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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.

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drivinmeinsane · 5 months

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Leap of Faith

※ Sierra Six ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: What if the escape mission had gone a little differently? No outcomes are certain. No one is impervious to fault.

※ Rating: M for mature themes of suicidal idealization and death.

※ Content/Tags: Suicidal Idealization, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt No Comfort, Found Family, Suicide Attempt, Character Death

※ Word count: 4,938

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: Lloyd's moves did not, in fact, fuck.

Sucking in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment, the Sierra Agent steels himself. The doorknob is firm under his hand, sturdier than he feels right now. He is not sure what he is going to find behind the double doors. Is he too late? Is he going to turn the knob and open the antique door to see the bodies of his family cast aside on the floor like abandoned dolls? Lloyd does not seem like the type to treat his toys with consideration. He did not exactly come across as a beacon of patience during this entire ordeal, more like another rich kid who breaks things when he gets mad because his gilded parents will get him another.

Six does not allow himself to continue mentally circling the drain. He forces himself into a state of blind optimism. He has to believe he is going to succeed. A defeatist attitude will get them all killed.

Pushing the door open, he is greeted by the sight of Fitz standing in the middle of the room and prepared for trouble. Six feels his knees go weak, and he winks in lieu of a verbal hello, not trusting himself to speak just yet. There is no time to relax, to take a breather. He has to get his family out of here before Lloyd realizes that the building has been breached. His own body is also a factor. It is an hourglass counting down the minutes. Instead of sand, he is keeping time with blood. Their would-be assassin had not been as much of an amateur as Six had let on to Agent Miranda.

“Attaboy.” The retired handler praises, his relief palpable.

Claire let out a laugh from where she is crouched at the side of the bed. The scrawny preteen stands up and Six’s eyes rapidly scan her. She is unharmed, Greasy and exhausted, yes, but unharmed. Fitz had kept her safe in the agent’s absence, now it is time for Six to take up the task and see them through to the end.

“Fitz,” he says and brushes past to check the window. Dani is running Lloyd’s personal ragged outside. All eyes are on the woman racing across the grounds. He is unspeakably grateful for her. If she hadn’t picked his sorry ass up and taken him to Prague, he would have failed long ago.

“You able?” He asks Fitz, closing the curtain and turning away from the window.

“Well, I can walk, but, uh, missing a wing,” he responds bitterly and raises his bandaged hand. Of course Lloyd would be a fingernail puller.

“Can you wiggle your finger?”

“With this wing,” Fitz says and raises his right. Mercifully intact.

“That’ll do.” He pauses and looks at Claire, “You okay?”

“Took you long enough,” she grouses, watery despite the chiding words.

“Sorry about that. My flight was delayed.” There is no heat to his voice. He would have gone down in countless burning planes if it ensured the girl’s safety.

“I knew you’d catch another one.” Fitz sounds apologetic.

The sound of steps in the hallway outside gets his attention. They are no longer alone. Lloyd has caught onto the diversion that he and Dani cooked up before they ambushed the sentries. They are out of time.

“Put these in your ears,” he instructs Claire quietly, making sure she takes the offered pair of earplugs from his hand before lifting his gun into a ready position. He fires off a line of shots into the wall. Groans and heavy thuds signal that the bullets meet their mark. One of the assailants falls against the door, pushing it further ajar.

“You ready?”

Fitzroy nods and ushers their charge in front of himself. He will watch her while Six keeps the way clear. They have an unspoken agreement that regardless of the consequences, Claire must be escorted to safety. The two adults are disposable, she is not.

Hooking his gloved fingers around the door and pulling it open, Six cautiously sticks his head into the hallway. No sign of any living problems. He beckons for Claire and Fitz to follow him. They stay close to keep Claire sandwiched securely between them. Both of them tell her to not look down as they step over the bodies and creep through the building. Gunfire and shouts echo in the distance.

The agent nearly jumps out of his skin when feels Claire grip onto the back of his belt. He can feel her trembling despite the thin connection. Tremors aside, she is brave. He wishes that she did not have to be, that she was not even cast into this impossible situation to begin with. It is not fair. She is even younger than he was when he was arrested and charged as an adult for the murder of his father.

