.” He lifts the knife quickly and you start at the sudden violence.

Behind him, you hear Six grunt, then an unfamiliar, more pained-sounding grunt. Lloyd doesn’t hesitate before he jumps behind your chair and sticks the knife against your neck. As he does so, you see the body of the pale man drop to the floor, his submachine gun in Six’s freed hands. Your chin tilts up as high as you can to avoid the blade.

“You brought a knife to a gunfight, Lloyd.”

“Quite the party foul of me, huh?” Lloyd rejoins. “Oh, well. That’s where your bitch comes in handy.”

Six doesn’t react. Lloyd's using you as a shield, but he is much larger than you. One good shot would knock him back enough that Six was confident he could reach you before Lloyd recovered. Six starts to squeeze the trigger when the knife leaves Lloyd’s hand, aimed directly at his heart.

Six bats away the shining switchblade with the gun, which sends him a little off balance. Lloyd uses his chance to rush Six. Like the football star he had been, he tackles Six to the floor. Six groans in pain as the wind is knocked from him, and a scream tears from you. At the last second, you remember that the other man in the car, the one on your right, was probably somewhere below. Surely he had heard the thumping, right? Why wasn’t he coming?

Six quickly gets the upper hand, kicking out from underneath the other man, smashing the gun into Lloyd’s face twice as he did so. Six is loath to shoot the man outright because he really wants to beat the shit out of him first. Lloyd gets to his feet at the same time Six does.

Frantically, you knock the chair over, and try to wiggle sideways towards the knife Six had hit. It was several feet away, very close to what now looked like a standoff. Six hears what you’re doing, and circles a little more to his right, putting himself between you and Lloyd. He thrusts the butt of the gun at Lloyd’s gut, but Lloyd grabs hold of it. Six immediately ejects the magazine faster than he’d ever made the move before. He releases his hold on the weapon, knowing it won’t make a difference. Lloyd gives him an eyebrow raise before tossing the gun down the ladder.

Your chair scrapes with every inch, but your desperation gets the knife into your right hand right as you hear the gun fall. You saw at the ropes around your body, then once free of that, you cut the flimsy material around your ankles. Unfortunately, you are still handcuffed to the chair’s armrest. Keeping the knife in hand, you lift the old chair and slam it against the floor, once, twice. Thinking better of that, you sit down and jam both heels on the underside of the armrest, hoping to force the slim piece from its spindles. That worked. Unfortunately, you are still handcuffed.

Six waits for Lloyd to swing first, and when he does, Six puts every play he’s ever learned into action. He swings haymaker after uppercut at Lloyd, most of them connecting viciously. Lloyd gets in several licks, but each time Six shakes it off with a growl. Hoping to shorten this dance, you hold up the knife, hoping it’s Six and not Lloyd who sees what you have to offer. They both notice.

As Lloyd starts to run at you, Six leaps forward, grabbing him around the throat by his forearm. He uses the momentum to slam Lloyd down to his knees. Lloyd twists and claws at him, but Six is stronger. To Lloyd’s endless consternation, Six has always been stronger. You gawk on in horror. You’d seen Six kill a man before, but this was different. This was personal, angry, justified. Six is silent as his arms strain, pressing every bit of strength he has into Lloyd’s windpipe. Lloyd is gagging, gurgling. It was terrible.

“Go!” Six commands through gritted teeth, and though he wasn’t looking at you, you obey. You didn’t want to see this.

You flee down the ladder, knife still in hand. Subconsciously, you take in your surroundings: a vacant, crumbling mansion. The white hallway was cracked, and moldy. No furniture could be seen. You could still hear Lloyd’s death throes above you, so you stumble along the hallway, desperate to end the nightmare.

Your right leg, so damaged, gives out and you hit the floor. You see stair railings a few feet away, but you can also see the attic entrance from where you fell, and you weren’t going anywhere without Six. So you drag yourself up against the wall and try to slow your labored breathing as you wait.

A few minutes later, a man dressed in black climbs down. Your heart pounds at the sight of the blonde hair. You stand, wobbling, and drop the knife. As he reaches you, he wraps an arm around you. His hand presses your head to his chest.

“Let me see your hands.”

You hold up your cuffs. He unlocks them with a small key you can only assume he got from one of the bodies upstairs. He nudges you forward, and you start down the hallway, then down the stairs. When you get to the bottom of the wooden steps, you see why the other man never came running. He lay bloody on the floor of the foyer. Six had killed him first.

“Didn’t know where you were in this big old house, so I made my entrance known. Lloyd would take me wherever you were. Amateur.”

Stepping around the body and out the front door, you hysterically giggle at the stolen car Six had parked normally. “You literally walked in the front door?”

“Yeah.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

IIIIII

Lloyd had taken you over the Latvian border by several hours, so while you were in the right country, you were still a couple of hours away from Six’s cache. As he drives, you curl up on the back seat, trying to relieve your sore muscles and your stinging leg.

It’s nearly midnight by the time Six pulls to the curb a block from his newest safe house. The streets were bustling with people enjoying their evening, and it wasn’t difficult to blend in. In the darkness, no one could make out your bloody leg, his bloody face.

Six breaks the padlock off the abandoned-looking building’s side entrance, then steps inside, ensuring it was uninhabited. There’d been no actual threats to your life besides Lloyd Hansen, your company hiring Six as a precaution over rumors, but Six was never going to take a chance again when it came to you.

He ushers you through the door, then tucks you into his side as he opens another door. It’s pitch black, and you cling to his jacket. You hear the door shut behind you, then you hear the sound of his hand sliding along the wall trying to find the light switch.

He succeeds and the room is illuminated in warm, artificial light. It’s another ground-floor apartment, and it’s similar to the previous minus Six’s favorite wingback chair. He takes your hand and guides you into the bathroom where you see the biggest difference yet. The bathroom is clean, spacious, and it has both a bathtub and a shower.

“Capital cities have the best safe houses. More people to maintain them,” he replies to the question in your mind. “Strip.”

Your head jerks up to look at him. He unzips his track jacket but leaves his pants. You pull the hem of your shirt over your head and drop the bloodstained fabric to the floor. Six crouches in front of you and unbuttons your shorts.

“I’m a professional,” he whispers, trying to lighten your wordless mood as he covers your new knife wound with his hand and pulls your shorts down.

He takes your hand to balance you as you step out of the bottoms. As he touches you, he looks for a sign of disgust, fear, something that will break his heart but make sense after what you’d been through.

He grabs a washcloth from the counter and wets it. He crouches in front of you again and begins softly cleaning the blood from your thigh, leaving a wide gap around the actual wound.

You’re a little unsteady after the lack of nutrition and the stress your body has undergone the past day, but you steel yourself for a moment: you focus on not freaking out, not crying just yet in order to take stock. You watched him kill someone. How do I feel about that?

In your heart, you know that it doesn’t change anything you feel about him. Six killed bad men - always had, always would - and you’d known that when you met him. Your torso shakes, nearly hyperventilating. No, the worst is that you could’ve died, you could’ve watched him die. You collapse onto his shoulders, your arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry.” He says, the timbre of his voice letting you know that he means it for all that has occurred. For what Lloyd did to you physically and probably emotionally. For not telling you the truth, but mostly for putting you in the situation in the first place.

Too emotionally distraught to check the words thoroughly, you try to relieve his guilt: “’s not your fault someone loves you, Six.”

Still not noticing your own words, you bury your face in his shoulder, and your tears fall freely. The noise he makes under his breath sounds affectionately amazed.

He stands, picking you up, and your legs wrap around him automatically. Your cuts are nearer the outside of your leg, but it still sends a jolt of pain down your limb when you use it to latch onto him. He sets your bottom on the countertop. One hand rubs your back while the other nestles into your hair.

He knows you’re in shock, and he knows you didn’t mean to tell him you loved him like that. It’s good to hear, and he can’t help the sunrise in his heart, but his primary concern is consoling you. Or distracting you, if possible. Early in his career, he had learned that the best way to move forward was to stop overthinking. Distractions worked well for that.

“Shower or bath?” He asks.

He doesn’t have an ulterior motive, and you’re more than welcome to answer with neither. But in his mind, if it comes to it, he could try to make you forget today for a little while. You sniffle as you pick your head up off his shoulder to see his face.

He’s looking at you like you just saved him, and it’s somehow exactly what you needed.

“Shower.”

You’d love nothing more than to be warm, bloodstain-free, and staring at Six naked. Without another word, he drops his pants and unclasps your bra. You push your underwear off. You latch around him again, and he carries you into the shower. You drop your legs and stand while he adjusts the temperature. The shower’s wide enough that you don’t feel the water at all as it warms up.

As the water begins to steam, Six looks over at you and holds his hand out, palm up. A smile touches your lips and he answers with his own as he pulls you to him underneath the showerhead. His hair soaks instantly. He rotates so your hair can rinse free of all the shit it had gone through in the last week.

Six takes a clean, soapy washcloth and stoops to finish cleaning your leg. He tries to ignore the shape that those cuts are in, but it’s still torturing him. He’d tried to forget it the moment after the words had left Lloyd’s mouth, but now he was face-to-face with the physical consequences of his feelings for you. He straightens up and lets the water get the rest of the blood.