They make it onto the bridge before things really start to go to shit. Six considers their options. The bridge does not afford them much choice. Lloyd and his cronies would be able to meet them at the bottom of the steps or else pick them off like animals in a trophy seeker’s canned hunt. The water is the only possible route. They will have to jump and swim for their freedom. He can see a boat in the distance. It can serve as their escape vehicle until they get to the edge of the moat and proceed on foot.

“Okay. Do you have a plan, or are we improvising?” Fitz sounds a little labored. His hand must be hurting him. Who knows what else Lloyd did to him during his captivity. Six will have to wrestle the older man into an examination once they are out of here.

“Yeah, I got a plan. You got your swim trunks?” He smooths his worry with a joke. He has a bad feeling about all of this.

Gunfire from the bridge running parallel to theirs pushes them along. He hears Fitz telling their girl to keep going, to stay low. Six covers them, does his damnedest to make sure that neither member of his family gets injured. They take a rest against a pillar while Six checks their escape route again. No changes. Lloyd must be confident that he has them cornered. Conceited asshole, he thinks callously.

Speak of the devil and he will make himself known. Six hears Lloyd scream from the other bridge. He is able to make out something about destroying a historical building. He is of the opinion that if Lloyd really wanted to keep the structure intact, he would not have made it the prison for the two people Six cares about the most in this world. There is not anything on this earth that he would not tear down if it meant saving them.

“All right. Let’s get ready to jump.” The water is deep, the walkway at a lower point. It would be the safest here.

“I’m gonna have to take the stairs.”

“What are you talking about?” He asks, frustration creeping into his voice. He turns to look at Fitz. The other man is slumped against the pillar with his hand clutching at his abdomen. Blood has begun to soak into the bandage wrapping up his fingers. Six does not think it is from his nail beds.

“It's not good,” Fitz gets out through gritted teeth. He pulls his hand away for a brief moment, offering Six a glimpse of a bullet wound.

“What the hell is that?” He’s crowding into the older man’s space. Fear is creeping its icy touch up his spine. If any one of them were to die, it would be Six. That was the job of a good guard dog.

“What do you think it is?” Even now Fitz cannot show any vulnerabilities of his own. He doubles down. “Go, Six, get her out of here.”

The agent stands up with a growl. He fires off a few more shots at Lloyd, trying to buy them some more time. Time that he knows will not fix anything. He ducks back down next to the bleeding man.

Fitz speaks before he can. “Take the gun. Give me the grenade.”

“Let me see. Put your hand on it. Put some pressure. Get the gun out of my damn face.” Desperation is making him harsh. Things were not supposed to happen this way.

“Give me the gren-.”

Six cuts him off. “Shut up. I need to think.”

He can still fix this. Fitz does not have to die here. Six can carry him, Atlas the weight of both of their bodies. Claire is sobbing quietly beside them. He has to fix this. There is no other option.

“You don’t have time to think. Six, look at me.” He keeps his eyes averted from the speaking man. He is running scenario after scenario in his mind. He was trained for this. He can make this work.

“Look at me.” Six finally meets his eyes. They’re sad, understanding. Fitz knows what this means to the three of them. Knows that this is a devastating blow. “I’m out. Get her gone.”

“Sto-.” Six tries, agonized.

“Take this. Give me a hand grenade. You understand me? Go!” He shoves the gun at Six’s chest. They are out of time and Six knows it.

Woodenly, Six pushes a grenade into Fitz’s waiting hand and takes the gun. Claire is whimpering now, holding herself and rocking. He has to save her, even if it takes his final breath. He stands up and wraps his hand around her upper arm. Pins down Lloyd on the other bridge with a few more shots. He will have to grit his teeth and bear it like he did when he pulled the gun on his own father. He has to follow through no matter how much it hurts. Sometimes to save someone you care about, you have to sacrifice another.

“C’mere,” he says softly to the trembling girl in his grasp.

“You go with Six, baby.” Fitz prompts. He is looking at them as though he is trying to take in every last detail.

“We go in three, two, one.” He starts pulling her away, but she fights him, jerks out of his grip the moment she finally processes her uncle’s condition.

“No, wait! He’s bleeding. Oh my god!” She falls onto her knees next to him, frantically grasping at him. Both men close their eyes and cringe at what has to be done.

Six closes the gap between them and catches Claire in a vice grip. She cannot slip away from him again. It could easily be a death sentence for her too. He would not be able to live with himself if he lost both of them. They are all he has.

“Come on.” The agent is nearly begging.

“I love you, baby. Go with Six.”

“No! Not you too!” She’s screaming, fighting against the man holding her. She is breaking their hearts.

“Go, go, go, go. Take her!” The last part is directed at his final recruit.

“It’s okay,” Six mutters, trying to convince Claire as much as himself. There is nothing okay about this situation. Both his fathers will have died from a bullet to the gut if Fitz does not manage to trigger the grenade. He pulls the girl off of her uncle.

She is hitting and clawing at him in her efforts to not abandon Fitz. He will carry the gouges of her nails in his arm for weeks. They will be a tangible reminder of his failure.

“No! Six, stop! Stop it! Stop! Six, please!” She is choking on her words, sobbing hysterically.

Donald Fitzroy’s “Oh, for Christ sakes.” lingers in his ears as he shoves Claire behind him and forces her down the walkway. He gives them just enough cover to duck behind another pillar before helping Claire onto the barrier. The man hesitates, he has a bad feeling about this but Fitz was right, he does not have time to think. They are out of options.

“I’ll jump with you. I’ll be with you the whole way. I promise,” he tells her as he steps up next to her. She is crying and clinging to his hand now. There is no fight left in her.

They leap off the bridge, hand in hand until the impact of the water tears them apart. Six hits hard, the air knocked out of his lungs even though he went into the water feet first. Claire had flinched right before impact and had landed belly down. They sink beneath the surface, suspended in silence as a battle rages on overhead. Forcing himself into action, the agent grabs hold of Claire as he fights to get the both back to breathable conditions.. They break the surface, and he holds her for a moment, treading water. She is unmoving in his arms, deadweight. He reasons that she must have been knocked unconscious in the fall. Six will have to get them both to shore on his own.

It is a hard swim. She does not so much as twitch as he struggles to keep them moving and afloat. She is slung across his broad back. Her arms are tucked through the shoulder straps of the bulletproof vest he is wearing. He could not risk her slipping under the surface in her unconscious state. Exhaustion threatens to drown them both. His arms move like they have weights hanging from them. The wound on his side has torn open further. If this were a cartoon, he would be leaving behind a winding trail of blood in the water. His vision sparks around the edges. Blood loss and fatigue are catching up to him. He feels as though there is a man standing over him with a hammer, waiting to strike.

The last time he slept was in the back of Agent Miranda’s silver Audi, head knocking aggressively against the interior of the trunk lid. Perhaps she could hit him with another dart once they catch up with each other at the meetup location. He does not think that he will be able to fall asleep naturally, not for a long while. Even now, he can hear Claire’s wheezing sobs rattling in the back of his mind as they leave Fitz alone to die.

Hauling them both over the edge of the retaining wall hurts . His stomach scrapes on the stone and he nearly blacks out from the pain. His fingers slacken and they pull free of the gravel. Only the thought of the girl he is carrying rallies him enough to drag the two of them the rest of the way out. He crouches, breathing through the lightning bolts of agony racing through his tired muscles, and extracts Claire from his back. He is forced to let go of her to eliminate a threat that catches up with them. Lloyd will be coming soon, he realizes. The man he just shot was the welcoming committee.

He turns back to Claire and pauses. The girl lays in a crumpled little heap on the gravel where he had dragged her out of the water. She has not moved. Six returns to her and kneels. Rolling her onto her side, he makes sure her airway isn't obstructed. It was a hard impact, difficult even for him. It is reasonable that she is taking more time to recover.

“Claire.” The way he says it is soft, panic has not set in. He knows that Claire is a strong kid.

She does not respond.