You watch as his expression twists, and he won’t meet your eyes.

“They’re shallow. They’ll heal.”

“Yeah, right into my fucking name.” He begins washing himself as a means to avoid your face.

“It’s not your name." You cup your hand to his cheek. "Hey, ‘Six’ is not your name. Those marks will heal, and even if I’m still able to see the number, it doesn’t bother me.” Your voice rises with each word. You’re trying to tell him that it’ll be an incidental scar, and even if it mattered, it’s the pseudonym of the man who rescued you.

His stormy eyes meet yours finally, skepticism clouding them. “It doesn’t matter to you that you were tortured and permanently scarred," his voice acerbic, "because of me?”

“It does matter, but it wasn’t because of you, Six. It was because that guy was insane. He was unstable. He hated you and I was useful.” You're pleading with him to hear you. Your hand slides up from his cheek into his drenched hair.

You decide to gamble a joke, “Always wanted a man’s name tattooed on me, anyway.”

Your eyes shine up at him fervently, hoping the joke corroborates your apathy over the wound. Because that really didn’t matter to you. The physical scars were nothing - they would heal without issue. If anything, you worried about being separated from Six. How would you ever feel safe without him again?

Your gamble works. He snorts and leans his forehead to yours. Stray water droplets collect in his facial hair.

“But you’re right, that’s not my name,” he murmurs, then carefully presses his lips to yours. He’s gentle, but pain issues forth from your split skin, anyway. You flinch slightly, and Six murmurs, "Sorry."

Angry at the reminder, you decide you’re not letting Lloyd take any more seconds of your life, so you deepen the kiss. Your lips part to allow him in, and at the first touch of his tongue, a spark of tension flares.

He hums deep in his chest at your enthusiasm, your reassurance. Six’s right hand curves around the back of your upper thigh, underneath your ass, and he half-lifts/half-pushes you into the icy wall of the shower. You hiss in surprise, but his warm body follows with a grunt a split-second later, and you’re no longer thinking of anything but him.

Your hand drops to stroke his velvet length against your thigh, and Six’s groaning mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw and drops to the hollow he knows you love. His hands caress your curves, one hand traveling to grasp your breast as the other hand slides between your legs.

You gasp as the friction of his rough palm, then his fingers, send a jolt right to that coil in your stomach. He squeezes your breast gently, and his thumb rolls over your nipple as Six drops to his knees.

“You don’t have to -” you start, but change your mind instantly as you appreciate Six below you: his hair drips into his profoundly blue eyes; water runs down his well-defined body, and his thighs flex as he shifts closer to you and sits back on his heels. His large hands wrap around your hips. You feel your breath hitch as he angles forward and his breath touches your tender skin a moment before his heated mouth. His tongue flattens against you before flicking at the perfect pace; he alternates between the two patterns. The heat floods through you in a deluge - your eyes slam shut, your head rolls back, and when your stomach constricts, your legs go weak.

He makes a pleased guttural sound that vibrates into your skin, and he plants one firm arm upward along the inside of your hip, his hand on your ribs, to keep you upright. His other hand on your hip welds you firmly to him. Your cries of pleasure echo in the space, and he feels himself growing painfully hard.

Your body having been stretched to its limits in so many ways means the euphoria you feel now has you coming easily. Six feels the tension in you splinter, feels the shuddering in your legs. The pride it gives him is unmatched as he holds you still. You moan into the steamy air, and he knows could do this forever.

He continues at the same pace, but in a moment of lucidity, you miss him against you. You pull at his shoulder, and he obliges, standing. His right hand grasps the underside of your knee, palm on the outside of your leg, and he fits himself right against you. You can feel him twitch with expectation. An aftershock of your first orgasm ripples through you, and has you clenching around nothing. You shiver, already anticipating how good he will feel.

“Please, Si-” you beg him, unnecessarily.

He makes a sudden decision, cutting you off, “It’s Court.”

Your eyes fly up to his. But before you have a chance to speak, he steadily shifts up into you. His quiet groan is punctuated by your gasps. His eyes close involuntarily at your tight warmth. Your nails dig into his biceps where you’d braced yourself. The stretch hurts a little this time, but you're too satisfied with the closeness to care. Relishing the unique intimacy of being inside you, he skims one hand down your side before he drags himself unhurriedly out, and thrusts back in.

He begins to slowly increase his rhythm, and with each incredible entrance, you both let the sounds spill out from your mouths uninhibited. Before long he is driving into you so unrelentingly that all you can do is hang onto him. He never neglects your lips for a second, his deep, messy kiss the only thing keeping you sane. You feel white-hot; it’s nearly painful, but it’s so good.

Tears leak down your face. His left hand cups your cheek, thumb swiping away the salty liquid. He can see you’re about to snap once again by the way your face pinches, then begins to unwind underneath his hand. He drops his hand to work you over further. He never knew life could be so sweet. Reserved, isolated his entire adult life, he knows that he’s never going to be happy if he’s not coming home to this.

“Don’t say Six,” he begs. It’s never mattered to him before. He was the same person no matter what anyone referred to him as. But he wanted you to know, to have the purest version of himself. The version no one else had.

He looks down into your eyes as he asks, and when the understanding hits you, it’s the final nail in your coffin. A sob echoes in the small room as your walls constrict around him, fluttering. He revels in the image of you falling apart against him.

He kisses you again, then lets his lips hang open over yours as you both breathe heavily from the wicked roll of his hips. He’s blurry through your tears, and you blink a little to better understand what you just saw flashing in his eyes. What you’d seen there two days earlier, too. He loves you, your mind supplies unasked.

Court’s rhythm changes to deep, passionate thrusts as he tries to bury himself in you. His desperate grunts send aftershocks throughout your thighs. He’d never stop if his body would allow it. He gradually slows his movements, still working you through your own high. He finishes with a low, animalistic noise and closes the small gap between your mouths. Neither of you move, panting.

You look up at him through your lashes, your eyes full of tears at the emotion between you two. He kisses you, hard - full of everything he'd wanted to say for months. After several moments, he lets go of your leg, and removes himself from you.

Unwilling to stop touching you, though, he takes you by the hand as he exits the shower. You twist the knob to shut it off as you walk by.

He wraps an old, gray towel around his waist, and hands one to you. You squish your hair, then wrap it around your chest. He’s quiet, uncomfortable for some reason, so you take his hand again, and back him up against the counter. He barks a reluctant, low laugh at you pretending to be able to keep him pinned. He rests his hands on your waist.

“Why are you sad?” You ask bluntly.

“I’m not the one who was just crying,” he deflects with a quip.

You raise your eyebrows and frown at him.

Remembering that he wanted you to know him, he cautiously answers in a halting undertone, “I would like a calm life.” He stops, thinking. “Maybe with you...”

It's almost a question, and he doesn’t say what he means exactly, but you understand. You're his chance at a normal life. A happy life.

“Maybe not a calm life, no, but you could have me.” You phrase it as a potential, though it’s not one. He’s had you wrapped around his finger for months. You'd do anything if your reward was this man.

His face doesn’t change, so you try again, “You already have me; so, it’d be nice if you’d accept it.”

“Oh, I don’t even get a choice, now?” He smirks faintly, his thumbs rubbing along your hips through the thin towel.

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel happy without you,” you confess your earlier thought. Your hand traces over the tattoo on his chest. “I know I wouldn't feel safe."

He sighs heavily. “I can’t say nothing will ever happen,” he says honestly, “but I can promise I'll be there." He pauses, trying to figure out how to express himself. "If you want me, then-"

“I always want you, Court.”

You cut him off, speaking his name for the first time. When when he smiles, it finally touches his eyes. His grip tightens on your waist. He's contemplative for a moment as his look turns mischievous.

He lowers his voice, “About that book you tried to kill me with: I think I remember a page or two -” he breaks off as he bends faster than you’re capable of reacting to, and throws you expertly over his shoulder, smiling at your laughing shriek.

#sierra six #the gray man #the gray man fanfic #court gentry #courtland gentry #my fics #smut #fluff #ryan gosling #lloyd hansen #chris evans #sierra six x reader #court gentry x reader #the gray man fanfiction #personal #I have a deformed finger and my dad makes that manicure joke all the time fyi #the gray man 2022 #sierra six x you

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soupfiction · 2 years

Text

Late (NSFW)

Pairing: Sierra Six x Female!Reader

Warnings: Minor description of injury, mention of blood, and unprotected sex (don’t do this!). No other sex-related warnings I don’t think but let me know if there are any!

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: For the first time, Six is late. But not without a good reason.

A/N: Tried a bit of a different writing style. Feedback is appreciated!

Six should be home by now.

Time schedules were either completely null or explicitly stated in his particular job field. A plane here, a week to drive a knife between some poor guys ribs there, then done. Money wired into his bank account before he even landed back in the states. Before he could even waltz through the threshold of your shared apartment. Other times, a kill was written down to the second he was meant to execute it. Chattering com in his ear and finger hovering over whatever long range gun they supplied him with.

The latter was your favorite. At least then he could whisper when he’d be back between kisses, hands cupping your cheeks and assuring you that you could both have dinner together because he’d be back before that time. The assurance was nice. It offered a timetable in which your worries could be left off the table, mind confident that everything is alright because he’ll be back soon, and if he wasn’t, then you’d worry. But he was always back.

Until now.

The cool air of the apartment is dead silent. Suffocating. It consumes and warps, amplifying the sound of the ice machine whirring on, making the beginning of it almost sound like a door opening. You stare ahead, wooden door shut firmly but unlocked. Ready for his hand to wrap around the biting cold metal of the doorknob and to walk in, throwing down his black backpack and giving you that sweet smile in greeting. A softness only for you—something you have been without for over two weeks now.

A heavy feeling settles in your gut as the clock by the door ticks on, slow and fast all at the same time. He’s late by almost two hours now. No call, no text, and still no Six. Your phone sits on the kitchen table, screen dark and quiet. Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, you think it lights up despite the lack of noise that usually accompanies a notification. Muteness prevails, yet you turn your head towards the electronic anyways, tapping the screen to see your home wallpaper staring back at you and nothing else.

Your eyes sting, water rising to combat it and to get you to blink and shut your eyes for just a moment. Footsteps sound outside in the hallway, your back goes straight, muscles tensed and ready to shoot up from your chair and to the door. It passes, just like it has the other few times. Neighbors, likely coming home from a night out, stomping on the short carpet and to their own sections of the apartment. You blink, gaze blurry.

It’s past three in the morning now. The ticking hand of the clock has came and went over the number, not hovering over it like your stare did. Tck-tck-tck. It’s constant. You feel the tears coming.

Then, heavy-set footfalls rise above the ever present sound of the moving hour hands. Distant, but they itch at something that sits in your brain. Familiarity settles in, washing away any ounce of worry and replacing it with air in your chest, making you feel like you’re about to burst with each thud.

The doorknob rattles. You stand so abruptly that the chair scrapes against the wooden floor.

Blood. Lots of it. It’s smeared across his face, right cheek more red than flesh. A path of dried blood falls from his nostril and onto a puffy upper lip, discoloring already spreading enough that you can see it from feet away. Then you’re in his arms, ignoring the patches of darkness on his tan tactical shirt.

He groans as you wrap your arms around him, causing you to relent the small amount of pressure you had given and settle for practically hovering your arms around his waist. Warmness surrounds you, curling with the scent of musk and dirt. Only one strap of his black backpack hangs off his broad shoulder, the attempt to remove it forgotten by your sudden advancement.

“Hey,” Six whispers into your hair, voice catching in the middle like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Arms wrap around your body, pulling you further into him even though he winces at the small movement.

A lump settles in your throat. You swallow it down and murmur, “I missed you.” Worries amiss now that he’s back. Present and in your arms. Wherever he had been and whatever happened didn’t matter now because Six was home. Covered in blood, surely, but alive, nonetheless.

A barely audible chuckle that you feel against your cheek. It hitches into cough momentarily, and you attempt to pull back. His grip tightens. “Sorry for being late.” Is all he offers for the blood and evident pain, not even letting you attempt to ask until he’s good and ready to part with you, face smushing against his chest to prevent any further movement of your mouth. You can smell the metallic tang of gore on him.

A minute passes, documented by the ticking sound emitting from the clock. His hold on you ceases. All there one moment and gone the next. Now he’s looking down at you with hooded blue eyes, lashes brushing atop his dirty cheeks. “Go ahead,” he says, giving permission for the questions he knows you have.

Okay, most urgent inquiry first. “What happened?”

The muscles of his jaw clicks, poking out as he grits his teeth, eyes going all dazed and far away for just a split second before he’s back. “Got complicated.” It’s not exactly spat out, but tense. Like those two words alone bring him back to whatever had gotten the blood on him. You’ll press for more later.

You eye the dark bags lingering just below his own. “When’s the last time you slept?”

That, for some reason, is more nerve inducing than the initial question. He takes a moment, fully taking off the backpack and plopping it by the door. The loud thud tells you that there’s something heavy in there. “What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“About two days? Give or take.”

Your teeth clench against each other, the only physical sign of your rising emotions. Anger, worry, all for him, directed at wherever the CSS had sent him, and whoever had the unlucky chance of meeting someone as dangerous as the man standing before you. “God, Court,” you start, using his real name. It feels worthy now, like that one word could encompass all that you feel for him. Not the one assigned to him by Fitz, but the one only a handful of people know. “Let’s get—Let me start a shower so that you can,” you look him up and down, taking in the tan tactical shirt and a shade darker tactical pants, “Get all that off of you.”

He hums a low sound, going to wrap his arms around you again, chin bumping against the top of your head. “Thanks.” The word is soft, tender. Tired, you’d say now that you’re aware of how little sleep he has gotten. You both stay like that until you let go first. He lets you, shoulders drooping now that he’s inside the apartment.

The water is warm under your fingers. A pine green towel hangs over the rod that holds up the cloudy yet almost transparent shower curtain. Six lingers behind you, watching.

“Okay, this should help,” you assure, for both of you. Once he’s all clean and calm you can relax. Smother him in the love that he’s been missing while he was away.

Dried blood is better than wet. It doesn’t make the fabric stick to his skin as he peels it off, discarding it in the hamper for a later washing or two. He’s slow taking them off, and you help with his shirt. It’s damp beneath your fingers from sweat.

Soon, his tan skin is exposed to the bright light of the bathroom. You try to suppress it, but a gasp escapes.

Red welts cover the left side of his ribs, similar to the one on his upper lip. They circle around like your stretching fingers. Your hand tentatively brushes against the bruises. “What happened?” You ask again. Can’t help it when this is so fresh, so used to the healed over scars that mar his skin and not this.

A sigh. He stops in his journey to pull down his boxers, letting them grip below his V-line. Warm fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling your hand up to his mouth. Saliva wet lips meet your knuckles. “Told you. Got complicated,” greyish-blue eyes gaze into your own, taking in the worry before he continues, “I’m here now. We’re okay.”

Now that he’s here in front of you, you agree.

You know he won’t tell you anything more until he’s ready. No use in trying to ask again. Six will bring it up when he feels it’s time. So, you let him remove the rest of his clothing in silence.

Steam has begun to hover in the air. It slips out the open door, and you go to follow it. A gentle grip on your upper arm stops you completely. He turns you back around to face his now naked form, not embarrassed about it in the slightest. You have seen him in this exact state, minus the wounds, many times before. Still, a hot flush creeps up your neck and you blame it on the rising temperature due to the hot water pouring from the shower head.

“Stay with me?” He asks. You do, nodding and going to sit on the closed toilet lid before he shakes his head. “No,” an incline of his head in the direction of the running shower, “There.”

Oh. Okay, you can do that. Six steps into the tub as you strip off your pajamas, much quicker than he did his own clothing. He steps back from the water to allow you in front of him. You close the shower curtain behind you.

Warm air curls around your naked body, then so do his arms.

Two weeks seem to have taken their toll on Six, both physically and emotionally. He buries his head into your neck, breathing in deeply. You can feel the rise of his chest, then its downfall. Skin on skin with no barrier. Neither of you seem to care about the dirt or blood caked on his body. The contact feels too good to forgo so soon, and you relax into his hold. Let him breathe you in until his muscles loosen up.

His own bar of soap is generic. Picked up without too much attention to detail. It’s larger than yours, less used with how often he comes and goes. You pick it up and let the water run over it, suds forming, before twisting around.

Reluctant to move, he barely lifts his head out from your neck. It hovers just an inch above where it was previously, hanging down so that he’s close to your face, eyes closed yet a small smile gracing his lips. He doesn’t budge from his position as you begin to brush the bar across his skin. Doesn’t even open his eyes. If he wasn’t smiling, you might think he had fallen asleep.

Your chests press together as you go to swipe the soap over his back. Six makes it akin to a hug when he once again gathers you in his arms and tugs you into him. Calloused fingers brush over your spine, following the bones up and down. Another time you might’ve laughed at him practically petting you.

Goosebumps erupt all over your body, water spraying on your backside. Bubbles cover everywhere but his lower half. You’re reluctant to bend down, to move from how he’s got you. Eventually, he does it for you, kissing the top of your head before grabbing the soap and finishing the job.

Then he brings it to your own body, heavy scent clinging to your flesh with each swipe.

He moves slowly. Holding the bar in his big hand and rubbing it over your neck, shoulders, breasts. Pace lessening there, a quick kiss to the shell of your ear before he goes below them and to your stomach. Warm breath fans across your shoulder because he’s leaned down, peering over to see the front of your body. He doesn’t shy away from your hips or lower regions, movements almost measured. Only when it’s time for your legs do you take the soap and let him move in front of you to wash the foam from his own body.

As soon as only water lingers on his skin, he’s back on you, gently grabbing your hips to move you in front of the spray. Wide palms and long fingers splay over wherever he can touch, using his own hands in place of a washcloth. Helping the froth to disappear.

The faucet squeaks as you shut it off, bending over enough that your backside is momentarily shoved against his front. His fingers press into your hips, lips running over the fresh smelling skin of your shoulders. Teeth lightly graze against it, causing a shudder to wrack through your body. You attempt to stand up straight again, but Six just grips you harder, keeping you right there.