“Claire, we need to go. I need to get you out of here.” He tries again, an edge creeping into his voice.

Nothing. He strips off his glove and notches his bare fingers against her neck. He waits. Tries a different angle. Waits. Presses more firmly. Waits. There's no matching echo to his own beating heart.

He feels an uncontrollable uptick in his breathing. Tension spreads in his nervous system. Her pulse is there, just too weak for him to feel it. She must have water in her lungs. He needs to get it out.

The agent shifts Claire onto her back. He gently opens her jaw and adjusts the angle of her head to ensure that there is a clear path from her lungs to her mouth. Her ribs feel as delicate as a bird's under his hands. She is just a child.

The first set of compressions jolts her, and for a shining moment, he thinks that she is coming to. That thought plummets when he realizes it is only the force of his hands puppeteering her. No water comes from her lungs, all he hears is the dry rasping of a chest cavity being forced to respond. Even still, he does not stop. He cannot bring himself to succumb to the truth, even as he feels her ribs shatter underneath his palms.

“I'm surprised that you're still here, sunshine. Thought you would have taken the girl and scrammed.” Lloyd's voice is an annoying buzz at the fringes of his awareness

Six drowns it out, swats it away like a mosquito. He is still trying to help Claire breathe. Stopping means giving up on her.

“Oooh. I see. Looks like the girl didn't make it, huh? Guess you'll have to turn in your parenting license.”

There is a stinging sensation digging at his eyes. Six feels wetness streaking down his face. The likelihood of an unrealized facial injury is high. Much to his disbelief, however, the liquid that falls onto the backs of his hands is clear. It is not blood. He has not cried in over a decade. Nothing was ever worth it, not since he walked out of his father’s bedroom, gun clasped in a too small hand. His movements stutter to a stop as he muddles through the dawning grief. His body is more willing to accept the truth in front of him than his mind is. The man kneels, head bowed, finally still. A dog loyally by the side of his dearest companion.

Lloyd fires a shot off. It clips his left arm, tearing a long gouge as it passes. Blood immediately fills the newly vacated space. It drips onto Claire, soaking into her shirt in a scattershot of drops. The pain is an annoyance, the insult to his charge is far greater. He looks at Claire’s still face, the cost of his failure. He knows. Oh, he knows.

The cause of her death is running his mouth without a care in the world. “With her and your old man gone, why don’t we work together. Smooth this whole thing over.”

Six stands, spits. He faces Lloyd. “You made a mistake.”

The other man laughs, delighted. He tosses his gun into the moat and pulls out a knife. He does a trick as he releases the blade. Lloyd has always preferred to be hands on when it comes to torture. There is something more rewarding about it.

“Let’s see if these moves fuck,” Lloyd crows.

The agent is on him in seconds, primed to tear into him like an animal. Six no longer has any reservations about being the aggressor. With no reason to try to be a better man, who is there to care about what cruelty his hands inflict? Why bother with morals? They had been his downfall, start to finish.

He takes the knife to the shoulder without flinching. It plunges deep into the meat of his trapezius muscle, missing the bulletproof vest. It makes a place for itself a narrow distance away from his spine. The minute it is withdrawn in an arc of blood, his hand clamps onto Lloyd’s. They snarl and growl in each other’s faces. Six is stronger and he overpowers the other man. He gives Lloyd’s wrist no option but to turn. The blade is steadily angled away from Six’s already injured abdomen and towards the other man’s. He looks him in the eyes as he unyieldingly drives the knife home. Together, they gut Danny Carmichael’s golden boy. Lloyd’s skin snags and jerks around the sharp edge as it carves into the tender flesh of his belly. It should have been sharpened for a clean cut. It would have hurt less. Blood spills hot and thick over their clasped hands. A crimson wave of carnage. Six does not exactly relish the pained surprise in the other man’s eyes, but he is not upset about it either. He lets go, the folding knife falls from Lloyd’s suddenly limp fingers. Impassive, he observes as the interrogator take a few stumbling steps back. Lloyd hovers his hands uncertainly over his stomach.

“You shit… look what you did to me,” he groans.