“Six?” You inquire, voice higher than normal, suppressing a whine at the feeling.

A breathless reply of, “Yeah?” Before he’s sliding his hands up and over your stomach, feeling the soft flesh there before rising higher. The way he palms at your left breast so suddenly has that same sound releasing from your throat. He hums in content, other hand smoothing down your side. Still so warm even without the steaming water.

Unable and not wanting to move, you remain there. Letting him grope at the tender parts of your body and growing hotter by the second. Something pokes at your ass cheek, and you whisper, “Court?”

That does it. He uses his hold on you to twist you around so that you’re facing him, lips findings yours.

The kiss is strong and desperate, pressing into you like he’s trying to get as close as he can. When he nips at your lower lip, you open up without hesitation. His tongue delves past your teeth to lick at the inside of your mouth, exploring everywhere as if it’s the first time. A deep moan falls into your open jaw, low and entirely desperate.

Once your lips are puffy and nearly numb, he pulls back to admire his handy work. Takes in your fucked out expression before going back in for another taste, hands grabbing at your backside. Palms full of your flesh, squeezing until you whimper into his mouth.

It’s only when you begin to squeeze your thighs together to relieve the pressure does he push you into the shower wall, back against the already cold tile. It pulls a gasp from you, and he swallows it down as it arises. Uses it to shove his tongue even deeper as he moves a leg between your thighs.

The muscles press against your folds suddenly. Six taking advantage of his hold on you to move you down onto the upper part of his limb before you even realize what’s happening. He takes in the moan that follows, sharp grip keeping you stationary as you wiggle at the sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, a string of saliva keeping you connected. The discoloration on his upper lip looks painful, and it’s now that you remember the forming bruise. You go to comment on it. To ask if he’s okay, but he cuts you off with a hand over your parted lips. It’s gentle, yet still gets his point across.

“Not right now,” he breathes, pupils blown. “Talk about it later.”

Got it. No complaints from you, especially when he moves you over his thigh, grinding that sensitive part of you against him.

Your knee touches his growing cock with each movement forward. Just a brush, but it has him jolting. Bending forwards just a fraction, he goes against your mouth again. A quick kiss there, then to your neck. Nipping until the skin goes red, just to soothe the sting away with his tongue. He repeats this until the beginning of bruises appear. Different from the ones that cover him. Born of love rather than hate.

It’s not long until the heat pooling in your stomach turns to tightness. Muscles growing taut in preparation for the rising orgasm that approaches rapidly. He moves in front of your face, noses nearly touching. You whine when he doesn’t move to kiss you, taking the initiative and going forward only for him to pull back. A short, breathless chuckle and eyes glued to yours before he goes next to your ear. “Go on, baby.”

You do as he says. Eyes screwing shut and hole fluttering. All the while he’s growling praises, letting you spasm and holding you upright. You’re glad he’s got you, otherwise you might’ve fallen from how intense the pleasure goes through you. Legs turn to jelly, and you’re barely coming down from it before he’s spinning you around and pressing your chest against the tiles.

He groans your name, word fanning across the damp skin of your back. Hard hips grind into your ass. “Fuck, tell me if you want me to stop. Please.”

When you remain silent, his head drops forwards where your shoulder meets your neck. His hair tickles against your skin. “Want to know why I’m covered in bruises?” Six suddenly asks, like he just lost an internal battle you hadn’t known he’d been having. Your mouth opens to ask him why. To ask why he’s bringing it up right now of all times. He guides his length until the hot head sits against your opening, and the words are lost. Can’t even remember what he said when he shoves up into you, using the wetness brought forth by your orgasm to enter faster than he would otherwise.

It's not until he bottoms out that he continues, mouth right next to your face. “Some idiot in Peru. Fleeing the CIA. Saw some—some bad shit, wanted me to take him out.” He pauses in his explanation to drag himself out of you, only to slam back in. You cry out, half muffled by how your face is pressed against the shower wall. “Easy and quick. Fitz got some mercenaries to fly me out when—original crew got more important plans.” Six scoffs at that, then bites your shoulder before grinding himself further into you.

You can feel yourself leaking down your thighs. Barely able to stay upright with the onslaught that he’s giving you. “Turns out they knew who I was. Fucking jumped on the chance to try and—and get me. Didn’t though,” the words turn into a growl at the end as he lowers until only his head is still inside of you. “One guy blabbered some shit before I,” hips meet your ass again, harder this time. He continues this as he speaks, words only audible over the sound of skin meeting skin because of how close he is to your ear. “Put a—a bullet in him.”

A high pitched, garbled moan that could barely pass for words comes from you. It sounds something along the lines of, “What did he say?”

His cock presses against that spongy part of your insides, reaping something akin to a sob. Adjusting his position, he begins to slowly hit into it again and again. “Said a lot of bullshit,” Six growls, pulling you away from the wall enough to slip a hand between your thighs. “Lot of nothing.” Three fingers find your clit with ease, rubbing leisurely yet constant circles around it. “Knew something, though. Knew enough to guarantee his death.”

Six lets out a groan, high enough in his throat that it’s animalistic and rough. Fingers move faster over your sensitive bud, mirroring the quickening pace of his hips. “Thought they had me,” he says, more to himself than you. “So they—they talked. Too much. Mentioned—Mentioned you.”

In your dazed state, the words take a moment to register. When they do, your eyes widen.

Being Sierra, all of his information has been wiped. Any mention of his past gone. No name to connect a past to. A clean slate that he always intended to keep that way, lest an enemy of Fitz or him find it. By knowing of your existence well enough to know your name—it meant leverage. But it also meant that you were in danger, which is why they were all dead and Six was here, taking you against the shower wall.

You go to say something, but he just rams himself into you. The fingers of his other hand go from gripping your waist to your face, slipping past your swollen lips and into your wet mouth. He effectively cuts off any further comment by laying them over your tongue. Instead of trying to speak, you close your lips over his fingers and lick the skin, the taste of soap filling your mouth.

He brings you to another orgasm, letting you grip his cock with how your muscles tighten and release with it. Doesn’t stop in his pace even when you tremble, moaning around his fingers. Just when you’re about to burst from the overstimulation, his hips stutter against your ass, going as deep as he possibly can before releasing thick ropes of cum inside of you.

The rest of the night you’re inseparable.

You turn the shower on again, washing away the sweat and bodily fluids. Six stays with you, helping you to stand when your muscles want to give out. Urging you to use his soap again to clean everything off of both you and him.

The clock by the door reads four as you pass, but its ticking simply falls into the background with how warm hands remain touching you over the towel. It’s only when you’re laying in bed, as naked as you were in the shower, tightly wrapped in his hold, that you really think about your earlier worries and how he had answered.

He was late not only because of the traitoring mercenaries but also because they had said one of the only things that would warrant complete and utter brutality: your name.

That fact could mean others know of his relationship with you. Could use it against him in the future. Maybe that should worry you more, but in his arms, you’re sure he’ll always be back to you. No matter what others do.

#sierra six #court gentry #sierra six x reader #sierra six x you #court gentry x reader #the gray man #the gray man movie #the gray man netflix #the gray man fanfiction #sierra six fanfiction #sierra six smut #court gentry fanfiction #court gentry smut

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classickook · 2 years

Text

just another thursday | sierra six

pairing: courtland gentry (sierra six) x fem!reader

summary: in which lloyd hansen has taken you, six’s girlfriend, instead of claire and you get injured in the process.

warnings: swearing, mentions of a gunshot wound and blood, hurt/comfort

word count: 1.3k

a/n: i wrote this instead of working on my 20 other wips but what’s new?

you didn’t think your day would lead to you bleeding out in a random maze slash courtyard of a foreign country, yet here you are with your special cia-assassin-or-whatever-the-hell-he-is boyfriend kneeling in front of you.

“look at me, baby. keep your eyes on me, all right?”

you nod weakly, putting far too much effort into the simple action in addition to keeping your eyes open long enough to focus on the face in front of you, feeling deflated and dizzy as if your mind had been separated from your body.

“bad news is there’s no exit wound so the bullet is still lodged in your arm.”

you swallow sharply, finding it difficult to breathe past the pain and the horrible news that six just dropped on you. it feels like sandpaper coats your tongue and the roof of your mouth. god, wasn’t there any water around here? you try swallowing again and just barely make a successful attempt without choking.

“didn’t hit the brachial artery,” six mutters quietly. “that’s good, at least.”

“you a doctor now?” you wheeze.

“i’ve been at this a bit longer than you have, sweetheart,” he chuckles, glad to see that your humor is still intact despite the oozing gunshot wound in your upper arm. “comes with the territory.”

“yeah, well, your territory sucks.” you let out a sharp hiss and squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers apply more pressure to your wound. “fuck.”

his steely blue eyes flicker up to yours in a look that can only be described as pure agony at the expense of your pain. “i’m sorry. just a bit longer, okay?”

“sure,” you rasp.

his gaze lingers on you for another fleeting moment as if gauging your reaction for any change before continuing. six silently tears a strip of fabric from the bottom of his black fitted t-shirt, biceps flexing with the movement and you use that as a distraction from the pain.

“this is going to hurt the worst,” he warns, but then quickly slips his hand into the pocket of his jeans before handing something small to you that flashes silver in the low light. “take this.”

the fingers of your good arm pluck the tinfoil-wrapped rectangle and flick it open. “gum?” you ask, arching a brow in disbelief, “really?”

his lips twitch a bit. “you’re better off chewing on that than grinding your teeth down.”

“jeez, it’s gonna be that bad, huh?”

he shrugs his broad shoulders and says, “better safe than sorry.”

“great.” you pop the gum into your mouth and urge your jaw into motion as artificial watermelon coats your tongue. typical. “should’ve known it would be watermelon.”

“it’s the best,” he replies easily as if there truly is no other flavor of gum to compare it to. what a dork, you think affectionately.

you inhale sharply, blood and musk and petrichor overwhelming your senses as you prepare yourself for what would no doubt be the most excruciating pain you have ever experienced. “i guess i’m ready.”

he nods once, still surveying your features for any signs of panic, but you try to keep yourself calm, neutral, as if tricking your mind into believing this is no big deal; just another thursday, as six always says.

“i have to get the bullet out, okay?” the tilt of your chin is the only response he gets. “then i’ll put more pressure on it and wrap it until we can get you to a hospital.”

a faint whimper crawls up your throat at the thought of it all and six attempts to school his features at the sound of your distress, but you still notice the slight tick in his jaw beneath the scruff of his goatee. “okay,” you say quietly, trying to put on your brave face for him. he’s been through far worse than this, you scold yourself. don’t be such a baby.

“you’re not being a baby.”

shit. you didn’t realize your last thought had been voiced aloud. maybe the pain and shock are really getting to you now; you can’t even control your thoughts or tongue anymore.

“it’s okay to be scared,” he continues. “in fact, you should be scared. no part of this is normal—not for you. i was supposed to protect you from him, from all of this. i failed you.”

you shake your head slowly, feeling woozy and weak as the adrenaline bleeds from your body. “it’s not your fault. you saved me in the end… just in time.” you offer him a weak smile but you know he doesn’t believe it, that he’s choking on his guilt and letting it soak into his every pore as you sit wounded in front of him. “just get this awful thing out of me so we can go home, yeah?”

without another word, you feel prodding fingers burrowing into your flesh and you clamp down hard on your teeth, stupid watermelon gum be damned. “fuck,” you groan as tears prick your vision until six’s face is nothing but an unrecognizable blur.

you bite your lip, your tongue, your cheek—anything to reorient the pain onto something else, and the taste of copper floods your mouth.

another whimper bubbles past your lips and you squeeze the fingers of your good arm onto six’s thigh, nails pinching into the fabric of his jeans until you can almost feel the warm skin beneath.

“that’s it, you’re okay. almost done,” six coaxes gently as his fingers pull back, now coated in blood and encasing around the golden bullet that burrowed its way past flesh, blood, and muscle. “keep your eyes on me, baby. i just have to wrap it, okay? you’re doing so good, i’m so fucking proud of you.”

your eyes blink open and focus on his shoulder as pressure builds in your arm. six continues to talk you through it as he wraps the strip of fabric around your wound and tightens it snuggly until you can’t really feel anything but a constant pulsing sensation.

you blink blearily at him until his features sharpen into view, noticing the familiar steely blue eyes looking up at you that appear more electric than usual due to the smudges of dirt and blood on his face. even still, he looks beautiful.

he bows his head and chuckles lightly. “you’re delirious, sweetheart.”

damn. did you say that out loud too?

six rises from his crouched position in front of you and gently urges you into a stand, large hands holding you steady along your waist and lower back. “are you feeling okay…? dizzy, nauseous, is the pain worse—”

“six,” you croak. “i’ll be okay. just take me home, please?”

he releases a sigh of relief to see you speaking and standing well enough on your own given the blood loss. “yeah, baby. let’s get you out of here.” one arm stays firmly placed around your waist, however, as he leads you out of the maze and back out front to the car that’s waiting for the two of you.

six is so gentle with you, taking his steps slow and steady as he maneuvers you into the passenger seat, buckling you in carefully and shutting the door before rounding the vehicle until he’s behind the wheel. your forehead is pressed up against the cool glass of the window, allowing it to soothe your impending headache along with the sweat peppering your brow.

“six?”

his hands freeze on the steering wheel, quickly directing his attention to you, afraid that you’re in too much pain or that you might faint or—

“can we stop by mcdonald’s on the way back?”

he coughs. “mcdonald’s?”

you nod against the window and hum your assent. “i really want french fries.”

six stifles the laugh building in his chest before pulling out of the courtyard. “sure, sweetheart. i’ll get you some french fries.”

“with extra ketchup?”

“of course.”

#the gray man #the gray man fic #the gray man fanfic #the gray man fanfiction #sierra six #sierra six fic #sierra six fanfic #sierra six fanfiction #sierra six x y/n #sierra six x you #sierra six x reader #courtland gentry #courtland gentry fic #courtland gentry fanfic #courtland gentry fanfiction #courtland gentry x y/n #courtland gentry x you #courtland gentry x reader #ryan gosling

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bisexual-magnus-bane · 10 months

Text

Sierra Six x Reader *smut*

“Are we ready to begin?”

His voice, deep and strong, reverberated off the walls and echoed into my mind. My legs shook from my nerves, anxiety through the roof at this point. He was dressed in a simple black shirt with a relaxed fit grey suit jacket and grey dress pants. A downright daddy, perfect for the part I guess.

I softly nod my head yes. This is an awkward situation I’ve gotten myself into and now I don’t even know how the hell to get out of here. He raises his eyebrow at me like I’m supposed to guess what’s up. “Words, use your words.”

Fuck. Fuck. “Yes I’m ready to begin.” My voice is quiet and I’m scared you can hear the tremble in it. He doesn’t seem to pick up on it, which I’m thankful for. “Why don’t we start off with something simple, I would like you to sit on this pillow beside me. Then you’re going to pass me the remote for the TV okay.”

At first I am shook, what the hell! Am I a slave? I don’t know but I also sort of enjoy it. I slink over as sensually as I can and plop down on my knees. “Being a sub, means always thinking about what could benefit or make your dom happy.” He speaks these words to me calmly, like this is an everyday sort of conversation. I feel my face on fire as I hand him then remote, my ears burn and I’ve never been happier to not be able to see myself. Thinking back to his words I proportion myself so that when he looks down at me he’ll get a great view of my tits. He gently grabs my chin all of a sudden causing a short breathy moan to fall from my lips.

“Perfect. See you’re a natural, you just need a little help getting there.” He is pulling my head into his lap, I try my hardest not to get as close to his cock as I want to. This meeting isn’t supposed to have any sexual contact in it, however I find myself craving it. I want to make him feel as good as he wants, I want him to order me around. His dick is pressed against the fly of his dress pants, I will not touch it unless I’m told to though. A sudden groan drags me out of my daze, causing me to realize I’ve been heart-eyeing his crotch the whole time. “Mmm baby girl you’re staring at my cock like it’s candy. I know we’re not supposed to be doing sexual contact until a few more meeting but would you like to have your first fully controlled blowjob?”

My small gasp is all the confirmation he needs however he waits until words seal the deal. “Oh god, yes Sir I would love to!” Ugh I’m desperate, but I can’t help it. My hands shake with nerves and fear of fucking up as he sets my head in his lap and goes to work with his pants.

It’s beautiful, red and raw. Just waiting to be loved by someone other than his hand. He takes hold of my head by using my hair, I moan with need for him at this. He pulls me to his cock and his warmth fills my mouth, as quick as it went in it was gone. Closing my eyes I let myself fall into the feeling of being degraded. He was rubbing his cock around on my face, tapping my cheeks and forehead with his thickness. To make it even more disgustingly hot, his cock had a sheen of my drool on it, smearing my face. “Why don’t you take off your shirt and bra?” I sighed at the loss of contact but did as I was told. He tells me he loves my perky breasts as he shovelled his manhood back into my mouth. Praises fell from his lips as I ate him, he told me that I was a good sub, a good girl, we were going to have so much fun together. I didn’t even pay attention to my own wetness, just focused on sucking, licking and rubbing his dick all up. He let me get messy and I let him tell me to. I had spit dripping down my chin, saliva and pre cum smeared on my cheeks and here I was rubbing his dick in between and all over my tits. They were completely soaked and oiled up from my spit and pre cum. He called me his good dirty whore while I did this and I mewled. He ended finally by calling me daddy’s filthy little girl and came right on my tongue. I swallowed some and then let the rest drip down onto, what are now, daddy’s breasts. He grabbed me by the hair and had me rest my head face to face with his soft red cock and we watched TV. I honestly wasn’t paying attention, I was thinking about how hopefully next time my daddy would pound my little pussy and make it his.