Six closes the scant distance. He does not want to hear the other man speak again. He fists one hand in the long hair at the top of Lloyd’s head. Like a steadfast, unthinking laborer, he drags his thrashing body over to the edge of the moat. Lloyd’s knees scrape across the gravel and he loses a shoe. He is clawing at Six’s gloved hand. It hurts less than Claire’s desperate attempts to break free had.

Lloyd gives into primal animal fear. He squeals and flails like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. There is nothing he can do to gain the upper hand when Six overpowers him to his knees at the water’s edge. The agent does not hesitate the first time he smashes Lloyd’s face into the stone edge. He does not hesitate the second or third time either. He lets himself fall into the repetitive motion, repeats it until all he can hear over the increasingly wetter thuds are Lloyd’s pathetic attempts to draw in air.

Six straightens, drops the now unrecognizable man flat on his back to suffocate in his own blood, and turns to Claire. He picks her up and cradles her in his arms like something fragile, precious. He handles her as gently now as he did when she was alive. Gingerly, he lowers himself to the ground beside the vehicle Lloyd arrived in. The agent leans back against the tire, he adjusts the girl in his arms so she is cradled against his chest. He waits to die.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Death does not greet him by the time Suzanne arrives. The Sierra Agent cannot bring himself to care about her presence. He is floating somewhere above his body. He has long since tuned out the sludgy sound of Lloyd’s breathing. At some point the other man had tried to crawl across the ground towards him, towards the vehicle, but that had been some time ago. He vaguely wonders who will die first. Fitz had always said his inclination to survival was almost supernatural. He wishes it were not so. Maybe continuing to live was part of his penance for failing Fitzroy… for failing Claire.

He hears a droning in his ears. He realizes that it is his own voice, hoarse and ragged. Apologies spill from his lips. He cannot make himself stop. Distantly, he is aware of a gun going off. The gurgling ends.

“Get up,” a woman’s voice tells him. He pays her no mind. He does not even think he could stand if he wanted to.

The rest of her words roll right over him. He comes back to himself when he registers that two men are trying to extract Claire from his hold. That provokes a reaction from him. His apologies turned into the feral growls and snarls of a wounded dog. A boot dug into his stab wound stuns him enough that they are able to pull the dead girl off of him. Despite the lack of motor functions, he makes himself struggle to rise. It is a series of starts and stops. His muscles will not obey. He feels cold.

The bullet to his thigh feels more like a gesture of mercy than anything else. It takes the final dregs of fight out of him. The last thing he sees before his vision gives out is Claire’s arm dangling as she is carried away from him. He reaches out for her hand. He said he would be there with her. He promised.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Steadily beeping machines greet him as he gradually comes to, fighting his way through the cocktail of pain management and sedatives that serve to keep him compliant. For a blissful moment, he hazily drifts along before his mind sharpens and he remembers. The memories of that night in Croatia latch onto him and they do not let go. He makes a motion to sit up, to do anything to end the anguish, but he is handcuffed to the hospital bed that he woke up in. He is a prisoner in every way that counts.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The nurse tending to Six makes two mistakes. The first is that she does not tighten one of his wrist cuffs enough to keep him properly restrained after sponging him down. The second is that she does not notice him slipping her ballpoint pen from one of the hip pockets on her scrub top when she leans over him to check an IV bag. She leaves the room none the wiser to his plan.

With the extra slack, it is easy to tug his hand free of the restraint. He angles his head to the side before locating his carotid artery with seeking fingers. It is a mirror of when he sought out Claire’s pulse in what feels like a lifetime ago. Unlike hers, his beats steadily against the pads of his fingers. His heart rate does not increase, even as he plunges the pen as deeply as he can into his own flesh. His hand trembles slightly. Six pulls the pen out, letting it fall to the floor as his blood begins to pump steadily from the hole he has made.

The heart rate monitor finally goes wild as he hemorrhages. He closes his eyes and coaxes his body into relaxing despite the instinctual urge to fight for self preservation. He will not fight what he assuredly deserves.