#pinterest #pinterest aesthetics #fandom #fanfic #sierra six #courtland gentry #courtland gentry x reader #sierra six x reader #Sierra six x reader smut #sierra six smut #the gray man #chris evans #ryan gosling #courtland gentry x reader smut #sierra six x you #sierra six x y/n #smut #pure filth

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onceuponastory · 2 years

Text

save me - court gentry/sierra six x reader

Plot: When reader is kidnapped by Lloyd and his gang, Six comes to save her. Pairing: Sierra Six/Court Gentry (I use both names in this) x Female!Reader Warnings: 18+ Please! Mentions of death, kidnapping, violence, torture, graphic descriptions of blood and injury, weapons/guns, and shooting. Also Lloyd Hansen being a creepy POS. Notes: Look. I’ve always loved Ryan Gosling, even before I discovered Sebastian, and when I watched the Gray Man, I knew I had to write something for Six. If you have any requests for him please let me know!

Once again, not beta’d so any mistakes are my own.

Struggling against the zip ties binding her to the chair armrests, Y/N watches the men surrounding her, each with a large gun strapped to their belts. What felt like only less than an hour ago, she was walking home, her mind filled with boring things, like what she’s going to have for dinner or how her boyfriend is doing. And then, her life turned upside down, and she was snatched off the street. She fought back as hard as she could, but they still shoved her into the trunk of a car and drove away. And now she’s here, tied to a chair in what looks like some kind of fancy ass castle, with no sign of her boyfriend anywhere. Of course, despite how much he tries to hide it, she knows that danger comes with dating Court. After all, as a CIA assassin, he has a lot of enemies who want to do a lot of damage to them.

Deep down, she always knew a day like this would come. When his other life would bleed into their domestic life together, and put them both at risk. Yet, despite the no doubt countless risks to her life, Y/N started ignoring them after a while. Of course it was stupid to ignore them, and she knows that now, but Court always promised that he’d keep her safe, and after all the years they had with nothing actually happening…Y/N believed him, and stopped thinking she was in danger.

Y/N’s eyes move around the room, looking for a potential escape route if she somehow gets out of here. They didn’t tie her legs to the chair, so she might be able to make it out. But she doesn’t have much hope. No doubt the men with guns will stop her before she gets to the door. As she sits there, awaiting her death, Y/N’s thoughts drift to Court, and where he is. Of course, she hopes that he knows where she is, and that he’s on his way to save her. Most of all though, she hopes he’s safe. She knows that Court’s more than capable of handling villains by himself, but these guys seem to be the very definition of armed and dangerous. Even if she doesn’t make it out here alive, she hopes that Court does.

Suddenly, the door opens, interrupting her thoughts. Y/N watches as a man enters. Whoever he is, he’s swearing about something, and he looks furious. And he definitely has questionable tastes in facial hair. But then, he lays eyes on her and grins, instantly switching off his rage. “Ah, you must be Y/N.” He pulls up a chair, sitting across from her. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Lloyd.”

“What do you want with me?” Lloyd doesn’t answer her question, and instead continues to watch her, his blue eyes studying her intently. Her blood chills.

“You know, you are so beautiful. I can see what Six saw in you. Depending how things go, maybe we could grab some dinner after this.” He grins, causing her stomach to churn. When he gets no response, Lloyd huffs. “You do realise I’m giving you a compliment, right? You’re supposed to say thank you.”

“…Thanks.” She mumbles.

“Sorry, what was that? You’re going to have to be a lot louder than that, sweetheart.” When she repeats herself, he grins. “Good girl. Now that we’re acquainted with each other, the fun can really start. Where’s your boyfriend?”

“I don’t know.” Lloyd sighs, tutting slightly.

“Not good enough. Where is he?” Y/N repeats her answer again, swearing that she has no idea where her boyfriend is to Lloyd’s continued questions. With every repeated insistence, Y/N can see him getting angrier, but she doesn’t know what else he’s expecting from her. After all, she’s telling him the truth.

“What do you want with him, anyway?” She asks, watching Lloyd warily as he continues to stare at her, peering over at her like a shark watching its prey.

“He has something that belongs to me.” He leans in close, tracing a finger along her jawline. When she shudders, he smirks. “So I’ve taken something that belongs to him for a fair trade. Hopefully, for your sake, he gets here soon.”

“Get the fuck away from me.” Y/N hisses. She tries to kick him with her free leg, but Lloyd dodges it. Immediately, someone grabs her shoulder, harshly pulling her back into the chair.

“Oh, you’ve got some fire in you. I like that.” Lloyd smirks. “Just a shame it won’t do you any good.” Without another word, he raises his hand, striking her across the face hard. The sound reverberates across the room, as does Y/N’s cry of pain. Before she even has a chance to say something, another hit lands. Pain floods through her body, and Y/N bites her tongue hard to stop a cry from slipping out.

“Is that…the best you’ve got?” She asks, ignoring the blood running down her face. Lloyd laughs, an awful, cruel laugh that sends shivers down her spine. This man is a fucking maniac.

“Oh…no, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”

After some time, Lloyd finally relents on his attack on Y/N. Y/N winces, trying to move her body into a more comfortable position. The zip ties on her wrists are digging in, so much so she has to bite her cheeks to stop the pain as tears stream down her cheeks. Lloyd broke all her fingers in his attempt to extract the truth from her. She still held strong and continued to maintain the truth about Court’s location, but fuck, she’s in so much pain. The flow of blood has exacerbated, and even breathing and crying hurts now.

Suddenly, the sound of a ringtone cuts through the air. “What did I say about phones when I’m working?” Lloyd huffs.

“I think it’s yours.” One of the armed men says. Lloyd’s eyebrow rises, and he finally stops his assault on Y/N. As he goes to answer it, the deep red of Y/N’s blood still staining his hand, Y/N lets out a breath of relief. It’s over. At least, for now.

“What the fuck?!” Lloyd’s anger fills her ears, and she jumps. “You’re supposed to be the best in the world at what you do, yet you can’t even handle one fucking man?” Y/N frowns for a moment, until the penny drops.

Court. He’s here. Y/N’s thoughts are confirmed when Lloyd turns back to her, another creepy smile on his face. “Well. Looks like your Prince Charming is here, after all.” Hope fills her every being as she imagines Court coming to save her. Yet, despite how hopeful she is, it’s overshadowed by her fear. She can see the cracks in Lloyd’s facade, and how his smile doesn’t meet his eyes. And despite everything Lloyd has done to her so far…seeing that look on his face makes her the most afraid she’s ever been. Lloyd’s a total sociopath, and he could do anything to Court. And it’ll probably be much, much worse than what he did to her. “I better give him a warm welcome.”

“No. Stay away from him!” Y/N begs. Lloyd chuckles.

“Sorry sweetheart. No can do.” Once more, he bends in close, lifting his hand to touch her once more. Fuelled by rage and fear, Y/N spits in his face, her blood spraying against his cheek. Even though she knows that it was a pretty badass thing to do, Y/N regrets it as soon as she does it. Lloyd isn’t the type of person you should piss off.

Lloyd doesn’t say anything, only seethes with anger. The silence is agonising the longer it goes on, and Y/N’s body chills as she wonders what he’s going to do next, and which body parts she’s about to lose. Suddenly, Lloyd starts laughing again. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have done that. And not just because I liked this shirt. If you’re sure you want my friends and I to kill you and your boyfriend, then so be it.” He shrugs, getting up and walking towards the door, gesturing for the armed men to follow him.

“No Lloyd, wait! Please!” Y/N screams, shouting after him. “Please don’t hurt him!”

“Too late, sweetheart. You’ve made your choice.” He announces. And then, he’s gone, and Y/N is alone.

Y/N sits in silence as she waits for someone, anyone, to return. Her entire body aches, but her fears for Court and his safety are even more painful. Of course, with a life like Court’s, Y/N always knew that a day might come when she loses him forever. But this is the first time she actually thought it would happen. And it scares the shit out of her. If he dies, what’s going to happen to her? Then again, she’s probably going to die too. Tears flow down her face once more. She isn’t ready for it to end. Not like this.

Suddenly, muffled gunshots sound from outside the room, and the hairs on the back of Y/N’s neck stand up. Whoever it is, they’re heading straight for her. As the doorknob turns, Y/N braces herself for what’s about to happen. However, to her surprise, and immense relief, the person who opens the door is who she least expects to see.

“Court?” she gasps. In what feels like a second, he’s by her side, trying to cut through the ties binding her wrists.

“Y/N, oh god. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, Y/N notices the amount of blood covering her boyfriend and staining his shirt.

“W-What happened to you? Are you bleeding?” He doesn’t respond, which makes her even more worried. “Court!” She demands.

“I’m fine, I promise.” He finally replies. “Lloyd got me a few times, but it’s nothing I haven’t handled before. Just a little scratch.” She doesn’t believe him at first, yet before she can say anything else, her wrists are free, and Court takes her into his arms, squeezing her for dear life protectively. “It’s okay. Lloyd’s gone. I took care of him. You’re safe now. It’s over.” He whispers. As soon as she registers that she’s in his arms once more, the whole situation hits Y/N then, and she breaks down in tears once more.

“I thought I’d never see you again.�� She whimpers.

“Me too. But it’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m here.” He whispers, kissing every inch of her face and squeezing her tightly, as if he’ll never let go. “I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”

“I love you.” She sobs. “So much.”

“I love you too. Can you walk?” He asks. Nodding, Y/N takes a few steps, but stumbles a little. Without another word, Court wraps his arm around her, keeping her steady. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Come on. Let’s go home.”

#his arms are...so big. i want them to hold me #court gentry x reader #court gentry x you #court gentry x y/n #sierra six x reader #sierra six x you #sierra six x y/n #court gentry #sierra six #the gray man spoilers #the gray man #the gray man fanfic #the gray man fanfiction

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renren-006 · 10 months

Text

Poloroid |Sierra Six x Reader

Summery: When Six was given the Poloroid that Claire took of him he only had one person in mind to give it too. AS soon as he was done with the job he headed straight home to you.

Word Count: 466

Warning: fluffffff

A/N: hey hey!!! have not written anything for Six/Court in a bit and i thought this was a cute idea to do!! this is a very short little one shot!! hope you enjoy!!!

Six got that polaroid not too long after Claire got out of the hospital. She placed the picture next to his computer. When Court looked up at the girl she gave him a big smile.

“You know i'm really smart for my age” she told him, “i've seen you take only one caller the entire time you've been here” Court glanced down at his phone to see your name pop up. He glanced back up at the girl before he tucked the photo in his pocket and rushed to answer your call.

“Hey hun” you spoke to him over the phone. Your voice was like music to his ears. You were only allowed one phone call a week, per Court telling you so.

“Hey there doll” he said, the photo burning holes in his pants. “I got a surprise for you when i get home”

“Oh yea? Please tell me it's not another thing for the kitchen. I love you but you don't need to get something new for the house every time you leave for a mission out of the country” you told him, exclaiming loudly over the phone. Court laughed, making not only your heart swell but also Clairs who was sitting on the couch, an ipad in her lap on the lock screen but was content on watching Six on the phone. She'd never seen him this happy, but when she noticed him pull a special photo from his jacket and a lady's face was on it, she knew he wasn't so straight laced and sticked as he had to be on missions. Court got off the phone with you not long after that, promising to be home soon.

Once the last week was over and he was home to you the photo was in your hands before his bags were even dropped at the door. When you looked down and saw a polaroid of Court you smiled. He looked down at you with loving eyes.

“Clair took this?” You asked, knowing all about the girl he was looking after.

“Yea, surprised me the first day with a camera but i didn't get it back till last week after she was out of the hospital” Court told you. When you flipped over the photo a little note was stuck to the back. When you opened the folded piece of paper, it was a letter Claire.

Dear Six’s lover…I still don't know your name,

I think he loves you. Well, I have a feeling that you two have been together for a long time. It's cute. Please tell him that I will be keeping the gum I stole from him and I hope he doesn't forget about me. He looks like a happy puppy when he's on the phone with you. Don't let him go.

#ryan gosling #I love Ryan Gosling #sierra six #sierra six x reader #sierra six x you #i am so in love with six its not even funny #ryan gosling fanfic #ryan gosling fic #The Grey Man

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boxofbonesfic · 2 years

Note

Guide + don't be nervous I'll guide you through it with Sierra six? 👀👀👀

Title: It don’t wash clean

Pairing: Sierra Six x Reader

Summary: Some things don’t fade so easily—including the way Six feels about you.

Warnings: Smut, Angst, A little Fluff, Mentions of Canon-typical violence, Light Choking, Light Overstimulation

A/N: 👀 i’ve not written for Sierra Six before, but there’s a first time for everything! divider by @firefly-graphics

The rain beats down steadily against the roof, the sky rumbling angrily above it. Water rushes through the gutters, pouring out of the spout near the porch like a geyser, splattering against your now much over-watered roses. The warm mug in your hands steams in the cool, moist air as you watch the world turn to runny watercolor through the sheets of water pouring from the sky.

You love when it rains like this.

It leaves the mountain roads in a thick, impassable slurry of mud and gravel, but you don’t mind it. You lift the mug to your lips but stop halfway, squinting out into the rain.

Are those headlights?

Bobbing in and out of sight through the rain and the trees lining the little road leading up to your porch, you can clearly see two bright lights. You listen hard, and sure enough, underneath the sound of thunder and rushing water, you can hear the engine of a car trundling up the mountain, wheels spinning in the muck. Your heart seizes in your chest, your fingers loosening from the handle of the mug. Hot tea spills over your hands, but you barely feel it in the wake of the sharpness of your fear.

He’d told you no one would no you were here when he’d brought you, that it was secure, safe. You suppose that two years was good, a long stretch of relative safety, considering. The sound of gravel crunching beneath heavy tires grows closer, louder, and you swallow against the terror blocking your throat. You drop the mug, and it rolls to a stop against the bannister, forgotten as you yank open the door.

There’s a sawed off in the front hall closet, and your fingers leave prints in the dust covering the stock. It feels heavy and unwieldy in your uncertain grip, but you try and hold it how he taught you, pointing the heavy muzzle up and out as you take a shaky step back out onto the porch.

The lights are closer now, just around the bend. You can hear the truck struggling through the muck, the gears grinding thunderously as it rounds the corner, and your porch is flooded with bright light. All you can see through the downpour is the outline of the black pick-up, it’s shape looming ominously over your little cabin. The doors swing open, and a figure swings out of the driver’s side, landing with a thud.

“S-stop!” Your voice is barely audible over the rain. The figure pauses, holding its hands out placatingly as it steps closer. “Stop or-or I’ll shoot you!” You pull back the hammer to illustrate your point. “I-I mean it, I’ll—”

He steps through the waterfall of rainwater pouring from your roof to stand, dripping wet on the creaky wood of your porch. The gun goes limp in your hands as tears of relief gather in your wide eyes.

“You’re holding that all wrong,” Six says softly, tapping the double barrels with a finger. “Not gonna kill anybody shooting like that.” A girl peeks out from behind him, her long dark hair slicked down to her skull from the rain. “Come on out, kid.” Slowly, nervously, she does, stepping out from behind him to stare mistrustfully at you.

“Can we trust her?” She asks quietly, and Six chuckles. His gray-blue eyes flick up to yours, and he nods.

“We can.”

——

Dinner is a mish-mash of leftovers you can’t stop apologizing for as the two of them dig in hungrily, still dripping water all over your kitchen floor. Six has come in dripping worse though, and water is much easier to mop up than blood, so you don’t complain. Afterward, Claire insists on helping you clean up, mopping up the muddy water from their clothes with towels.

“So how’d you two meet?” Claire asks as you’re gathering fresh towels and washcloths for the two of them from the bathroom closet. The abject bluntness of her question makes you fumble, almost dropping everything in your arms to the floor.

“On a job,” you say after a moment. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Blood, gunfire, the sound of people screaming—

“Oh.” Claire doesn’t ask for more details, and you’re not sure if it’s because she already knows, or because it’s easy enough to infer. You both know what kind of work Six does. You hand her her towel and washcloth, and exit the bathroom. Six is leaning against the wall just down the hallway, thick arms crossed over his chest. It’s been years since you last saw him. There are new scars on his handsome face now, a notch in his eyebrow that you don’t remember, and a silvery line at his temple that looks less than a year old.

But still the same Six you remember.

“How is she?” He asks, and you rub the back of your neck.

“Tired.”

“We came a long way.” The silence that hangs between you is almost as loud as the storm outside. It feels strange to stand in the same place as him again, especially when as recently as this morning you’d been wondering if maybe he had forgotten you. The emails had stopped a year and a half in, the phone calls around the same time. He had to have forgotten you, you’d decided, because the other option was unthinkable—

Six isn’t the sort of man you can kill.

The proof of which is him standing in front of you now, in the same safe-house he’d left you in three years before.

“I, um. I put your towel on the couch. Claire’s sleeping in the other bedroom,” you reply, and he nods. You almost want him to stop you as you turn and make for the big bedroom, but he doesn’t, and you feel his eyes on you until you shut the door.

—

The steady sound of the rain is maddening. The sound is normally comforting, but tonight it keeps you awake. Maybe it’s the presence of others in the house that’s making you antsy, two other people sleeping under your roof who aren’t normally there at all. You stare at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.

Instead, there’s a quiet knock at your door.

As you shrug into your robe, you pretend that you aren’t sure who’s on the other side, even though you can practically feel him through the wood. You hesitate, your fingers lingering above the doorknob before you turn it, tugging it open. You have only a moment to register Six standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his bare chest before he’s on you.

He surges inside like a tidal wave, his hands tugging at the silken tie to your robe as he shoves it from your shoulders. You relish the rasp of his beard against you as he drags his mouth over the curve of your cheek to find your lips.

“Door!” You gasp against his mouth, and he grunts as he kicks it shut behind him. Six’s calloused hands tug up the hem of your tank-top to skim the skin of your belly. He groans.

“So soft, you’re so soft—” His teeth pull at your plump bottom lip, and you whine. It’s not fair that he remembers you so well, not after three years. You want to be angry at him, even though he’s explained to you a thousand times why it has to be this way, why you have to be a secret—his secret.

“I fuckin’ missed you, baby,” his voice is low and gravelly in the shell of your ear. “You don’t know how bad I fuckin’ missed you.”

He cups your breast, finding your nipple with calloused fingers. You hum low in your throat with pleasure, and he chuckles. His tongue presses against the seam of your lips, and you let him in easily. It’s so familiar, the feel of his hands on your body, pushing up your shirt, palming the weight of your ass through your shorts.