───※ ·❆· ※───

With a wild sense of déjà vu, he wakes up again to the sound of steadily working machines. Only this time, he is not alone. Suzanne is sitting in a chair at his bedside. She looks ruffled and bordering on irate.

“You are too important of an asset to be acting up like this,” she says as an opener.

What is there for him to say? He knows his value to the CIA. Does not care. There was no longer anyone to tether him.

“Fine. Don’t speak. You have two weeks, and then I’m sending you to take care of a little problem.”

He does not spend a single moment alone for those two weeks. His hands are kept in sight at all times. The staff are not allowed to have anything in their pockets. They do not give him a single opportunity to disrupt Suzanne Brewer’s will.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning dawns without fanfare. Six rattles along down the road, seated between two handlers. He is not trusted enough to be unsupervised, even now. The man knows that he could wrestle a firearm from one of the agents on either side of him, put it in his mouth, and pull the trigger faster than anyone in the back of this vehicle could respond, but he is going to see this final mission through. He will put a bullet into the target and then his work will be done. If he makes his death look like an accident, then the majority of the blame will be off the shoulders of the people supervising him. It will be better that way.

The van rolls to a stop and he emerges into the early morning light. He goes through the motions of checking his equipment. He declines the bulletproof vest that is offered to him with the argument that he does not need it for a stealth mission. It would only serve to draw attention to him. The target might catch wind of the plot to take his life.

A strict looking supervisor gives him the rundown on the operation like he could not do something this simple in his sleep. He had been Donald Fitzroy’s gray man for almost twenty years. He was the only surviving member of the Sierra program. The only real hitch in the plan would be drawing fire without someone else intervening until his personal goal was achieved.

As anticipated, he retires the target without issue. By all accounts the man he put down was a terrible individual, nothing to mourn. He finds that relatable. It is no big effort to draw attention. He allows himself to be spotted leaving the scene. A particularly loyal bodyguard tails him back to the extraction site. Without the vest that he declined, there is nothing to protect him from the cartridge of rounds that pierce his back.

Six falls forward, does not try to catch himself. The ground meets him like an embrace. He relaxes into the loose soil. The whooshing sound of the blood in his ears sounds like the ocean. If he lets himself pretend, he can imagine that he is laying on a distant shore, somewhere far away from here. Maybe they could have gotten a house near the beach. He had dreamed of open waters and palm trees while he was in prison. He thinks he can hear one of Claire's records in the distance. The crashing of the waves fades away with the music and silence sets in.

#the gray man (2022)#the gray man #the gray man movie #the gray man fanfic #sierra six #courtland gentry #sierra six fanfic #claire fitzroy #donald fitzroy #ryan gosling #my work #my posts #fanfiction

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littlelioncub43 · 2 years

Text

Business Before Pleasure

Summary: A newcomer wants to meet with you to talk business. Lloyd Hansen is a well known name in the arms and narcotics circles, and he has his sights set on your slice of territory. Lucky for him, you’re a gracious business partner.

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Mafia boss!Female Reader, mentions of Robert Pronge “Mr. Freezy” x Reader

Word count: 985

Warnings: Lloyd Hansen (he is a warning because he’s a dark, mean man [I love him for it]), suggestive themes, implied smut, swearing, misogynistic thoughts, mob related activities, drug mention, this is literally just plot NO porn (yet), my bad writing.

A/N: I literally had the hardest time writing this. I still need to learn the character and get better acquainted with him, his behavior, speech pattern, etc. But! I felt like Lloyd needed a proper introduction to the Murderer Monday rotation. This is in the same AU as Dark!Mafia Boss!Reader x Robert Pronge, so there could be some crossovers coming in the future. Let me know what you think! I dedicate this fic to @sparkledfirecracker. Thank you for your help with this, Lilo💖

Kisses💋

—K

The ticking of the vintage clock on the mantle echoed mockingly, the crackling of the fire added another layer of agitating noise. Lloyd’s grip of the crystal tumbler in his large right palm tightened as he watched the hand of the clock strike 11:45. You were late. If there was anything that Lloyd valued more than money, it was his time; and apparently you thought you could waste it. He’s never met you before, and so far, you weren’t making a good first impression. He hated doing business with women. They were far too emotional, complicated, and whiny for this line of work. But if he wanted to work on your turf, he was going to have to play nice.

To a degree.

Just as he tossed back the rest of the brown liquid in his glass, the wooden doors to your office opened. He didn’t bother turning to look at who was entering the room, thinking it was that butler with the stick up his ass asking if he wanted another scotch. If he was going to be anywhere near cordial, he was going to need another drink.

“Get me another one,” he shook the ice in his empty glass impatiently before setting on the coaster harshly.

“Now, is that anyway to speak to your host?” Your smooth voice cooed behind his leather arm chair. Lloyd’s head snapped around, all words die on his tongue as he drinks you in. The professional yet seductive curve of your work clothes had Lloyd’s belly burning with desire, but he quickly stamps it out. You walked towards your desk, setting your cellphone down before crossing the room. Your pencil skirt was tight around your legs, but you let your hips sway a little more than normal. Making your way towards him, you put a hand up when he begins to rise from his seat. “No, no, allow me.”

The casual dismissal of him has Lloyd’s jaw ticking with annoyance. You take his glass and walk to the bar cart to refresh it, pouring your own glass. If it were humanly possible, you would have a hole in the back of your head from how hard Lloyd was staring at you. Smirking to yourself, you return with his refill and hand it to him, taking the free seat in the arm chair next to his.

“Forgive me for being late, a few loose ends didn’t want to be tied.” Settling in, you sigh and take in the man in front of you. You knew his type: power-hungry, aggressive, ruthless, misogynistic, but very efficient. He reminds you of your little pet, Freezy. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t one of the most handsome men you’ve seen, but business before pleasure.

“So,” you said after a moment, “you must be Lloyd,” you didn’t allow him time to answer as you continue on. “I heard that you wanted to talk about possible business ventures. What did you have in mind?”

“I want to set up a supply line from Miami up into New York and Chicago,” Lloyd states clearly and takes sip of the scotch, “I could have arms distributors in some of your clubs by the end of the week, and dealers by the end of this meeting. I have everything set, just waiting for the go-ahead.” Lloyd straightens out in his chair, adjusting himself into a more nonchalant position. The smirk that you assume was meant to be confident shines in the fire with a smug glint. You could feel the arrogance rolling off of him in waves. “I know you’ve heard of me, and you know what kind of business I run, so I don’t think you’ll have any objections.”

“I don’t,” you agree and sip your own drink, letting him revel in the small victory for a few moments longer. Lloyd grins, relaxing even more now that he has you where he wants you. Women are just so easy.

“Now for the price, I think 20% per club should cover everythi—“

“40.” You interrupt calmly.

“What was that?” His eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, his head tilting to the side to angle his ear towards you.

“It’s 40% per club,” you repeat. You barely fight off a pleased smile when you watch his face contort in a twisted smile. A throaty chuckle forces its way out of him, it’s malicious but amusing nonetheless.

“I’m sorry—40 fucking percent? Are you fucking shitting me?!” He barks with an unamused laugh, his firm grip on the tumbler returning once more. You say nothing, merely watching as he winds himself up and lets himself go. Another dark laugh rumbles in his chest, his clenched fist coming to rest on his chin. “Oh, I should have known you’d be a greedy bitch.”

“Lloyd,” you set your glass down and stand up. Making your way over to his chair, you lean over him slightly, your hands on the arm rests. Lloyd’s scowl deepens and this time you can’t help but smile. He hated that you thought this was amusing, although he loved that he could finally get a good look at you up close.

“I know you’ve heard of me, and you know what kind of business I run. 40% per club is the flat rate for newcomers. Unless…” you trail off. You tilt your head to the side when you catch sight of his pinky ring, “we negotiate other methods of payment.”

Lloyd feels the burn of desire in his belly again, this time he doesn’t bother trying to ignore it. “Oh? Like what, Sunshine?” He purrs as he sits up straighter, leaning into you so your faces were only inches away. You hold his darkened gaze for a moment longer before you both share a sickening grin.

“I’m sure we can think of something.”

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