“I thought you forgot me,” you murmur when he pulls away. You expect Six to belay your fears by dismissing them, to call you silly—he doesn’t. The understanding in his eyes sears you to your core. It is a pain you understand—he would forget you. To keep you safe, he would forget.

Maybe that’s why it took three years for him to come back.

There are no reassurances when he tips your face up to his. Only truths.

“I love you.”

You know it’s true because Six only deals in absolutes, things he knows and doesn’t know, and it breaks your heart. Because his love means he would do anything for you, including staying away for the rest of his life.

“I wish you didn’t.” Your honesty cuts him the same way his does you. “Because then you would stay.” Six smashes his lips against yours, dipping his tongue into your mouth and tasting you like he’s starving for you.

“Too bad,” he growls into your lips, swallowing your choked moan. “You’re stuck with me.”

You love him too. He knows it, but you say it anyway, staring up at the ceiling as he drags his teeth down your throat.

“I love you too, Six.” His laughter warms your skin, his lips moving against your throat.

“I know, baby.”

You hit the mattress with a soft oof, and his body covers your own. In truth, you’d been wondering if perhaps in forgetting, he had forgotten other things too, but he didn’t. His hands still know your body as well as his own, tracing the curve of your hip as he pushes your shorts down. His lips have not forgotten yours, his mouth hungrily pressing against your own. Six’s teeth sink into the plumpness of your bottom lip, and you moan.

He lifts your hips to drag your panties down too, and your cheeks heat at the way his eyes visibly darken at the sight of your pussy. It’s embarrassing, how wet you are without him having really touched you, but Six looks pleased beyond measure as he draws a thick finger down your slit.

“You’re dripping for me, Sweetheart,” he murmurs lowly, and your cheeks burn as his eyes flick up to yours from between your thighs. You whimper as he presses a soft, messy kiss against your throbbing clit. Your thighs tremble as he pulls your tender flesh between his teeth, flicking at it with his tongue. Six wraps his arms around your thighs, pressing his face into your weeping cunt as you writhe.

“Fucking greedy cunt,” he mutters, pressing a finger against your entrance and groaning as it stretches around him. Your pussy sucks desperately at his fingers, and he chuckles against your cunt, pulling away with a pop. “I think she missed me.” You want to stubbornly insist that you didn’t, that you haven’t been waiting for him every day for three years, that you’ve spent your time with other people, let them do to you what Six is doing right now—but it would be a lie, and he would know it instantly. Your contrarian response is swallowed by the choked moan that escapes from your throat as he devours you.

Instead, you whine his name pitifully, your fingers knotting in his hair as his beard scrapes against your inner thighs. You want to be embarrassed at the way you rut against his face, your hips pressing insistently into his mouth because fuck it’s like heaven, and—

“F-fuck, Six, I—” You whine, bucking up against his iron hold as he presses you back down to the bed.

“I know, baby. Give it all to me.”

You do, your entire body jackknifing and trembling as you cum, hard. The blissful tide drags you down, and you go willingly, chanting Six’s name like a sinful prayer. Your hips buck softly against his face, little strained noises building in your throat as he continues to nurse at your clit, scissoring his fingers against your spasming walls. Six fights against you as you try to close your thighs around his head, dull the sensation—but he won’t let you.

He wrings pleasure from you like a limp rag, dragging out two, three more sobbing orgasms from your trembling body. You’re barely able to sit up on your elbows to look at him with bleary eyes as he rises from between your legs, the fruits of his labor practically dripping from his chin. You don’t know why you’re nervous, why you feel like things are different now than they were before. It’s like Six can sense you retreating inside yourself, and he leans down to brush his lips against your temple.

“Don’t be nervous, Sweetheart,” he chuckles as he slots his hips between your thighs. His sandy hair falls across his forehead, casting his eyes in shadow. “I’ll guide you through it.” The weeping head of his cock slides against you, and you shudder, fingers tangling in the sheets above your head.

“See how hard you got me?” He asks as his cock presses against your clit wetly. You nod dumbly, drawing your lip between your teeth. Six pauses to watch as you do it, his eyes hungry. “Been fucking dreaming about you,” he admits, air hissing through his teeth as he begins to sink inside.

The burn of your cunt stretching around his throbbing cock always feels good, but tonight it’s exquisite, perhaps because it’s been so long. You know he feels it too, a low moan building in his throat as he throws his head back. Your hands are on his shoulder and chest, drawing jagged red lines on his skin.

“God, Six,” you whine. It’s like Six is glorying in splitting you open, inch by inch. “F-feels—” The words die in a garbled moan as he seats himself all the way inside you. You’re so full, the sensation of it sending pleasurable tingles up your spine. His thrusts are slow and heavy, and you can feel every vein as he drags his cock out and pushes back in.

“Aw, Sweetheart,” he replies, drawing out only to slam back in with a loud, slick squelch, “Look at you. All fucked out already.” He’s right, you know he is as you stare up at him with glossy eyes. He draws his thumb across your bottom lip, and your tongue darts out to lick the pad. Six traces a wet train down your chin, and rests his hand on your throat. Your oversensitive cunt grips the invading length of his cock like a vice as he squeezes.

More sticky wetness leaks out to coat him as he lays into you. Six allows you a brief gasp of air as he releases your throat, and then clamps back down. His own eyes roll as your walls milk him, tightening around him like a fist. Six’s hips stutter against your own as he speeds up, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You’re deaf to it though, your ears buzzing with the sound of your blood in your veins as he bears down on you.

You’re cumming again before you even realize it, strangled moans building under the hand on your throat as tears leak from the corners of your eyes. Six is mesmerized by it, staring down at you with dark eyes as he talks you through it.

“Good girl, baby,” he mutters lowly. “Fuck, so good, you can give me another one, can’t you Sweetheart?” He’s not even really talking to you, not really asking as he reaches feverishly between your bodies to thumb at your clit. You sob, shaking your head as you tug at his arm.

“I-I can’t—!” You wail, even as your cunt sucks desperately at his cock.

“You can.” Air rushes into your lungs as Six pulls his hand from your throat, steadying it against your hip. “I know you can.” Despite your protests you can feel it building too, white-hot pleasure so fierce it borders on pain broiling in your belly. You sob as it crests over you, your thighs trembling and back arching up off the bed.

“Good girl, so good for me,” he grunts. Six pulses inside you, his fingers digging hard into your soft skin as his hips still. A low, animal noise leeches out from between his clenched teeth as warmth seeps into you, bathing your overtaxed walls. He pants above you, tawny hair spilling over his eyes, obscuring them in the dark. When Six does finally pull out of you, it’s with obvious reluctance. He settles his much larger body over your own, laying his head on your chest and wrapping his arms around your torso.

You run a hand through his hair as your heart slows, thought and function gradually returning to you like light filtering through a window. The sounds of both your breathing are all you can hear over the rain still beating down on the cabin steadily.

“I have to leave tomorrow.” He says the words against your sternum, and though he isn’t looking up at you, you turn your head away anyway—you don’t want him to see you cry. You’d been expecting it, really. He never stays long, a day, three at most. It’s all he can afford.

It never hurts any less, though.

“I know.”

—

You wake in the morning, and the bed is cold beside you. Tears threaten to gather in your eyes, but you press them back with the heels of your palms. You press and press and press until white spots appear behind your closed lids, dancing against the darkness. You don’t know how long you stay in bed like that, breathing in the muted scent left behind on your sheets while hot tears leak out around your palms.

I love you.

Swallowing against the lump in your throat, you sit up, pushing the sheet off. You shrug back into your robe, discarded at the foot of the bed. The bedroom door is ajar, and you push it all the way open, stepping out into the hallway. You make for the kitchen, rounding the corner into the small room. It’s like you’re on autopilot, your body moving without you directing it. Your fingers feel numb as you reach into the cabinet for the box of Earl Grey you keep there, fishing out one of the bags. You reach for the cabinet, your fingers catching the edge of your favorite mug.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

The mug shatters against the wood flooring as you gape at Six, his large form filling your unceremoniously small doorway. You blink owlishly at him, looking from the shattered pottery at your feet back up to his lopsided grin.

“Y-you left,” you say, and then immediately wish you could slap a hand over your own stupid mouth. He laughs.

“I had some calls to make.”

“To who?”

“A friend. A friend with a plane.”

You furrow your brow, confused. “Are you… taking Claire overseas, somewhere?” This is more information than you’re generally privy to, and you aren’t quite sure what to do with it. Six crosses the kitchen in a few long legged strides.

“Three seats.” His meaning dawns slowly on you, your eyes widening as your mouth falls open. You snap it shut audibly when you realize you’re gaping at him like a fish, and he chuckles.

“Where are we going?”

“Flight lands in Changmai, but—”

“No, that’s, that’s good,” you stammer, disbelief still dripping from your words. “But Six, I don’t… I don’t have a passport.” His brows crease in confusion before a deep laugh erupts from his chest.

“You don’t need it.” He maneuvers you away from the stove, and you jump as a horn blares from outside. Six rolls his eyes. “Damn kid.” You let out a weak laugh.

“I guess I better hurry up.” Six’s lips graze your cheek.

“Pack light.”

fin

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